Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if  
our well-televised  
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts  
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.

Here in America,
we’ve learned that  
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.  
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”  
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies  
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...

Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and  
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming  
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,  
they are missing
far too many things  
to gather.

there's a fat plastic tube taped sub-clavian carrying ruby fluid
from a clear bag that hangs overhead
draining mysteries of modern alchemy
into your body, its lifetime measured, silent droplets
inside a hermetically sealed hourglass we can only watch, not touch
but they don't change you

by protocol your nurse wore her nitrile gloves doubled-up
lest she get this stuff on her fingers - it's toxic -
advised you to flush the toilet twice,
making certain to eliminate stray molecules that might
be exposed to sitting innocents

i should be in the next chair, holding your hand

we might share complimentary raspberry danish,
stare at a silent TV on the wall
as it broadcasts flashing pictures of calamity from
the latest war or storm savaged country
but we’ve been living there for years already
our home not populous enough to draw serious media attention;  

we’d wrestle sips of anemic coffee from free paper cups
yours going into a red can when you've finished
because that brilliant color insinuates itself into saliva, eventually
as it does to blood and *****;
i could take mine home

i'd read moving captions at the bottom of the screen
to know what's going on in the images
while you'd feign interest in this tedious world and remind me, again,
how life is tenuous

ask me the name of that dripping liquid just to see if i was listening,
an appellation alien - if life were fair it would be easier
but i’d get the pronunciation wrong
maybe it could be a French word i remember reading to you from a menu in Paris
we might paste it thickly, soft cheese onto torn chunks of baguette
savored between sips of cabernet from long stemmed glasses;
pronounce it “good” as if we could own it

****** and gigolette -
we’d stolen the whole earth that moment,
grinning like a pair of cat burglars at a cafe table where i'd held your hand
but here we are, old again, bitter enemies
for the moment, i'm glad for Ativan and Motrin,
the only names i can remember from your tray of saltines and ginger ale

instead, i'm sitting alone at home with cigarettes and bourbon,
more congenial poisons
staring at a white, unmoving ceiling, pretending I’m working
we're like that, you know, tug and tow - where you go,
i'm heart-bound to follow
Doctor Jack insists i'll live much longer, a little sicker after
i might adjust expectations for a worn-out liver, headaches,
possible blood pressure elevations; short warnings written on the label

while yours smile, with more tricks than carnival barkers
they say, now, a handful - or only two - more tricks up their sleeves,
the grinning, white-coated thieves
Jack smiles, pats my hand, a warm man

smoking is prohibited in the clinic
i'd hang from the window ledge to get the next nicotine fix,
but it won't open to alive, mowed grass outside -
these proceedings always sequester hidden behind curtains in private,
a secret art of undertakers doctoring flesh to look still-living,
love making in mid-evening darkness we've long forgotten

i’d draw deeply chemically-treated air, forget it’s now happening
remind myself a paternal need to stay healthy for survivors
while trying to avoid living in midst of your horrors,
a preoccupation that subsumes my mind

if you’re right - and you always are - how could i bury you?
when the dog died,
i dug her hole in our garden myself, deep through tree roots to bedrock,
then beyond, depth a measure of devotion;
carved a stone with my own fingernails, her name in a crossed heart
and we two cried like shivering babies
as we shoveled all the dirt back in to cover her

these are words of a weak man, selfish ******* that i am
and really, all of life's slumped over in my lap right now,
just this little girl sleeping
but i should be in the next chair
if you'd only let me sit there
again

Poetry Round (find your self within)

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words,
Commencing:

You say unto me, whitecaps, I reply,

"Solitary swimmers, poets, arms crooked over head, in the sea of us"

I say flooded with gratitude, and Stephanie replies,

"Thou art my carved destiny-and the river that permits my blood to flood...And all this noise shall fall into poetry; Which every day grows statelier and comelier.

You say to us Moonlight, and we laugh, delighted, for she has given us

"This love can be ours,
Under the iridescent moonlight
Embraced within one another,
To live for an eternity,
Languid and soft"

Someone calls out Bala,
And Vicarpio Gale favors us with his words,

"a poetic rain, in small print, fills the white sky page"

And we pray nightly, that come next morn, he will rain upon us once again

We pretend it is night and there are
Stars to Touch,  but this poet of pax corrects us and writes, t'is but,

"late afternoon sun slanting
behold, jaune compassion
alfalfa ocherous leans willowy in wind
distance of silence yearns on
afternoon shadows lie within majestic vales"

Who is it that calls out
Have Mercie  B.e  upon us,
for she reminds us of what we B.e tasked individually,

"Provoking ideas and intoxicating imagery overflow from within and yet somehow you can't see.  There are dreams that run wild inside of this heart and there is no way I'll let them be tamed"

Sunshineflowers every where,
But even more beautiful when she coaxes us to laugh
at ourselves
when writing of true love,

"Why don't i have bananas, said the monkey.
The tiger said, because you are my soulmate"

Did you C Holmes reminding us that

"when you're certain you've
painted the next Van Gogh
with the swirls and gusts
of blues so pure,
any mortal would
stop stare & lose track of time?"

Fyi, Fyi,

"Her callous persecution insinuates,
The elusive flaws of humanity and life,
It implicitly elucidates,
The sombre reality"

About certain Angels  was writ, that both in heaven and on earth, she was garbed, for

"She wore an air of mysticism
Her memory bore prophetic visions
From ancient egyptian
And judaic traditions
She knows every star system
And every night is a mission
Where she wishes and wishes
For help from the legends"

Emily  has met an unwanted friend, familiar to all of us,

"Cemented shoes
And silenced talk
It's even hard to describe
Writer's block"

Sara B.  from B'kara, that's in Malta, gives advice most sensible,

"Times they are a changing
make everybody feel blue
just turn up the music
and forget what you're supposed to do"

Victor  claims not to be a

"poet, a musician even less
but I may be kind of a beggar
when I beg of you
don't forget me
or let your music fade out
of my rainy days"

Dare I disagree? **** right I do!

Little RedWritingHood,  from my city hails, so wise, far beyond her years, reveals that,

"people try to
make me see reason
or their definition of it
but reason is relative
as is too much in this world"

Should I go on? Why not!

Something's are ForeverMarvelous,  like

"Hurt is fading
Fists are pumping
Bass is trembling
Some are hating-
But I keep dancing"

mybarefootdrives  me forward because

"every seed of thought
starts itself out like a whisper.
Until weight behind words
allows them to stand on their own merit"

Maria GH  could be an old friend, who

"draws me near,
it's slender form bleeding into
the background.
Slowly, kindly,
it extends a hand and
I take it
as to forever hold comfort
in mine"

Andy from Mombasa, your poetry

"conspires to purge me of my sense of reasoning
Leaving me bare to suffer the perils of an incongruous world"
And I am a better poet for it...

Brendan'  I've watched your words,

"Crack the veil of tired souls
cloaked in lonely sorrows,
broken by faithless wanderings,
and feel the strings course through your veins"

I am blindsided and Blastsided  when I read

"Onomatopoeia
I love words
for their meanings
their woven tapestries
but also
for their taste"
For I know exactly what you mean

I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt.

It is ever the Holy Spirit’s work to turn our eyes away from self to Jesus; but Satan’s work is just the opposite of this, for he is constantly trying to make us regard ourselves instead of Christ. He insinuates, “Your sins are too great for pardon; you have no faith; you do not repent enough; you will never be able to continue to the end; you have not the joy of his children; you have such a wavering hold of Jesus.” All these are thoughts about self, and we shall never find comfort or assurance by looking within. But the Holy Spirit turns our eyes entirely away from self: he tells us that we are nothing, but that “Christ is all in all.” Remember, therefore, it is not thy hold of Christ that saves thee—it is Christ; it is not thy joy in Christ that saves thee—it is Christ; it is not even faith in Christ, though that be the instrument—it is Christ’s blood and merits; therefore, look not so much to thy hand with which thou art grasping Christ, as to Christ; look not to thy hope, but to Jesus, the source of thy hope; look not to thy faith, but to Jesus, the author and finisher of thy faith. We shall never find happiness by looking at our prayers, our doings, or our feelings; it is what Jesus is, not what we are, that gives rest to the soul. If we would at once overcome Satan and have peace with God, it must be by “looking unto Jesus.” Keep thine eye simply on him; let his death, his sufferings, his merits, his glories, his intercession, be fresh upon thy mind; when thou wakest in the morning look to him; when thou liest down at night look to him. Oh! let not thy hopes or fears come between thee and Jesus; follow hard after him, and he will never fail thee.

“My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness:

I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.”

I am not ready to allow my broken body to yield to you
The centuries have weathered and ruined me
My mind stays, it insinuates movement, restless and hopeful
I am a vessel that bleeds out dreams and simplicity
I long for escape, I long to free myself from insignificance
My muscles ache under my skin from being mangled
All of my bones lie broken
So I am left here, to reflect on how nonessential I am
And I can only gaze at the same sight I've seen
I have been coerced to watch the earth, who does not appreciate me
For I am nothing but the moon.

Dearest friend (I've yet to meet),

Who was I kidding?
As if I somehow missed the message --
Childish, my reply sent said:

'shoot! I'm sorry - I must have forgot to hit send'

- I'm the loser who let you wonder for a minute if I meant it (but don't give another thought) a moment longer you'll realize.. I'm lying, I'm a liar (spoiler alert)

I hate to break it to you, today, I really couldn't care less  - yesterday you were all I had left, tomorrow maybe fate will finally bless me, find me dead as I felt inside since I can remember and I'll be at peace with knowing I left you alone.... 
I know, I know.....
We talked for hours, I told you who i really was.. that was just a test - when u got back to me I honestly  almost instantly lost all interest. (Caught a catch 22)
Listen closely (or rather, read carefully) you know I said I love you and that is still the truth (for what its worth, you're welcome) but what you may not know is that i resented you for the fact that you said you love me back (believe me it hurts to say the truth) so my reaction may seem a bit unexpected, know I know I left you with less than you deserve - but this was the only gift I could afford.


I'm unavailable & miserable with the mess I've made for me (trauma tethered me to someone I will never take the leap to try to be me with)

Ask around you'll find my reputation is deplorable - I only ever take (and take and take) 
-- kind of like taxes, most people HATE taxes (no matter how necessary they may be)

I was never meant to be so painfully average - i was born of greatness (trust me, my folks were basicly the best) nurtured my mediocrity on purpose to avoid the pressures of the "life" i should have (could have) led - you say it's not too late - 
Satan's screaming 'she's a liar, you're a waste, take her, keep her here with us'
I look to Christ for sage advice -
'You best just keep your distance, shes a lover but she knows not what she says - she speaks from a place you've never really been welcome - and if she knew everything you took from her, remember, she's only human, and..well.. I think you understand..'
He was right, I know - (Lucifer's a ****, despite the fact he's generally always atleast half right)
You're too beautiful - my reflection is hideous..
I resist all kinship, we could have shared because love hurts so much (or so I've witnessed) 
when goodbyes 
(Even those one might call over due) 
Sneak up and bite us, we are the ****** and cursed the worst and best of us survivors - alike (this is a fact, even if they never ever find common ground sturdy enough to build on, it's there - everyone feels pain from loss -- and the amount of pain between mortals is suprisingly more irrelevant than it is relative)
and we will feel loss, all of us (even the unloved and especially the forgotten)
Someone is always left behind,
I would do anything to outlive all my loved ones (and so I sought immortality) - because I know how it feels to lose them (the gifted, the gone-to-soons) and know this, loneliness scares me a hell of a lot less than transfering pain (undoing all the happiness I meant to spread from my plastic bag filled with good intentions) to some poor soul whose silly enough to feel for me even half of what I felt for them.

I regret this profession I was given - every day it gets harder to convince myself that I'm a good guy, just trying to do my job. Someone has to do it and from what I can tell: 
gods plan is just a rough draft, edited frequently and it's up to no one to really understand it, and yet, everything revolves around it. 
.. and I mean everything. 
Including me,
The Reaper (although, I dislike the title because it insinuates I am absolutely the only one like me.
I often fantasize that I am one of many others, 
maybe they're on other planets or different planes who knows..but I can tell you with absolute certainty that I've yet to meet another like me.)

I guess we all have a purpose - is what I'm trying to say.
Anyway, I should run.. I have a million and some odd funerals to attend this week alone. 


Signed sincerely -
Your friend,
Death

P.s. I will wait for you, there's really no rush for us to meet ♡

A resting pencil
insinuates a dying
poet

The lamp's glow
Across his face
Brought out
The dimples
I hadn't noticed.

He whispered that
I was beautiful.
In those moments,
I almost believed him.

I almost believed the way
He kissed my shoulders.
Almost fell for his
Disheveled curly hair.
Almost wished I could
Watch him
Rub his eyes
And brew his coffee
Each morning.

Almost.
What a pathetic word.
It insinuates that we were
Close...
But not quite there.
Just didn't reach
The mark.

I said that
He was attractive,
And that his shirt
Didn't need to stay on.
He almost believed me.
Almost.

I WANNA SAY SORRY AHEAD OF TIME FOR THIS POORLY WRITTEN POEM. Lol

Hey steph wats up
I was gonna jot something down that would make u tear.
But i dicided to spare you, but let me make one thing clear.
since ur moving away and trust me that sux.
im gonna make u feel sad cuz I GIVES NO ***. (lol)

Big deal ur moving its not like i care.
But some things ill miss are ur eyes and that STARE.
Ur smile is ok, i guess thats cool too.
And THAT *** OH! THAT ***, girl wat that *** do?. (****)

GOOGZ!
YOUR FACE, I LIKE THAT ****!

Your as cool as they come steph, what else do i say
I wish for you all the best,    EVERYDAY!!!!!
Keep urself focused on what u wanna do
I know ull help alot of people problems even the KOOKOOS!

"I admire the strength u have and the courage u have shown"
"In facing all your hardships and troubles that youve known"

I stole that one.

Love ya googz its not goodbye cuz goodbye insinuates "forgetting"
Its SEE YOU LATER.         XOXOXO MUAH

No matter how strong you are one cannot simply out-muscle or out-shine a mad man who has great taste in fashion.  
A.M.G. Is the ultimate hooligan it doesn't have to take charge to prove it's tenacity because it's a presidential sedan that puts you in charge.
No need for a spooky entrance because sometimes demons want to dwell were there is brute force.
I miss the 6.2 litre engine, it is the intrinsic Moto of Mercedes," A big engine for the perfect gentlemen".
Cruising luxuriously has no peak when it comes to un-doubtable comfort and well established elegance.  With a classic loud noise one can't but wonder if the barbarian needs marketing.
An angry gentlemen with a smile on his face that never lacks in pace doesn't need frenetic footwork, the gentlemen goes straight to the point  and why wobble on about a winding route when Mercedes automatically includes you in elite circles. Quality that exceeds all levels of maturity, Mercedes keeps getting younger and wiser!
The phrase "numbers don't lie" insinuates that alphabets do lie. Really? How? When their associated with such class...A-class, B-class, C-class, E-class, G-class, S-class and so on. I think the numbers cliche is a turn-off.
Pleasure always mixes with business when it comes to a Benz.

Mentality of the younger me.
Emily A. Grande

And as I return to thoughts inducing removing of cellophane off packs of cancer sticks I look around and see memories of cluttered messes. I open up my arms to my insecurities but that always seems to **** me and I start to not be able to withstand me. I think back to when life wasn't made up of cliche clicks of the inevitable clock that makes time the most important thing in this life that inside your conscious continually clicks.

I miss mentality of a childhood and unfortunately to grow up you have to grow old and forget of those children's stories you were told. Of Heroes and knights in shining armor of sensitivity and realizing they have always just wanted to **** me. It's sad to see the princess you thought you we're wear a crown that feels more made of thorns because that one sacred and now questioned  person died for your dignity. But then you question religion and in turn question living. And **** I want so bad not to flip through the chapters of my life and believe that they can't have fairy tale
Endings but that's the thing...

This beautiful tale already insinuates it's make believe. And inside you start to turn bitter it seems because when you grow up it's all about the questioning and overthinking and decision making and times catching up on me. And just when you start to feel like you can breathe is ironically when you start to inhale different smoke. Or maybe something else and then you realize your becoming one of the kids your mom warned you about and this induces doubt that your okay and can mentally stay sane and Wonder where you'll end up someday.

I don't need much just a simple kiss or tight hug and I seem to be giving more of myself then my soul because opening legs opens minds but builds up walls and close doors and. Makes god open that window that seems more of an escape to jump out rather then just open it up and take in a deep breath.

Deep breathes now are more of exasperated signs accomplices of chips piling up on shoulders and never giving tension in your head and heart a rest. And your feeling like ribs dominate the whole cavity of your chest and start to realize the real things for which your blessed. I'm learning how not to want to "not want," to give into sweet temptations that are no longer recreations and becoming daily routines.

I wish my day still consisted of playing outside and running around with the entire world created in a mind that hasn't been molded into what fate has decided to deal in life's game. But that's the thing about games. We all seem to want to play but I am never winning or a sore loser but always losing. These decisions aren't mine for the choosing. But souls sore from losing creates scars on hearts and overthinking starts.

And it's always check mate for that person who made me think they would actually stay with lies of sincerity and devotion and those strategically placed pawns are played. I'm dealing a deck of cards that are all faces and I'm stuck with low numbers and days that seem to change from black to red. Two extremes hot and heavy and heaving sighs build up and I can't ever begin to rest.

I feel like I'm constantly the name Called in red rover because even as kids we were taught to call out the weakest link in the chain and it's those that break through this wall that survive. But those that don't are forced to hold hands with people who's defeated soul couldn't break through the wall and together they collectively become Strong on each others losing common bonds.

Children play hide and seek because people learn to accept the idea of finding what they can't have as a challenge right off the bat. And as you begin to decide you are not one to win you want to throw hands in the air and scream **** it. That the chase is the thrill and to win it's about the other person giving in.

And **** I feel like my closest friends could be the death of me but I also couldn't begin to live without them and we all condone what we're doing isn't collectively wrong. Partners in crime are future misfits staying strong.

.
Soft is the caul of breaths that seethe,
Loosed in the ears knowing
And light is held as a knife is sheathed,
Hard at the breaks reckoning.

Ebbing crawls in old cradles outset,
Clutched promises engulfing,
Death is a toll which gathers at sunset,
Ending seeps seaward in chills.

Listen for moon as it sails into lime,
Digging lost trails for journey,
Smell the salts as the sands run time,
Boarding penny barks turning.

Black birds soon flutter at drips window,
When dark winds cry crosslegged,
Lightless wings whisper— lit knowings,
Wraiths tapping three score and ten.
.

Tall wispy willows lightly tapped the window
as I lain across the floor.
The green and red flashes, stimulated
my delicate cornea ever so.
Warmth overran my skin, warming me to the core.
I could hear the rattles of claws and nails
across the wooden door.
My family laughing hysterically,
like a bumbling nest of bees.
All ready for the night,
Where Saint Nicholas will pay a visit.


Our Odyssey continues to the tundra,
where the snowmen meet and greet.
My brothers are fighting in the snow
like the Great war had just broke out.
The skeleton trees, lay dormant,
white powder piled high upon their boughs.
I look out upon the neighborhood,
mountains of snow, ready to be conquered.
I glance at my brothers,
They dash and bash their way forward,
Into the cool winter night.

As we wake, the smell of eggs and pancakes.
My father's cooking, has never been malice.
My grandmother stands outside, just beyond the reaches of our door.
Her gentle, sweet charisma, welcomes us all,
Beckoning to the call,
of Saint Nick’s gifts.
My brothers and I, cheer and jeer down the hall.
With the simple clap, fluttering little hands,
Our parents make their way downstairs.

The nebula of presents congregates below the towering tree.
A sign of Nick’s humble visit,
in the depths of night.
“Ranger school isn’t preschool.”
“Ranger school isn’t preschool.”
My father who served, served for his children's rights,
All of our rights.


Christmas night, comes a feast of exotic flavors.
The luscious chocolate, insinuates more to come.
Abundant sources of sweets is never perishable,
Brownies so sweet they would satisfy all of humanity.
I will savor the taste for decades to come.

Those willows still tap, every Christmas,
My house still warm and sweet.
My father still resembling those who fought before him.
Those coveted times, where Saint Nicholas delivers without qualm or inquiry.
Those coveted times, where my family is my family.
Those coveted times, where I am from.

gray and foggy noons
but suddenly
by the south part of the city
it insinuates a rainbow
sadness and hope
just like life itself
a roll of the dice