Stick with me, friend.
I’d like to make a distinction:
I revere writers but do not deify them.
My heroes and role models must be grounded,
Must have so-called feet of clay.
And there’s always something more in my craw,
Whenever I see scribblers carved in marble,
Glorified to the point of divinity and magic.
Because in my heart of hearts,
Reverence for writers,
Is an odyssey of disillusionment and

I fancy myself a man of letters,
Although “Humanoid of Keystrokes,”
Might be more apt; an appellation,
Digitally au courant.
I am a man on verbal fire,
Perhaps, I am of a Lost Generation myself.
And don’t you dare tell me to sit down, to calm down.
You stand up when you tell a story.
Even Hemingway--even when he was sitting down--knew that.
Let us go then you and I.
Moving our moveable feast to Paris,
To France, European Union, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy.
(Stick with me, Babaloo!)
Why not join Papa at a tiny table at Les Deux Magots,
Savoring the portugaises,
Working off the buzz of a good Pouilly-Fuisse
At 10:30 in the morning.
The writing: going fast and well.

Why not join that pompous windbag ******* artist?
As he tries to convince Ava Gardner,
That writers tienen cajones grandes, tambien—
Have big ***** too—just like Bullfighters,
Living their lives all the way up.
That writing requires a torero’s finesse and fearlessness.
That to be a writer is to be a real man.
A GOD MAN!
Papa is self-important at being Ernest,
(**** me: some lines cannot be resisted.)
Ava’s **** is on fire.
She can just make him out,
Can just picture him through her libidinous haze,
Leaping the corrida wall,
Setting her up for photos ops with Luis Miguel Dominguín,
And Antonio Ordóñez, his brother-in-law rival,
During that most dangerous summer of 1959.
Or, her chance to set up a *******,
With Manolete and El Cordobés,
While a really *******,
Completely defeated & destroyed 2,000-pound bull,
Bleeds out on the arena sand.

Although I revere writers,
I refuse to deify them.
A famous writer must be brought down to earth--
Forcibly if necessary--
Chained to a rock in the Caucasus,
Their liver noshed on by an eagle.
In short: the abject humiliation of mortality.
Punished, ridiculed and laughed at.
Laughing himself silly,
******* on one’s self-indulgent, egocentric universe.
If not, what hope do any of us have?

Writing for Ernie may have been a divine gift,
His daily spiritual communion and routine,
A mere sacramental taking of dictation from God,
But for most of us writing is just ******* self-torture.
The Hemingway Hero:
Whatever happened to him on the Italian-Austrian front in 1918
May have been painful but was hardly heroic.
The ******* was an ambulance driver for Christ’s sake.
Distributing chocolate and cigarettes to Italian soldiers,
In the trenches behind the front lines,
A far cry from actual combat.
Besides, he was only on the job for two weeks,
Before he ****** up somehow,
Driving his meat-wagon over a live artillery shell.
That BB-sized shrapnel in his legs,
Turned out to be his million-dollar wound,
A gift that kept on giving,
Putting him in line for a fortunate series of biographic details, to wit:
Time at an Italian convalescent hospital in Milano,
Staffed by ***** English nurses,
Who liked to give the teenage soldiers slurpy BJs,
Delirious ******* in the middle of the night,
Sent to Paris as a Toronto Star reporter,
******* up to that big **** Gertrude Stein,
Sweet-talking Sylvia Beach,
At Shakespeare & Company bookstore,
Hitting her up for small loans,
Manipulating and conning Scott Fitzgerald—
The Hark the Herald Jazz Age Angel—
Exploiting F. Scott’s contacts at Scribners,
To get The Sun Also Rises published.
Fitzgerald acted as his literary agent and advocate,
Even performing some crucial editing on the manuscript.
Hemingway got payback for this friendship years later,
By telling the world in A Moveable Feast,
That Zelda convinced Scott he had a small ****--
Yeah, all of it stems from those bumps & bruises,
Scrapes & scratches he got near Schio,
Along the Piave River on July 8, 1918.
Slap on an Italian Silver Medal of Valor—
An ostentatious decoration of dubious Napoleonic lineage—
40,000 of which were liberally dispensed during WWI—
And Ernie was on his way.

Was there ever a more arrogant, world-class scumbag;
A more graceless-under-pressure,
Sorry excuse of a machismo show-horse?
Look: I think Hemingway was a great writer,
But he was a gigantic gasbag,
A self-indulgent *****,
And a mean-spirited bully—
That bogus facade he put on as this writer/slash/bullfighter,
Kilimanjaro, great white hunter,
Big game Bwana,
Sport fishing, hard drinking,
Swinging-****, womanizing,
*** I-******-Ava-Gardner bragging rights—all of it—
Just made him a bigger, poorer excuse for a human being,
When the chips were finally down,
When the truth finally caught up with him,
In the early morning hours,
Of July 2, 1961, in Ketchum, Idaho.
I can’t think of a more pathetic writer’s life than
Hemingway’s last few years.
Sixty electric shock treatments,
And the ******* still killed himself.

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Suicide Prevention Hotline Need help?
In the U.S., call:  1-800-273-8255  

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Phone:   804-782-4920,  

So why am I still mesmerized by,
The whole Hemingway hero thing?
That stoicism, the grace under pressure,
That real men don’t eat quiche,
A la Norman Mailer crap?
I guess I can relate to both Hemingway the Matador,
And Hemingway the Pompous *******,
Not to mention Mailer who stabbed his second of six wives,
And threw his fourth out of a third-floor window.
One thing’s for sure: I’m living life all the way up,
Thanks to a steady supply of medical cannabis,
And some freaky chocolate chip cookies
From the Area 51--Our Products are Out of this World—Bakery
(“In compliance with CA prop 215 SE 420, Section 11362.5,
And 11362.7 of CA H.S.C. Do not drive,
Or operate heavy equipment,
While under the influence.
Keep out of reach of children,
And comedian Aziz Ansari.”)

So getting back to Hemingway,
I return to Cuba to work on my book.
During the day--usually in the early morning hours--
When “the characters drive me up there,”
I climb to my tower room,
Stand up at my typewriter in the upstairs alcove.
I stand up to tell my story because last night,
Everyone got drunk and threw all the ******* furniture in the pool.
By the way, I’m putting together my Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
I can’t decide between:
“I may be defeated but I’ll never be destroyed,” or
“You can destroy me but you’ll never defeat me.”
The kind of artistic doublespeak they love in Sweden.
Maybe: “Night falls and day breaks, but no one gets hurt.”
God help me.
I need to come up with a bunch of real pithy crap soon.
Maybe I’ll just smoke a joint before the speech and,
Start riffing off the cuff about literary good taste:

“In my novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, for example, I had Maria tell Pilar that the earth moved, but left out the parts about Robert Jordan’s ******* and the tube of Astroglide.”

Stockholm’s only a month away,
So I’m under a lot of pressure.
Where’s Princess Grace under Pressure when I need her?
I used to work for the Kansas City Star,
Working with newspaper people who advocated:
Short sentences.
Short paragraphs.
Active verbs.
Authenticity.
Compression.
Clarity.
Immediacy.
Those were the only rules I ever learned,
For the business of writing,
But my prose tended to be a bit clipped, to wit:
A simple series,
Of simple declarative sentences,
For simpletons.
I’m told my stuff is real popular with Special-Ed kids,
And those ******* that run
The International Imitation Hemingway Competition,
AKA: The Bad Hemingway Contest.
The truth is: I always wanted to get a bit more flowery,
Especially after I found out I got paid by the word.
That’s when the *** and **** proved mighty useful.
        
I live at La Finca Vigia:
My house in San Francisco de Paula,
A Havana suburb.
My other place is in town,
Room #511 at the Hotel Ambos Mundos,
Where on a regular basis I _
(Insert simple declarative Anglo-Saxon expletive)
My guantanmera on a regular basis.
But La Finca’s the real party pad.
Fidel and Che and the rest of the Granma (aka “The Minnow”) crew
Come down from the mountains,
To use my shower and refresh themselves,
On an irregular basis.
At night we drink mojitos, daiquiris or,
The *** & coke some people call Cuba Libre.
We drink the *** and plan strategy,
Make plans for taking out Fulgencio Batista,
And his Mafia cronies,
Using the small arms and hand grenades,
We got from Allen Dulles.

Of course, after the Bay of Pigs debacle,
You had to go, Ernesto.
Kennedy had the CIA stage your suicide,
And that was all she wrote.
And all you wrote.
Never having had a chance,
To tell the 1960s Baby Boomers about class warfare in America.
Poor pathetic Papa Hemingway.
Lenin and Stalin may have ruined Marxism,
But Marx was no dummy.
Not in your book.
Or mine.

Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant

The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth

The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive

The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately

The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak

The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating

The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach

The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides

The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass

The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them

I can write of Manila at night like the greats do of Paris. Not Manila in the morning, for it matters then, but Manila at night where it doesn't matter if it is new or old or if you are rich or poor, because it all blends into the moonlit darkness and that is when Manila becomes like a love letter. It may be Cebu that I love, but it is Manila that captivates me.

To the farmer, who left Manila for America to escape the war, and returned to see only a burned down church. To the young boy, a hundred years later, who does not see the church, but sees the romance of a concrete city. And to the ill man sitting on the corner of a street in Ermita, who has seen more of life and Manila than any of us ever will or ever can or ever want to. To the jazz bars tucked deep in Quezon where the music is sweetest, and to the congregation of poets who meet at their secret place in Makati on sacred nights to talk of the country they write for. Manila does not end.

But Manila is no moveable feast- it is a grand mystery that is far too heavy to take with you. Paris was loved because it was easy to love. The same way Florence was loved because it was easy to. Manila is far too rough to make for easy loving, but the beauty is there for everyone but the blind to see, and even then it is there for the blind to feel. One just has to try hard enough. It is what Manila represents, for it represents not the American dream, but the Filipino ambition to create their own. It does not become a question of how can you. It never will. It is a question of how can you not be romantic of Manila?

1.
any colour may be applied to the
night-dress

this city actually has no cart
driven by horses

before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu

by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons  sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer

on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night

and pours down on eye-lids
clouds
wrapped with cellophane

one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony

those are all ancient drama

in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night

yet
under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the ****** reel wet with sweat does not fall short

the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat

velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment

2.
the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river

when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze

to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave

so many varieties of floating

if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments  

if the question of  moveable property is  raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father

and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser

3.
the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group

there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace

how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one’s character

specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans

it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally ******

there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your
lips

4.
on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the climate    

everyday
the sunglass changes

look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard

the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin

here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
and hums

then ripping open my veins
should i also ***** the blue elocution
accumulated on the ****-pit

after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on  

even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet

5.
arrangements are being made

the green shirt will gradually
turn reddish

the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight

and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands

from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
i’m ready

then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart

you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni

6.
the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice

his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy  

around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed

and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
  
all are of free-size

what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there

in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on

do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily

this time there is no thin cane
in his hand

in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms

there is ‘darling’ there
and ‘yours beloved greta’

in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain  

is it being searched even today

is it greta or margaret or eliza  
there is no bar if it is dorothy

in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice  

each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink

7.
the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant
i can’t remember whether i ever notice
the portrait of your face on it  

there are so many words
that are slippery

how much rustic is the dust of the legs
of the young person is known to the road of the city

daubing green on both palms
i call for rain …oh rain ..oh rain

and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float

thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd  

from the bright cloth-end falling down
the odour of detergent

thus the applied mathematics of the diesel
is learnt to a greater extent

8.
behind the change of colour of the swelled wind
the samovar plays no role

though you know it you tear off tears
from your eyes

and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar
raise a joint demand to serve them
after wrapping with new banana-leaves  

and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used
by the fishes in the aquarium  at the time of illness
of the antenna

by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb
either it’s costly or cheap  

9.
like the light
like the dark

yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road  

taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals

it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness

he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin

if you are sorry be water for three days now

through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies

the blue cough is not from the sky

it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out

10.
i’ve deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind

and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog
frequently

i make the crystal of her hair soft

i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed

the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton

can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk

i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks

11.
in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories

this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root

yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps

the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided

towards the ganga
towards the padma

the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight

those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers

within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces

you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire

complex moveable pulley systems
consisting of rope
had hardened his heart:
that moveable block
a native of rocks
a kernel of nourishing corn
pumping starch to starving veins.
his naïve nerves reborn,
new to nature
where nothing is known
but the trumpets of judgement.
a society of contemporaries
with a common condition:
speak your latent conviction
while avoiding exhaustion by speech
(know the limit of the lungs),
so we accept the same transcendent destiny
of intense despair while it lasts
but not for nothing.
when we end up in the ground
do we still dream of the sky?

walking moveable feast
talking nonsense;
to bugs too small to see-
under a microscope revealed
captured lab specimens;
just crawling around, all day
eating the tasty skin of Humans
hosts to a constant stream
of nibbling takeaway addicts
a walking moveable feast
talking nonsense.

First Contact
"How did I get here,I can't remember,
my brains burning out like a dwindling ember,
are those tears in my eyes?-no its pourin' rain,
I'm lying on my back in the bottom of a stormdrain,
hunted like an animal,but still I'm deadly,
like a wounded lion,you better bet ye,
will lose more men than I've already taken(taken sample),
the hunter hunted? I think you're mistaken,
I'm a one man army,armed or not,
you didn't bring enough manpower,have you forgot?,
that the sandman(badman,phantoms in the dark)
has more in his bite than you do in your bark,
it's getting dark now,tables turning,

tyger,tyger,my eyes are burning,

better keep your guard up,I've been confronted...
but how can you tell who's hunter or hunted? 16.

Riposte

Better count your sentries,I think ones missin,
when you see his blood glistenin your pants your ****** in,
should have been listenin,I gave you a chance,
now its time for the Sandman to do his dance,
like a praying Mantis I move so swiftly,
bullet's fly like locusts,but each one missed me,
the Locus and Focus of my 3rd eyes movin,
got your sentries rifle,but I won't even use it,
taunt you haunt you,flaunt skills I honed,
from a broken home,to the streets to battlezones,
catch you alone,smash your skull with a hanbo,
appear behind you from the mud like Rambo,
bodies placed like hannibal,a deadly scene,
you're a ****** housecat and I'm wolverine,
told your boss you could get me now you know you fronted,
cat and mouse reversed-YOU'RE the one who's hunted.

Denoument*

Now I know who you are,and I know where you live,
and in this line of work I can't forget or forgive.

We were partners once now you've betrayed my trust,
taught you everything you know,now it's ashes and dust
your bodyguards are good,but they know I'll get ya,
more ghost than man,a modern day ninja,
leave you injured,begging for mercy,
but you know the concept is alien to me,
grabbed the bull by the horns,my hand you forced,
you're a moveable object,I'm unstoppable force,
force feed your limbs til you beg for death,
line your family up and slowly take their heads,
then I'm in the wind,gone like keyser sozey,
the word is spread,don't try to **** me,
you were my friend,but you crossed the line,
try to hunt the Sandman,"you're all ****** dyin"

while chewing on the sandwich i was given
i failed to notice the ruffage and the soil of my glamour
only the ludicrous measure of my apathy and passion.
only the girl of my memes and the maladaptive gnomes
of my moveable feast.

i saw through the aerosols and the Hindi.

i ate nothing but net.
i slept with a barstool and a comet.
and asked you " Why? ".

and said, Less.

The ocean's wave rolls
and beats repeatedly
carving a way into the soul
of this precipice
foaming at the mouth

no, wait....

that's just your tongue
coated in a miasma of
a siren song
you ******* liar  

sunbathing on my pyre
the whole town now congregates around
with devil-red
containers of gasoline
while your devil-red
lips act the fire

Only the clever witches
survived the trials

the whole town now dances around
feasting on the lotus petals
that root in the palm of your hand

look at them move
locked in each others hands
chanting
"This will bring peace"
while they nod and agree

"Pour more gasoline"
escapes between those sharp teeth

happiness is a moveable feast
at least your eating
like a queen

go ahead and **** the marrow
out of these innocent bones
tomorrow I will be gone

once I thought of you as Ithaca
now realize that these
are Troy's stones

it's time to sail back home.

I’ll find my way back to you in Montmartre’s cobblestone streets.
Imagine Hemingway right next to us, rambling on about his moveable feast.
Like free-spirited birds, I’ll race you to the top of Sacré-Cœur.
Before you can catch your breath,
I promise the view would steal it once more.

I want to see every inch of the Louvre, we’d probably get lost for days;
But we’re smiling like fools, I bet it would put Mona Lisa to shame.
We can stroll along the Seine, and haggle with bouqinistes near Notre Dame.
I’ll ask an artist to paint you,
But first show me how a monsieur should love a madam.

I utter a prayer in Sainte-Chapelle as I immortalize you in stained glass.
Maybe as we wander aimlessly in Champs-Elysées, Degas would teach us how to dance.
I’ll tell you all my secrets, the way kings and queens did once.
Even Rodin would call it treason not to cast these two lost souls in bronze.

Pick me flowers from Tuileries, like the ones Monet had in his mind.
I’ll make a wish before they wilt; Don’t we all hope for the best before we die?
And right here in the in-betweens, we have love to keep us alive,
As foolish and as innocent as the way Picasso painted like a child.

Winter slowly turned into spring, and soon we’ll say goodbye.
The Tour Eiffel glistened in all its glory as darkness fell on the city of lights.
Paris, it has been an honor to love and be loved by you.
In a few years or maybe in a heartbeat—
I’ll come home to you soon.

I regret to inform you,
That my days on this Earth,
Have borught nothing new,
And are as useless as my birth,

I regret to inform you,
That the people in my surroundings,
Do not interest me with their findings,
And they are not people I can turn to,

I regret to inform you,
That very few people have a clue,
Of what they are doing,
Or what they should be pursuing,

I regret to inform you,
That pain is not beautiful,
It is only moveable,
To those of you who feel blue,

I regret to inform you,
That most of you were aware,
Of the thoughts I'm sharing with you,
But most people don't care,

They want to be oblivious,
To what is obvious,
Stop running away from the truth,
Or it will just come back and haunt you

now not anymore
the Island that isn’t
a loneliness but
Choice without being
There we were sitting and
The Sea was coming and
We (me and you) – a gorgeous staple,
Hooked,
were creating and
we saw him (after years and years) how
he was entering
like a rainbow huge
unattainable and
slow
brown – like a beam
(to hold for it)
nonpoetry - the other one is breakable
when the meaning they wave –
a hand of an insane man before a mirror
nongame – the game is dead
after Joyce and like a child is screaming
for the sandy tower after an adult
(a cynical stone) carelessly and with no reason
forded through
the dolphin is a life vital
and his existence aside of the genesis
and whole in the sea and whole
is reflected
nonliterature – the literature is dead
implicated into shape and ad of
the language but
where is here the Rapture
of the dolphin – glamour
oh forgive me I am entering
a someone else’s territory
I am not a ventriloquist too
I do not practice knowledge
there’s nothing new here each
new is unnamed
a vital place without a place
in a movement moveable
smooth like blue
fused in a deep bare
white

(and I don’t know why we are mongrels in our heart,
but hell… Lets ask em-

Roman nose.
Broken.
pug shaped unheard of thought ******* away cos
its been awoken by high rising spirit,
but call it anything, call it the breaking of your phone
that’s replaced by another when you feel a chorus stretching
into your ***** gut when they speak, just calling…

blown away from thalidomide arms of private growths
death from long ago neither feminine nor masculine
posture of slumped morning brighter than split stare
of obliterated ***** hit gently hard and lit
my heart knows: my sheets are a poor excuse
for where the room suffers our corporeal rage
in our calming conversation

within country stare of effortless green, some:
knowingness, perceives madness from outside
its woven hands so accepted in the city as it cries,
and walks together; shed upon from all parts of its locking voice
a union within the falling parts, of islandeque love
when rising to hard abyss pardoned when nurtured,
fate, a toothless, small, finishing chew

smothered out from car fume; Buddha can’t speak anymore
birds can’t speak anymore, even the locksmiths have words
without need; i stop in a graffieted place, my veins happy
to just sense: home: proto – home, before…

with whom there is a consensus in the lewdness, rabid as 6pm
is; opened by wild cooked silk until it is made, and
ready, I’m shattered, my bloodiness has no body, none,
worth me jacking it all in, or talking, about new governments,
ours-

explosives walking through arcs of dimmed light
intoxicants highlighted in fading windows, brimming and walled open
beneath my feet, i would run, i would strip
open, the exhausted car parts
yelling, but the impermanence, of us, is the grey ebb
and flow, of engines colouring, this city, impassable
by our actions- full of Bachiacic choice, stopped at the
gate dead, when anything wants to speak inside our home,
apart from your voice, and mine

and i did not know, that cities were so moveable and
pleasurable, and that madness is always correct when animals cling
in agreement; Karma of infinite silence between them when needed-
rebearing low glance into imploding music
down past eye, oesophagus, stomach gently reseeding
hands of movement, dust spokes of haphazard drivers
like the proof in the wetness of the most lifelike dreams that
humanise the raven infancy of the winters blood

insight baked by the sun’s finally accepted sea
in clay, where we must adore what we create from our hands,
and adore the cinders of its coldness as things that can
be anything with any touch; the holograms choice in emotion
the: ‘I’:

only a background chorus
of floating crickets when we whisper, torture moons losing there grip amongst
the unsolid shapes, passing, us, as we walk through,
universal… ‘axioms’, summiting, to a peak, near the soul, when raw, but never there;
we must speak about ‘all or nothing’, in a different way, instead
as the pattern is completed by: ‘immersion’, two servants of the
womb, a judge, and a convict, and the jury broke and sprinkled
across the horizon where we walked like my grandfathers ashes

we don’t gibe, the rest, if we get there
we won’t look across the heard and pick out the
leprositic ways that are outside of our own, there is no
pride, there is no ‘knowledge’ of pride, there’s only
a proto-home, there’s unsaid gasp of what we shall eat
from the flawless flow of the weeks hard work, where we asked for no
prairie, hell, we didn’t even ask for a ticket flattened into a card
that’ll pay for it all
but hell, that’s ok

it’s a while till pay day,
but hey, i’m happier than a slave being paid in the rip-tide of several
monks and maidens authoring where i’m sold
in awesome gloom- one finds themselves a violin
even if they can’t play, even if, they have no limbs
most times, those too
go, or jitter when you don’t want them too in the middle
of the gala
i have already trusted them to you, however;
so, i’m sold, and happy.

As our grave has no flowers yet.

And we are the flowers upon that grave.

And we are the owl howling.

At that grave.

And we are the grave eaters.

And the only.

Animals.

Who can stop them.

The idea of man has changed.
We no longer build things,
But have to take care of our manicures.
We no longer grow a forest upon our face,
But shave every inch of real estate;
Such that others others buy into our facade.
No more princes looking for a fight-
On their perilous journey to find the princess.
Now it seems all the princes are searching for another prince.
I think for the sole reason,
That man is trying to find a real man.
Someone to him to start a fire,
To swing a sword, or have unconditional love.
Bottled aggression turns into feminism,
Yet I’m not saying women are weak.
Very much to the contrary,
They can place a deep fear in any man.
That’s their job: to keep us grounded.
With two men or (wo)men,
No balance is found and the cycle turns.
A man that doesn’t fight gets left behind,
And will be murdered under his bed.
(His favorite hiding spot)
I understand the blame mostly falls on change,
But be a man, a rock, steady and un-moveable.

Metaphysical
Mathematiciantional
Sensational
Unbelievable
Conceivable
Reasonable to be believable
Cuz I tried to get past it
I mean it boggled my mind to the point I tried to find some meaning in it
So I try to think positive thoughts
It's like moving through layers of forestry moss
I'm trying to bra boss of my own trade
Gettin what I got cuz I got it made
No more shade
Shining in the light
Constant battle not even a fight
300 men in a war
Tryna make the next score
Gimme gimme more
So I can soar to higher heights
Catch that next bite
Oh yeah it's outta sight
Metaphysical
Cataclysmical
Sociable
Moveable
It's all metaphysical

If you are going to love a dreamer

You can not be controlling
You can not be manipulative

their spirit
their passion
would be sacrificed
because of their love for you
because of their love of you

it would be because of you
love ultimately fermented into resent and hate
dreams turned to nightmares at the very mention of your existence

You can not be weak
You can not be moveable

Their fire
their vision
would juggernaut the mightiest of the weary
tears shed in the quiet of the dark
desires whispered in the secret of shadows
would never be known to them

The dreamer is Blind
not deaf
not dumb

If you are going to love a dreamer

You must be courageous
You must be adventurous

To love a dreamer is to bed risk
To love a dreamer is to set a permanent place for gamble
the acknowledgement of chance
the acceptance of failure

Loving a dreamer is to know
the only place of honor
is not with them
is with the dream

Loving a dreamer is to know
the only pedestal
is not for them
is reserved for the dream

Loving a dreamer is to know
they will love you
position their lives around you
but their purpose
their only purpose
is the dream

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

Checked in my bags for $6 and a worry
My mind swims as I'm feeling sorry
Smiles melt like my wicker wet hair
Summer makes for fiends that don't have a care

Wheezing through the winter and skipping through Spring
Restaurants open with figs that seem to sing
Her hair moves with a magic all her own
I'm in the corner shivering cause I can't get a bone

Outside the night is naked cold and can't be told
Any secret it hasn't heard so don't get scold
Silly for these ears to drip water at these years
Talk to me later where we can have a few beers

Nodding head against the bar room back
I remember how she eyed me checking every fact
Heels colored yellow and the eyes black and blue
Soul on the rocks talked as if she had the flu

Now with the clock bell ringing the man is pointing east
Someone's out there and it smells like a moveable feast
Round' these parts time doesn't move for just no one
People grin but they aren't really having that much fun

Stuck in the mud with a stick instead of gun
When the mind gets moving each guy better start to act tough
Neighbors pawn their wisdom onto their young
This towel is wet been lying on the bottom rung

Missed this chance as I pranced round' a ring that wasn't really mine
Spend my time pinching dimes feelin' like I'm wasting my time
Now with the aftermath of a presidency gone wrong
Everyone seems to be walkin' around like they got a small thong

Notice on the board with a face that is familiar
Peer closer and its your face looking like a killer
Grin wide with the eyes all fulla' pride
Teeth white tongue tight neck tight with snide

Bent through the neck with a familiar respect
Of the law that loses every chance that it gets
All day in a line that wasn't meant to be mine
Born into a nuthouse where the warden is the least born

Menacing meanders with their ticket books and badges
Caring for the cure as they spill their poison out like frogs
Managing their wages with crayons while crying
I mention a memory and they slap me and fry me

Truth leaks out like the ink from of a damaged pen
It stains your soul like the shriek from a morning hen
Truth streaks white like the white from a jet plane
Him smiling while dying to escape a life of the inane

Night
You were there when I slept through the first day I showed
For' I was born in the morn
Night
You are the blanket I carry
Even in the daytime
Night
The stars are my angels
For they guide me when I am naive'
Night
Night
You are with me
Even when you take my sight

i have spent far too much of my life
building towering walls with no arches, without windows
without any view to the outside world.
i would much rather have liked it if i would have built fences instead.
fences are moveable.
you can push the rows and rows of wire or wood a foot to the north
or a foot to the south
or make a curve in the line.
fences don't block everything out,
they don't keep everything in,
and they don't hurt as much when they fall.
walls, on the other hand,
crash
and burn
and take months and months to rebuild.
fences?
fences can be put up in a day or two
depending on how difficult you want it to be to get in/get out;
fences can be taken down in a day or two
depending on how easy you want it to be to get out/get in.

In that first
hardly noticed
moment
to which you wake,
coming back
to this life
from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
which closes
the moment
you begin
your plans.

What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.

What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.

To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.

To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.

You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.

Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love?  What shape
waits in the seed
of you to grow
and spread
its branches
against a future sky?

Is it waiting
in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the waiting desk?

~ David Whyte ~

Some girls are like chess pieces, pawns of the world, the gullible
You can move them wherever you want
Push them around like game pieces, the game pieces to Life
No matter the color of the world you choose for them
The square of a world
Either black or white, dark or light
They are like chess pieces and will remain like that
Solid, moveable pieces
If you meet a chess piece girl, don’t take advantage of her

Some girls are like piano keys, sitting there, waiting to get played
No matter the color of their skin, black or white
Or the texture of their voice, their words
Sharp or flat
They are like piano keys and will remain like that
Solid, playable keys that live to sing when their heart is broken by someone who didn’t care about them in the first place
If you meet a piano key girl, don’t play her

Some girls are like one way mirrors, they close themselves off to people and only allow the people they trust to look into them
They’ve probably had a rough past or maybe just some trust issues
But even with one way mirrors you cannot force it to be like a regular mirror, able to see from both sides into the other
She may remain impassive
Don’t force her to show you her secrets, her inner workings, let her remain closed off about the things she wishes not to share
If you ever meet a one way mirror, let them be as they are

If you meet any of these types of girls, let them be as they are
They are, after all, still humans, right?
For the deeper we look in ourselves
The more we try to be different, extraordinary
If we do not have the most important values and virtues of life within
We still can resemble inanimate objects, cold and unfeeling

Learn a lesson from this,
And learn, especially
To really
Live

Some ones party balloon
Escaped from a small hand
Clings to a branch
outside
my bedroom
Window
It leaving its party too soon
a shimmering mylar
rodent string tail
caught-
a runaway
panting
in a trap.
I want to
cut it down
and pick up the party
before all life
drains out -
slowly.
I can’t reach
though
like so many
plastic grocery bags
drifting waste
bobbing
above my grasp
artifacts of past
communions
floating by.
The shine of ‘Happy’
collapses time
Upside down
string flaccid
Winter
its only breath-
a shuddering in cold bursts
of grey.
Slowly
Spring green
molds over it
decay
I forget
As it eases into waves of softer air.
buds form
And robins pull worms
In its shade’s
exhausted judgement.
Summer breezes
bounce it’s flaked shine briefly
between
The flickering
Of leaves
“I’m still here”
it winks
Until
the Fall
sheds its cover
leaves float
down in spirals
revealing
shimmer- gone- grey
and dull.
life and air
No longer animate.
Spreading apart into
beautiful
diminishing
frail
shards
Nature takes its turn
small hands fashion
it into a squirrels nest
the moveable Birthday Party – long over.
It’s empty string dangles nothing to lift it.
A boy still searching the sky
to grab
for its return,
Sorry
but,
The squirrels
seem to be
Happy

Sitting at our distanced picnic,
a moveable feast in which the scotch eggs
probably have deep significance, I said to you
“We’re only ever inches from the cliff.
If left alone we tread steadily. It’s those
other buggers you have to watch out for.”
and the mist on the windows
stopped us seeing more.

sleep strewn loveliness sink in the
silence of this evanescent twilight —

a dream's citadel superimposed
in high calligraph.
shadow's monolith dancing away
from a mutiny of light. there is a gathering
here unknown,

as the moon fathers these
intimations doubling astonishment in
all limpid signs and praised symbols.
i see now clearly,
the lighthouse belle!
i feel more evidently,
the charring of the clammy water!
i ache more freely
as the stones are put in
equipoised trial - nudely manning the
coasts of dread!

to myself alone i sing
where all fires resurrected - here now,
close to dine the coruscation
of the vertiginous star heady on its way
towards the complete blackness of god's
face trilling behind numeral starscape—

small creatures standing on the
shoulders of dreams
mounting the dwarfed ******* of
mountains and aware of the river's
errant split.

against all light are the many toppled
dreams held together into makeshift amalgam, traced in outward light is
the vestige of the unwatched now
obscenely put into picture like the wind's contrapuntal waltz against the interstices of grass feasting in their moveable glee.

o, dreams and what if they are
curtailed to the bottomless notion
of ground's innocuous stare, to crumble
underneath the feet of the giant whom
i once knelt in front of, ravished, keeping worlds together like a mothering tongue
to day-scarred kindred, these words
   thrown from the gather of clouds
      formless shapes of inimitable rain,
  
   the bells may be out of songs,
  cathedrals too, wrung out of prayers,
    oblivion yawns waiting for its
     next guest— here in the dream
  cradled in the shoulder of it
      unharmed, untouched and only
       deeply feeling for all that is
       retained, walking in the Earth.

The stale ring left in my ear. Walls covering eyes and memories. White as snow, dull as a knife. The constant movement of this place is

unsettling. Comfort of the hurt and hurting. Bandage me up and break my spirits. Give me serenity in these broken moments. Hallways tunnel out of my sight.

That bed that too many people have been through. The pain that was felt, struggles, tears, blood and fluid. This place holds history.

The kind of history in that one book in the library. Furthest row from the door, tucked in a blanket of dust, top shelf. The book no one will read because of the way it makes you feel.

Helplessness and earthquakes.

Break trough this heart and tumble me wave. But I'll puff up my chest for you. I'll wear my steel chest plate. Arrows won't penetrate these reinforcements.

I ate my wheaties this morning. Prepared mentally and set out. I stepped through these doors only to be vulnerable, shot down, weak. Defenseless like a sloth. Grabbing my own arm for comfort, while falling too many stories down.

A Desolate attempt to show courage. I'll burrow back into my hole. The observed pain is too much. The false promises of health, fortitude and strength never taste so bitter.

If your strength didn't prove so much this would be long over. Over and out. Under the blanket of clouds and relief. You care too much. You proved your worth with a heart of diamonds. Home is a moveable fortress. One I'll never step in again.