Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

It was strange almost as strange as Thanksgiving with Justin Bieber  at his grandmother's house.
Yes I'm sure that wasn't the only thing getting stuffed that year.
Who doesn't enjoy being serenaded by their grandson as he's naked with his pick in one hand and
his **** in the other as he stands **** ball naked in the kitchen.

Thanks Canada your like a ***** girlfriend who instead of giving a great ******* gave us ******  What do I expect from a country that also gave us maple syrup and call me maybe.
I know we just met and this sounds crazy but your countries music ***** so never call us okay.

I was alone in the Pub as  usual hell what do you expect from a site that has a showcase yet has no more groups from which half of the showcases are named after .
Yeah the owner has that true modern day logic like having a music channel that only shows
reality show ****** and knocked up ******* who complain about paying the bills yet are employed by the network yeah common sense it really is lost on stupid people.

I was having like half of a case when a hamster who shall remain unnamed due to she would
harm me if I spoke the name of which is not to be spoken of walked through the door.
Gonz set me up with a cold one  I really need it.
Really hamster I never pegged you as a necrophilia kind of gal but to each his own
good thing I got the paper let me just check the obituaries and make some calls
You want something fresh off the highway or you more into cold cuts?

I know I'm going to hell but honestly did you expect good taste  in reading this **** ?
Are you ******* nuts?
The agitated little hamster asked as she looked at me with anger and possible **** in her eye's.
Look I can always hope good thing I forgot my whistle.

Just give me a cold beer you pervert and that joke was tasteless really have you no respect for anything?
I looked at the hamster after handing her the beer and thought deeply and hard pulling my mental hair at the same time even though I don't have any don't ask.
Duh hamster!
It's my job  to make tasteless jokes and be a pervert what you think the time clock on the walls for?
Um employees ?
Well yeah it used to be until they whole health care **** I swear I give my workers one meal a week and provide a perfectly good basement for them now I got to give them health care duh
if I paid my bills what would I drink with ?

My customer who remains anonymous to  protect the safety of my *****.
Looked at me in disgust uh oh looks like I might be getting a spanking as well.
You really keep those poor people locked in the basement ?
Duh person I cant say your name there not real people there here illegally.
How can you say that I should call the cops on you .

The hamster was turning red and from the threat of calling in the fuzz I knew she must be
serious yet still I knew deep down she was just playing hard to get with her threats and restraining orders but enough with the foreplay hamsters.

Look I really don't see what the big deal is ?
You have people trapped in your basement like some dirt bag smuggler.
Now you hold on a minute hamster how dare you insult me I said in my grown up voice
I know I can act like a grown up shocking isn't it?

I was about to tell this hamster just what I really thought of people who take advantage of people
who just want a better life and exploit others and really preach some of that moral **** that sounds real good yet isn't what I think cause I'm truly a ruthless *******.

When I stopped and saw the clock oh **** hold that thought I almost forgot to feed the basement people.
I reached under the bar and grabbed four cartons of cigarettes and a case of wine.

What in the hell you only give those poor people ***** and cigarettes ?
Well  duh there French what else would they want?  
Just then a voice came up from the dungeon I mean basement of the pub gonzo more wine
you American swine I hate you yet still I applaud your efforts in destroying that vile
man child Selena Gomez  .

Ahh you got love the French sure that strange little man may stay drunk on a girl drink and smoke like a chimney but even he hates **** pop music as much as me.

My one and only reader slash customer slash person I enjoy annoying sat in shock.
You are so ****** up .
I looked as I took my seat behind the bar that no longer exists because some people
who shouldn't be allowed out of there cage run the site into the like button ground.

Yes hamster I'm a little ruff around the edges but when you get to know me.
You realize behind all the insults and perverted bad humor .
I'm well I'm far worse than you could ever imagine.

We sat there swapping stories the drinks flowed the French man in the basement yelled
something in that strange language  he spoke once I couldn't understand cause I
don't speak German.

It was a  true night to remember except for the part I forgot duh!
It was growing closer and closer to closing time I mixed us both a good strong drink
yet with a soft side and heart of gold like a awesome ****** or that man ****** Kim Kardashian .

Well I guess better head out Gonz.
Aren't you feeling like your going to pass out .
Um no why ?

****** its really getting bad when you cant trust a good street dealer to quality
roofies  .
The hamster was headed out the door but before she left she turned and said.
Oh yeah and you might need to grab a pillow.

And then everything went black but not like in the NBA .
No indeed I was out like Charlie sheen after a really good coke binge when he used to be cool.

I awoke upon the floor alone cold and hurting in a area far more strange than fifty one
****** man whya alien would travel across the galaxy only to corn hole rednecks and poetic madmen is beyond me but enough about what some owners of websites do in there off time.

Upon the bar sat the only cure for my troubles a double shot of good blended whiskey.
Next to it a note on a bar napkin .

Dear Gonz  next time remember to remember which drink you spiked you ******* .

I had to laugh and sit really funny the seat was a bit uncomfortable get your heads out of the gutter
children your almost as bad as me.

Until next time kids remember .
Good humor bad humor  its just ******* a joke to begin with so lighten the **** up.

Cheers and stay crazy.

I am alive by luck at this point.
I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made.
Whose trigger will bury me.
How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed.
Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank.
If not me, then someone else.
Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore.
And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline.
Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn.
But we will no longer be martyrs.
We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes.
You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw.
You smell like gun smoke and
I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and
I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them.
Give teachers books not bullets:
Kafka isn’t kevlar.
Bronte isn’t bulletproof.
And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions.
Throwing opinions like punches.
How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is?
And I, too, am buried alive
My soggy grave parting its greedy lips.
To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne.
My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure
We are “just kids,”
But you are forgetting we are the next generation
And you autopsy your fists.
Call it reclamatory.
Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living.
And who knows if mine will be next

I keep finding bullets stuck between my teeth
The same ones you bought the day you decided the ceiling would look better covered in blood.
Maybe that’s why everything I say
sounds like it’s is trying to **** me.
But what do you do
when you stand in front of a mirror
with a gun to your head
and your reflection smiles back at you?
What do you do
When you stand in the middle of a busy road
And every driver is a different version of yourself you’ve tried to ****.
Every version of yourself
No one could love.
My mother used to get in fist fights with the mirror and expect to win
She says I look just like her
Maybe that’s why I wake up and can’t recognize who I am.
I checked the obituaries this morning
Trying to find myself again
It’s a habit I picked up from you
But I never thought your name would end up there before mine.
Sometimes I imagine what death feels like
Sometimes I imagine kissing you instead
By now it feels like I’m imagining the same thing.
Someone once told me that begging you to come home
Isn’t the same as praying
Maybe that’s why God stopped listening
and started smashing the windows of every place I thought we could be happy in.
Your smile looked a lot like the light at the end of the tunnel
Right before the train hits you.
I used to squint my eyes when I looked at you
Like I was looking at the sun
Or a car accident I wanted to be part of
I’m sorry I ever thought you could be anything ugly to me
You were the only beautiful thing in this hideous place.
I couldn't look at you clearly,
because I knew I would see my own face staring back at me and
your eyes were the only place I never wanted to be dead inside of.
You can only break your knuckles so many times
Before you cant hold yourself together anymore.
My hands haven’t stopped shaking since you left
I don’t know how to tell them you’re not coming back.
See, I used to say I never wanted to end up like my father
Now I have to say I never want to end up like you,
Which means I can’t leave without saying goodbye
But I tried to write my eulogy last night
And realized it's hard to write about someone I never knew.

(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)


Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.

Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.

All of you.
Where do you get off
making a name for yourself
out of the mockery
in fallen heroes’ hearts?
What’s in a name;
that which we call
"a genius"
by another label
would be found on the front page
of the obituaries.

And now,
what?
Where do you go from
the top,
looking down on those you
trampled on the way
with some false sense of humility?
How we perceive you now
is like that of a crime lord;
envious,
never aspirational.

Might as well
call it a day
and take note of the
fallacy
that is fame and fortune.

Writing poetry will be a lifetime challenge for me to try and conquer. With Credits in Poetry among other accomplishments I truly respect the gift I have been blessed with. A talent that involves attempts to portray a picture through a sequence of letters in there very special order.
At the tender age of 16 I learned of my first family death, Grandpa Ralph and exactly 1 week later my grandmother Mildred who my mother took in and I was chosen to make sure she got her coffee, breakfast along with her medicine and other meals all day. I had to give up a summer of going swimming and other things that a kid my age wanted to do just to keep here company but I learned something so valuable at the same time and that was, I learned how to crochet, learned about birds, and learned to respect the elderly. To this day I still carry those values even to the point of even walking into a old folks home to just talk to strangers and even if I have to pretend to be their own family member so be it because I would like for someone to do just the same for me even if I didn’t know what was going on.
It was due to a brain tumor that took my grandmother away after Christmas that year and I remember it still ever so well when I woke up to go to work at the family’s bakery and my mom told me what had happened and everything that was to follow. My grandmother was the first of many I had saw lying ever so peaceful. I even gave her a kiss and I could feel that it was a warm one that I gave her.
Death throughout the many years now have taking on a new role. A role that should I believe be more up close and personal. Calling hours I think should be done in the family’s home where the deceased can maybe feel more comfortable being among everything they ever knew and among the ones that they loved and vice versa.
I have always wanted to be remembered centuries to follow my death. It seems the only way to accomplish that is to die either famous or infamous. Like the pope in Rome I to want to be laid out in estate for all to come and pay their respect. Obituaries now on the other hand along with media coverage to me seems, only the important and wealthy get all the coverage. Movies on another note portray a different message that has no comparison to the true facts. Directors, they make you think that it is either something so morbid like Friday the 13th or make you think you have to go out in a blaze of glory like Bonnie and Clyde. Television now has so many programs that entertain people’s most inner fears that you only want it to be more gruesome and gory. Now cartoons, that’s another ball game, children see subliminal messages that, if you die you will come back to life after you’re killed when in true contrast how can that be true.
Arts and literature including paintings, writings and music have a major impact on the subject when it comes to death, The ancient Egyptians’ I think were probably the masters on the subject of embalming. There techniques still to this day can’t be compared to. I am still fascinated to this day on just that. I even wrote Poems speaking of just such procedures and how I’d want it to be done if I had my way with the preserving of myself. With all the music and there sick lyrics your found either wanting to **** or run and hide from the killer.

(CARSr. 4-21-12)

the newspaper
spread out

like a tablecloth
obituaries

on one side
comics on


the other
the dead

smiling the
comics tragic

black white
gray world

made of
fuzzy dots

an obsolete
medium ready

to line the
bottom of

the song
bird’s cage

a nightingale
whose love

call goes
unanswered

don't ever tell me that you
were never mine.

when for months on end
when you couldn't sleep
you texted me at 3:00 a.m.

i would stay awake for
you and talk you down
from whatever hell was
occurring in your mind.

some nights you wouldn't
text me. and I would
stay up anyway,

writing obituaries all
night long.

If you're a writer your main trade is hating yourself and
finding ways to be clever about it.
Smoke cigar and coffee-stained typewriters,
bachelor in the sixties, suicide in the seventies.
I'm just a cliché, raining cats and dogs, beating dead horses and singing
a little song about death
a little song about love
there is nothing new under the sun.
Dylan doesn't understand what you do is better than
accounting, your trade is people
like stock markets-
string them up and watch them fall
I play with hearts, you say like
a girl showing off her somersaults in the backyard.
But no one is listening.
…
…
…

So you burn your eyes out with hot wax in the living room
and swear
your name is Icarus
throw your diploma into the laundry and watch it turn into tissue paper,
taking moonlight walks down the beach and
straight into the bottom
of the ocean.

(you thought she would hit you
when you told her you wanted to write
but she only laughed...
and you were surprised
how much
it hurt.)

Your father's pride, a phone full of contacts,
seeing straight in the ******* morning and the heart
of a girl that was once foolish
enough to love nitroglycerine,
sold for
a bottle of ink and a scrap of paper
and your name in the
obituaries.
...
...
...

Tell yourself it was worth it.

I have been licking the cream off
The nothing I was forced to cook from the book I bought.
I am Charles Bukowski waiting to rupture,
And tumble into forces of uncontrolled madness.
I dinge into fleeting, changing rooms
And become pages of yellowing, worm-books.
I write my own obituaries, each for a different
Person I have lived.
I make love twice every week,
And keep a count of how many times
He calls out someone else’s name.
I caution into keeping everything beautiful to myself.
I cup my hands and keep passion in my hidden chest,
And lock my doors with the only key there is.
I dine alone, I read in hushed whispers over single-serving thoughts.
And sleep where no one can put an arm around my waist,
And undulate the black-flavoured dreams I so carefully reared.
There is only one victory,
There is only one woman in the world.
It is I. It is I. It is I.

The lights on the Welsh coastline shine
Her whiskey days are full of ink
& broken milk bottles, a grief so hidden
it’s barely there to be read as her plight
The Army took her boys & never
gave them back but she only ever
cries when she’s chopping onions at night
& reading the obituaries in the newspapers
at night she prays to Angels up on high
but never goes to Church on Sundays
not since the Vicar told her it was
all for the best & they had done their bit
the country should be proud of them
-she finds no comfort in such things

Three obituaries in a week
received from contemporary friends
reporting their parental loss,
all extraordinary lives
compressed within single column widths
and limited
to given story lengths.

For she is the embodiment of pure nostalgia,
Her twists and turns are so inescapable.
For the memory of her clings to me,
And, as if a partner in crime,
Her goodbye accompanies.
I will find her, in the creases of sheets,
And the rooms that are hollow of her.
Somedays, all I can see is her,
Is her eyes.
Eyes that once held my world,

That hypnotized me with their electricity.
Yet today there is no serendipity found in the irises I once adored.
No, they only allude to the chilling numbness that has infested her blue bones.
Know that I write this as a obituary to the girl I once loved.
I write this in vengeance of the betrayals of fate.
I write this so you will understand that she was not always,

So terribly heartless.
She lies, as incorruptible evidence, that tears can live inside a gods eyes.
-

For I would have swum the ocean for her,
If only I could.

three of four funerals
gun collection, gun
long narrow boxes in the trunk of my first car

Dad’s dad, Bergen-Belsen, babbling
Dad’s mom, floorboards
Mom’s dad, collectibles
Mom’s mom, alcoholic

obituaries, guns, boxes, garages
adults, guns, St. Peter, Joni

Dad’s dad, lessons, dreams
Dad’s mom, cabbage recipe
Mom’s dad, extra hugs
Mom’s mom, low blows

memories, value, months
A pawn shop good rate
moral boundaries:
kids on the street, no parents

Let the tears flow and let the guns go.
  
If men start crying, we'll stop dying
and the killings in the hood would cease.
The prisons would be empty of angry men.....because they've finally found a release.

If men start crying we'll stop dying
and take our rightful place as the head.  No more negative views, news or obituaries to be read.

If men start crying we'll stop dying
and now I'm on my knees.....praying for my life, but not from a gang of thieves.

If men start crying, we'll stop dying
because we're no longer afraid......about the misconceptions about men that have been made.

If men start crying, we'll stop dying
and hiding behind this wall of pride......so much hurt inside .....I need a life preserver to prepare me for this ride.

If men start crying, we'll stop dying
A canoe full of emotions traveling to and fro, but I've held them in so long that I'm about to blow.

If men start crying, we'll stop dying
Do you know what I've been through?  It wasn't a pleasant ride...but God knew what to do.
Jesus loved the world and he cried for it too.  The Perfect one showing me exactly what to do.

If men start crying, we'll stop dying
and become the leaders that God has called us to be.  We'll be the voice of reason instead of the negative images often displayed on TV.

IF MEN START CRYING,  WE'LL STOP DYING.


John 11:35 Jesus wept.

Before I start I’m going to stand before you bare and open like in front of a looking glass that’s what
Their called in James town up in gold country they have the old hotels that were there a
Hundred Years ago they just have seven to eight rooms no phones or televisions rustic and
Original that will play into this write but for me personally I come to my computer with burning
Tears flowing down my face with my heart broken this also will bleed into this write I’m
Celebrating people that we have lost and a country teetering on disaster in the case of the
People I can’t let go and as my country dies I die with it and lately I feel the sooner the better
This feeling is a new ripple in my life maybe it prophetic I had a dream that the first girl I loved
And lost died it troubled me a great deal in the dream there was a coffin and I saw her standing
There what was the worst I lost contact over the thirty years in California I found out where she
Was when later I checked her home town obituaries it wasn’t her the dream was about it was
Her mother she died of cancer on my birthday I sent Linda a book without saying who it was
From the book’s title is Oma it is about the life of a one God Pentecostal pioneer preacher from
Our faith it spells out the true salvation message and the hardships she endured to give it to the
Needy of her day I can do no more I gave her the greatest gift I could ever give this is my
Conviction and it stands true for me buffeted by doubts of others because if you truly say you
Love them it stands true for all time or you were insincere in the first place that can be a pitfall
Of youth I told about how I fell in love at six with Eileen you wouldn’t understand the depth of
Pain and the tears that came from my convulsing tiny body when through her window I heard
She was getting married years have come and gone in sizable number I still love her I wasn’t
Just saying something the small scars on my heart are practically invisible because my heart has
Gotten bigger and adult scars hide the smaller ones Linda, Judy from ***** wine country I left
Town with a dead soul and much pain I held up in a hotel in Monterey twenty five hundred
Miles from home let’s just say Napa wine means a lot more to me than most people it has a
Beautiful girl attached with it and lost because at that time I wouldn’t promise to stay in
California I have just got out of the service the timber land of home was calling and I had to
Answer she turned out to be the luckiest of all God gave me a promise the night after I slept in  
A Cow pasture with my duffel bag as a pillow and a number of cows at a short distance the next
Day at the camp meeting the main speaker told these words someone here has a drunkard for a
Father and a harlot for a mother but God is going to use you in a great way this was spoken
Again a month later at a youth camp I stood outside on the edge of the crowd the preacher
Said the same thing not about the parents but What God was going to do but he added this
Killer stipulation he said you can change the hands on the clock but you can’t change the time I
Entered into marriage with a southern girl from outside of Nashville I’m still waiting many
Snows of winter has come and gone they are less numerous than my wife’s tears but factor in
The pain and its even you see to reach others you must feel the blast of many contrary winds
Live a life where you can’t be and give what you promised I guess this belongs in a private
Journal not openly public but I want you to know what and how I write is genuine and the day is
Still coming that from great suffering I will be able to bless and give not hot air but real and true
Help that will heal your spirit

Last night
I lifted my head
to the sky
seemingly
not so far away
like my dog on the porch
listening
to the songs of the frogs
singing up a storm
I asked her, sweet mutt
of mine to interpret
their words
and she looked at me
as if to say
just listen my friend
they sing of the wind
and the pines
the ocean
that great saltwater dish
where we were born
and the coming
of a great tide
and how we should be
more kind
to our Mother
the Earth tomorrow
on her Birthday
they sing instructions
and warnings
of obituaries heard
in a thunderous warming
then she sighed
and closed her eyes
thumping her tail
in time with the chorous
as the moon
raised his great blind eye
up over the forest.

Shiny black spit-shined shoes
on the walk
in the Memorial Gardens
hurt my feet
to look at their stiffness
and his swollen ankles
in them.
His worn and creased pants
too short, belt buckle aligned
dress-right-dress
with the button fold of his shirt.
He wore
an old faded USMC campaign hat
pulled down
almost to his white eyebrows.
Almost comically.
I pitied him
in the way we sometimes do
the old who mumble,
never knowing
just who they are talking to.
I heard Inchon mentioned,
and Chosin a time or two,
and every time he said Puller knew,
yeah, Chesty knew.
I quit taking my lunch
with a book in the Garden
when he stopped coming around
and after I saw his picture
in the obituaries
with a description of how he won
his Silver Star and two Purple Hearts;
wishing now I had listened closer.
More’s the pity
I never spoke to him.

r ~ 6/27/14

Doth thou knoweth what's awakening to thine being as a whole?
Whenever opening up, the second new's section;
Reading all of the obituaries
Seeing all the hundred's of departed soul's.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

soap and water
          dishes
          laundry
          or shower

brick from mortar
boys against girls

urban velvet smog
city vapors clog

this train -- there is a line
        beginners
        quitters

this parking lot -- there is a line
        shoppers
        influencers

open bar pharmacy, bottled water

                  no pity
                  no guarantees

dragon chasers
chin music
        
          lapsed short term memory loss

opening mail for grandmother
                the obituaries
                that ****** fly

a discussion among men
about a woman's voice
           come sit and listen

one last cigarette couple
walking home through the park
               driving alone in the dark
                             on the heels of
                             a reflection
                             of Christ
                             or an hourglass
                             in remission

them or not them
       just arrived
       just married
too many stairs
not enough elevators
worry about it later

them, definitely them
sharing beds
      under the leotard
      under the candlelight

a helping hand
finely manicured fingers
one stationary
        then two in missionary

word upon words need aspirin
            orchestrate
            headache
                            pillow is the threshold
                            tomorrow...soap and water