What's so good about picking up the pieces?
What if i can’t pick myself up enough to pick up what's remaining?
I can’t forget you.
You were the reason i shattered like glass all over the **** floor.
Your smile crushed my heart.
Your laugh killed me instantly.

I spectated while you played the game with my heart.
I never owned it,
You did and held it in your unwelcoming hands,
Crushing it with all your might.
You left me lying there beaten up crying and breaking.
I collapsed in your arms but you threw me down.

You threw me away,
Almost as easily as someone throwing a piece of trash in the trash can.
Your words struck my already broken heart.
Why i came back i may never know.
I just laid there not knowing how to breathe because i gave you my lungs.
I ached for you.

I ached for the way you smiled at me after you beat me,
Or the way you said you loved me while you were crushing my heart.
You cut off all communication to the ones i loved,
And when i came close to closing the door a new one opened up.
I don’t know how you did it,
But you lowered my chance of survival from this hell called loved.

Did you even love me at all?
Or was it the thought of having something you could control.
Did you think it was that easy to escape the way you treated me.
Or was it the possibility of me loving another soul to much to bare?
Not much i knew,
But i knew you never loved me yet,
I stayed for you.

I called your name,
I called you the way you taught me.
I couldn’t fall asleep without you beating me senseless.
Sadly this is not just physically,
But it was much more than physically.
It was every ******* thing possible.
You were the devil himself.
You left and never came back.
I was afraid of escaping.
I pulled together and push myself through the door.
I was finally hopeful.

I sat next you,
watching you search for God
3,000 miles in limbo
hoping you didn't find
the mumbo jumbo I did
when I really thought about dusty books.

You asked for weather updates.
Please.
So I whispered in your cemented ears,
'cause you can't see a ******* thing
but progressive buildings.
It was as grey as the inside of your eyelids, anyway.

Right when I walked in,
my face went dead pan
with your fresh decision to die.

Anyway,
I sat.
I whispered.
It was fine.

I spectated on our situation.
Your sweating breathes,
my sweating eyes.
We're natural.
We don't matter.
Emotions are natural.
They don't matter.

When the dusted books disintegrate,
and mumbo jumbo weasels from
that little pocket most have cemented shut,
we'll feel much better.
I do feel much better.

Feel freely
fall freely
observe in captivation
stay here, while there.

Purpose
has only brought stress.
Try absurdity.
Try reality.

what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
a fire that started slowly
then grew taller, grew brighter
a beam of light in the darkness that was magic to me.

what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
i felt its warmth and i spectated
i came closer and it suddenly turned into different hues
gentle yellows, angry reds, sullen blues.

what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
it was beautiful, it was bright
it was burning, a star in the night
but then it hurt too much, i could no longer fight.

what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
i came to close to your fire and you scorched my soul
and i knew what i had to do:
i had to put you out for the better.

what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
and i'm sorry i stole your fire, i let you die down
i'm sorry i let you hurt me
and make me feel like i was being burnt alive to a slow and steady death

what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
and now all you are is ghostly smoke
slightly suffocating me still
but fading away while i sit in the darkness

2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?

❖

Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.

❖



Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.

❖




quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---
❖

Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.

❖


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."

metallic morning mouth
like the aliens were seeing
how much metal
this big ole mouth could hold
then taking selfies
#bigmetalmouth
on Pleadian Instagram
smiling Grey’s
giant black eyes
shinning into the Iphone –
when I awoke
my hat was too small
and my denture too big
because they don’t always
put me back right….
or they leave a clone Sam
to mindlessly fill in
just a couple days….
(Which is why I can’t post poetry all the time)
you know,
while my actual body
is paraded
placed in a zoo
and spectated at…
like we do with lesser creatures –
I wonder what they feed me
or, if I maintain stasis
perhaps if I were more diligent
about my caloric intake
I could monitor these trips
based off variations
in blood sugar
and cholesterol levels
video proof
of being force fed
sushi through a tube
pureed rice and fish….
One morning
i woke to refracted light
dancing across my walls and ceiling
with a strip in the sky
to match the rainbow
I sat alone
as a young lad of maybe five
wondering if this was always
going to be a part of my life……
short answer,
yes –

I thought,
There could be nothing more awkward
than two half naked middle-school girls
fighting in the middle of a locker room
the imaginative and ingenious verbal warfare of “*****” and “Perra”
bouncing off the tall cold grey concrete walls of the showers
combined with the energetic and exaggerated use of hand gestures and physical intimidation
could not be ignored
though I tried, even as the others spectated and incited the two opponents
Because mi guela always says Las mujercitas no se meten donde no la quieran
(Little ladies don’t intervene)
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than hiding my face inside a gym locker
With two half-naked middle school girls arguing behind me
Until I heard one of them say “Stop acting like a Mexican”
Mujercita o no I could not remain silent
“What’s that supposed to mean? I asked her, “You know I am Mexican too?”
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than two half naked middle school girls fighting
Until I saw both their eyes appraising me
Then shifting between each other
with their brows raise in agreement they said to me
“Mariza you know you’re white” “An Oreo when it comes down to it”
I didn’t know that the name of my favorite cookie could hurt so much
When said with a strange mixture of disinterest and certainty
And I didn’t even know what it meant
But I knew that it was an evaluation of my Mexicanness of my identity
All the mujercitas slowly poured out of that locker room
Not a one making an objection or even feigning interest in what was said to me
It did not matter that I spoke Spanish
It didn’t matter I grew up able to quote every Maria Silvestre movie line
It didn’t matter how much I idolized Vicente Guerro and Emilio Zapata
It didn’t matter how I saw myself
The mujercitas agreed I was dark on the outside, white on the inside
For years, I tried my hardest to prove I was Mexican
But it seems that the standards changed every year
No one was ever convinced
No one wanted to be associated with me
No one believed that I truly cared about the Mexican community
To this day I am trying
What does it mean to be Mexican?
I’m still trying to figure that out
It must be more than a facha, a look
It must be more than music, celebrations, a shared Language, And an Experience
It must be but
No body has ever told me what it is
Only what it is not
Which is Me
an Oreo
And all that it implies
A pocha, a race-traitor, a sell out
Dark on the outside white on the inside

One fateful day,
I flew far, and far away,
From a spindle, unscrewing the bolt in my nut
Peace, patience, gentleness, generosity had fled
Spindle verged lousy replacement,
Mother flung me into a luminous tomb

Here are the movies!
The thrilling movies of tellurians,
In the tomb I was flung.

On seat, I spectated as a cinephile
Cobra venoms, I watched single file
Nascent awareness, dripping white!

I loathe talebearers!
It seemed they were absent
Behind my shutters, engines roared into a turnpike,
human chirped even under the twilights
The house; rooms and passages seemed placid

One day gone,
My doorstep was furnished with gongs
Talebearers weren't far from us
They were right there, peeping from walls
Bevy of women at my doorstep for conference
Hadn't they mistook preference?

As the days shrinks,
I becomes piqued as engines still brushes...
Rotund, slender and bony women glues buttoms
To my doorstep, chirping, that burns my inside!

Why had mummy flung me into a wrong tomb?
I never asked for where zero quiet loomed
At the yawp of talebearers, books becomes blank
At the rev of engines, ears stuffs with clanks

Could the shoes of intellect be polished
When the aspirational buckle had been damaged?

Being a nerd in Osogbo, requires jungle's lodge
'Why didn't you fling me into its jungle'
‘I hardly assimilate, when I study!'
‘Can't there be any remedy?'...
Gander vitally waddled into water.....
She was about beating me with anodyne brows!

My unoccupied vastness
arched sky high in celestial patterns
Your precise touch feels like golden petals
which excellently reshape my natural hardness
into poetry.
The expected whys and hows in this tale take no place
I’m spectated attentively
smiling truly in pastels
exhibited solid strong and wondrously rich in details
Tall like mahogany
inhabiting moonlit valleys
Chosen to climb and absorb all light.
And my unorthodox nature carved out in monolith
relies wholly on my woodworker
Ruler
Architect
Four-leaved clover
My chase for sunlight my height my rock solidity of heart
all gathered into one
atypical poem.

Netflix and pop ****
Sorry pop corn
Didn't know which way my hand was
Girlfriend's beside you
Somehow she's coming closer
And nagging
Touching brings resonates
Remotely
With frivolous flirtations
Bring you up to speed
Of recaps and replays
Of your trusty TV
Conversation's nice
With a pizza slice
When the important parts
Are featuring Radhika Apte
Aptly the ghouls of the past
And the flower *** that are now glass
The monocles that my father's father had
Keep me spectated about history
Somehow the floral essence of
Music that rings from pianos
Hanging by the door
Of rosewood and mahogany
Mahogany being the piano
And Rosewood door
There was no concept
Of Ebony and Ivory
Keying at the door