~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and ******* simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"

~

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately

entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^  know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******* *******

your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without

"without any best position plan"

not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring

when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity

for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?

this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly

so here is an aligned confession fecundity

this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan

however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud *******,
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming

hallelujah, i'm aligned!

the man found albeit briefly
a  beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned

as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and *******

hallelujah, we are aligned!*

~

disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017

You cut me,
with those sweet ***** dissecting lips.

Shredding every remaining shred of integrity I once believed I had,
you ***** my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

I bleed,
iodine in hopes that it will cleanse me of your disease,

rinsing coarsely through already torn layers of raw and blistered skin.

Alchemy may claim to turn lead to gold.

But what of you;
you are gifted.

Metaphysically fit,
you remain untarnished,

as you **** my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

I have hope for the little black boy and girl.

These Mars to universe-colored,
golden-eyed children of the sun.

Some of them sprout up
out of cracked earth and concrete.

Their root-minded growth being spurred on
by the nourishment of the sewers.

These are tiny black flowers
pushing out their pistils like tongues,
and licking the unsanitized water
like nectar.

They
take everything you throw away.
Watch them make tree houses out of
trash cans, and spaceships
out of discarded cardboard boxes
that smell like beer, and *****
and sweat.

The sprinklers are on
and they slide down a hill
covered by a plastic sheet
the size of a whale's tongue.

Their smiles
open wide like zippers,
and their teeth are coconut flesh.

The milk of their laugh contains enough calcium
to mine happiness
out of overly-injected fructose bones.

When they tug at your pants
and ask you questions,
they just want to know
where the moon came from,
and how to get there.

What type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The kind you would like to hear… or the kind that would make you uncomfortable, uneasy, exposed? I wonder, do you even know what you want? Or are you only pretending, as if the act of asking excuses the fact that you will not truly listen?

Why would I give you my name, my truth, when you are not even interested in knowing it?
To speak it would be like whispering secrets into a void, only to hear them returned twisted, hollow, meaningless. It would be like telling a story you are not ready to hear, or offering an alibi you have no intention of believing.

I see through the pretense in your eyes, the subtle curl of expectation, the hunger for control disguised as curiosity. You lean closer, as if you wish to possess my words, to mold them into something you can understand—but I am not your puzzle. I am not a riddle to be solved, nor a confession to be consumed at your leisure.

Do you hear me? I will not hand you fragments of myself to satisfy your need for dominion. I am entire, and my truths—dark, jagged, untamed—are not for the taking. They are not for your interpretation, your convenience, your shallow curiosity.

Ask if you must. Speak if you must. But know this: the answers I carry are not yours to claim. They are mine. And if you cannot meet them, if you cannot bear them, then step back into the shadows from which you came. For I will not diminish myself to make you comfortable. I will not dress my defiance in tones you can digest. I will not unravel just to feed your illusions of power.

There is a darkness in me, yes, but it is not violent. It is patient. It is patient, and it waits for those who dare to see it fully, who dare to stand unafraid before it. Those who cannot will turn away, shivering in the faint light of their own limitations.

So, I ask again—what type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The answer you want? Or the answer that exists, raw and relentless, untamed by your desires, unsanitized for your comfort? Choose wisely. For the truth does not bend, does not bow, does not apologize. And if you seek it only to satisfy your curiosity, know this: it will not stay. It will slip through your fingers like smoke, leaving only the echo of what you could have understood, had you truly dared.

When she was younger,
my aunt wandered open houses-
asking about appliances, disclosures-
never to buy.

She walked through other lives,
voices echoing in bare hallways,
curry pressed into kitchen walls,
towel shelves labeled for Stuart and Ashley,
a dead wren curled in the attic vent,
angel ornaments nailed to a maple
with a plaque For the lost children.

She despised the staged ones-
rooms polished too clean,
gray carpets that never knew a body,
couches that never sagged
with anger or grief.

She wanted mess,
hair in the corners,
cracked linoleum like dry riverbeds,
a house confessing itself.

I once saw her return,
shoulders tight against weather,
keys like a rattle she never learned to use.
She climbed the stairs to her condo
above the clipped green of the golf course,
set her coffee on the sill,
and sat quiet-
her life ordered,
pared down,
afraid of leaving
any trace behind.

She never spoke of the reservation,
and I never saw it.
Our family folded into the city
like laundry hidden in cupboards,
tamed, pressed smooth.
She prowled those houses
the way I prowl memory,
searching for proof people lived,
uncontained,
unsanitized.

I saw a child
So young
So new
Fresh born
From his mother's
Womb

I was asked
To hold him
I could not

Why spoil
Something
So young
So new
With my
Unsanitized
Mind

My
arduous
Thoughts

No
Let this child
Grow and brew
Uncompromised
By me and
you

I look up to god
When I'm drunk

because

He's a view to
Crane my neck to.-

gets in the way

~

Your fate is to die in the earthworm's stomach;

Deploy detail from your life
and digitize a seance for its-self

alone

only one who knows you
is

. . .

Could you even
defy Hershey's grip,
you sodomite?

Playing @
these sorts of extracurricular fights

It's truly
earthworm's who will deliver you right-

ly a quick and sympathetic death.

~

but f٭٭k it. Roach
Away floods my feet,
and factions divide my liver;
i am hardly
flotsam.

I'm adjectives of wreck,
synonyms of much
deprived floods of
smoke. Such that shuts
me away, away, away.
Fate-funs break my spirit-
and you run,
you run!

How dare you rush like sequin
onto any bare skin surface-
you chocolate, running.
I hate you

I hate you all.

Do not develop emotions,
or ****;

and by all means,
despise yourself.

And,

waste

apart from mind.

Be you in an earthworm's behind.

~

F٭٭٭٭٭g a challenging nothing.
I want you to be something,
anything.

Nun me. I would make
many-***** out of your pieces
of cake.
I hate you.

I hate you all.

You. F٭٭٭٭٭g. Lottery. Punks.

The lines in my face are a perfect sum
of the precise faults of
the earthworm's gut.

~

Your neurotic monks-
you've got me
addicted
to a specific death

My fate is to develop in the earthworm's gut.

/

Maybe I'll experiment with blood

Maybe I'll experiment with bloodK٭٭l me quickly

K٭٭l me quickly

Maybe I'll adhere with burns

Maybe I'll steer me under
under
under
ground

Milk me quickly

I can’t be a suicidal sine
serving a princess-and-the-pea type mind

Maybe I’ll try to be a DeviantArt update,
desperate emotion bemusing in keystroke

I’ll experiment with light

I’ll imperialize her fuse

Fill yr unsanitized fins with

Ifs

and maybe I'll experiment with ***

Maybe I'll rip you from your life

Ifs spit from naked myth

K٭٭l me quickly,

you horrible,

you gorgeous

earthworm spit.