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James! Read!

Isn't it a shame?

this is the only website that

is not blocked in this nunnery.

 

the stupid ones have overused tumblr

and all of the chat websites so we're

stuck with this.

 

my monster and puppet

(mother & sister) are boiling

with anger because their favour

with their god has let them down.

 

 

the payment was due on

the 26th of this month and

today is the 29th.

 

now the cell phone company has

shut down our service and

I cannot talk to you the way I want to.

 

 

oh, how happy they must be.

 

all I want to do is scream and be angry

but it's not worth it.

all I hope is that you are thinking of me

and missing me on this empty day...

this empty day our words are away...

 

 

and all I want is for you to realise

that I have not pried open my wrists

or hidden any dried-blood stitch

because of you.

 

proudly, I can say I've been clean

for longer than a month.

 

our anniversary is coming up soon.

my love, we look up at the same moon.

I am trying to forget the bad things.

 

clean for a month,

please don't let go.

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MOM

It has been a while since I’ve seen her, which is not surprising to most people because she was dead a dozen minutes before I was born.  I say to most people because she was a pretty common sight to me as I was growing up.  Others couldn’t see her, but I could, and once I learned not to tell any of them, including my dad, and they all stopped calling me crazy, then I became pretty comfortable at mom showing up at times to sort of help me out with her advice.

She showed up dressed in a pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt when I was ten, and I found myself on a narrow train bridge with a hundred ton locomotive with ten dozen trailing cars and a caboose barreling down on me.  I was petrified at the thought of jumping into the cold river thirty feet below, and I was trying to squeeze my chubby little body into a place where it didn’t fit when she kicked me in the butt and sent me over the railing right before the engine occupied the space I was trying to squeeze myself into. 

It was that way a number of times growing up. She would show up when I was attempting something stupid and fix my convoluted thinking by a few well-chosen words or a swift kick in the butt. The butt to well chosen word ratio lessened a little as I got older, so that by the time I hit twenty it was more talking than kicking.

Whenever she showed up she was always dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She never wore the same colored top, and my dad once told me when he was drunk that she loved wearing tight jeans and a loose sweatshirt so that men, including him, would be able to see some of the good parts and wonder about the others. I thought it was a pretty irreverent thing to say to a twelve year old about his dead mother, but he was bawling like a baby at the time, and my mom was stroking his head but he couldn’t feel it, so I just let it pass.

She came to my wedding and sat in an empty seat next to my dad. Dad had tears, and she was smiling, which is sort of the reverse of what you would think, but I was glad she was there even though she left when dad’s significant other showed up at the reception.  I couldn’t blame her, the woman was more of a trollup that anything else, and mom told me when she kissed me goodbye that she wanted someone better for dad.  Dad dropped that less than desirable tart and lived a pretty celibate life as far as I knew after that. Not that I ever asked him about his sex life, but I never saw any signs of anyone else spending time with him in his house when I would visit.

Over the years I saw her fewer and fewer times. She always came to the hospital when each of my four kids was born, and she seemed pretty happy when we named our first daughter after her, but as the years went by she came to see me less and less. I wasn’t sure if my beliefs in the reality of what I could see but others could not were the cause of her disappearance, but by the time I was thirty my seeing and talking to a person who died three decades earlier had stopped.

That is until today.

Jeans and a bright fuchsia sweatshirt: Why I am I not surprised? Somehow I knew she would show up again right before I died.  

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purism.

Awaken rightly this time discard the berth of masthead

And pluck off the woolen and go hollow you

Into the spoken turn


 Into the carbon irretrievable a WORLD felt in the rye

 Find its tangles in outstretching hands to move it

 The speech is in it it is in the controlless


Pulling flowers for the gravitation

 A spoken turn in the give of calyx


Away into ice-shaft and the blue boulder there

 And that struck in the face of youth freewheeling

 Whiles in the ways lost in what has been made a control

 And none in the flowers' thirst


. . .


Languish all ye for him to drink and smash with his cane

Let the waves crash and run across the sand-sadness lad

Take from the brick and green into the hills


 My son he takes to his spectacles and milage for the father

 Go down the stray bay left it out for rocks it in the swamp

 Take the sand from your eye by force to see its flower

 With an index to shade hills in the gorge


 Take yon staff

 Take yon staff or yon cane

Of one himself immensity the child

Cast your stones happily cast them as blessings 

Think of what the water means my son says the father


 Scratch no chin take

To the magnificence yourself

The cast of his staff over the movement

Of a dullard flower

Trail for him


 A marvelous dullard does the WORLD for his cacophony

To reveal this a wondrous bird in the vales moving

The purity of his place in knotted sea-drift

                ,

       ,    ,

  , ,    ,

 , 

,  ,    ,

    ,

,

  ,


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The Old Familiar Places

He ducked through the doorway, gently closed the door and pressed himself against the wall. The house was empty. He waited there and tried to slow his breathing. What sounds had to be made he made as quietly as possible. The drumming in his chest slowed but each beat echoed loudly in his chest. He waited. All was quiet, both in the house and the outside world he just disappeared from. The vehicle was just as silent as it approached. The tyres crunched the gravel underneath and the engine mumbled quietly to itself. Footsteps approached gingerly. He heard a whisper, but couldn't make out what was said. Torchlight shot through the dark, slim slivers making it through the gaps in the blinds. The light moved on. So did the vehicle and footsteps. He let out breath that had been waiting patiently in his lungs. He stepped across the room with a thief's caution. Looking around, the darkness slowly took form and the realisation of where he was dawned on him. He had taken refuge in his childhood home. The wallpaper was failing, there were holes in the floor and someone had relieved the house of it's copper wiring long ago, but it was the home of his younger days. It was strange though. He felt no swelling of nostalgia. He could only recognize it as a building. There was no homely feeling. No childhood memories flooding back. He felt like an atheist in a church, not able to connect with what the house represented. There was no use trying to relive those days. That life was gone. The feelings with it. He made his way to the back door and opened it. It still required a bit of a kick when it caught on the tiles. He pulled it closed and made off into the night, jumping the fence and looking over his shoulder occasionally. They would still be looking for him.

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ABCs of the Coffee Shop in Broadway, Yishun

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the shadow of the spotlight

he always stood in the shadow
of his older brother.
never able to outshine him
because he wasn't as blessed,
athletically, as his sibling.

the elder moved on,
graduating into life,
as life takes us into her grim reality.

the younger saw his chance,
his opportunity,
and he worked hard to put himself
in the best place,
in order to be the one to shine.

concentrating and working
shaping and reshaping
tearing down and building
constantly rebuilding
until everything was right...
...or so he thought.

early on,
it appeared as though
it would be enough,
but he was finally run down
and beaten.

his place in the team...
lost
torn away
taken

not because he didn't work hard enough
not because if politics
not because he doesn't deserve it
but because he just wasn't fast enough

so now he runs with a chip on his shoulder
working that much harder
working that much longer
working that much more
to earn that spot back
and to get that spotlight back on him, again.

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On the Beach

 

 

…blowin’ in the wind

 

On the Beach

 

On the beach, out of reach

     of the vicissitudes of living,

I contemplate the constancy

     of Nature.

 

 

Reflection

 

The countenance of the water

    reflects the attitude of the sky.

Sometimes it can’t help smiling;

     sometimes it has to cry.

 

 

Power in Numbers

 

The billion billion grains of sand,

Insignificant one by one,

Work together magnanimously

To underly my summer fun.

 

 

Beach Walk

 

A walk upon the beach, of course,

Exercises the body and

Increases blood flow to the brain,

But mostly calms the soul in the

Wake of the waves’ refrain.

 

 

Waves

 

Driven by winds of change

     beyond their own control,

they rise up high and mighty

     before they break upon the shore.

 

 

Beach Glass

 

 Nature’s awesome grinding glory

     Renders careless broken dreams

          To softly shining surprise.  

 

 

Fickle Friend

 

The wind is a shifty companion,

     never to be trusted

This morning’s gently cooling breeze

     This afternoon is gusted.

 

 

Dionysian D

 

Over all is the sun,

     source of facts and rumors,

     tans and tumors.

      As he grows large and red and low,

     people on the beach give thanks

     for one more day in Apollo’s golden glow.

 

 

Night

 

Night on the beach extends the reach

Of human beings for both the scope

And the focus of the sky.

The twinkling awe in the panaoply of stars

Fills the mind with one’s part

In the vastness of Nature.

The fire in the sand from driftwood at hand

Releases heat and light from the sun

To facilitate the fun

Of those gathered to celebrate the night.

 

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When I Discovered an Un-blocked Website

today, I am as tired and as

 wilted as a crushed rose.

I have just discovered that ink-stained

 is not blocked at school.

I feel as though something

should go wrong.

lavander hydrangeas fill the

empty holes in my heart.

I've eaten the daffodils,

but to no avail.

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people pick pretty petals
leaving me to linger
while i watch and wait
for sharper eyes
that see duller colors

they dive down
and rip me from the ground
they rend fruit
and claw through my cuticle

they snap my stem
and breathe me broken
they drink the red i drip
sated only at spilled grayscale

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sliver

I do not say this to be cruel...
Will you go or will you stay?
It is sensible to leave, not
to shrug off the weight of desperation
or deny the pull of a distressed person
but to find a quiet place
absent voiced demands
to rest away from pain
close your eyes to pleas
and whispered confessions.
Why would you stay,
why fight endlessly
to draw breath. You
could be unfettered, leave,
why do you stay
and pay with
accumulating pain?
Go,
seriously go.

Empathy is not an usurpation of anothers pain.
If you bleed now too, what purpose does it serve?