***
I am wrecked.
I am out on the edge all alone.
It takes hours
To reach the next city.
The television fools people
Just like it fooled me.
It made me think
That there could be something real,
But that was just an illusion.
On television people work to be happy.
There’s even a show about the real world,
But in the real world people are slaves.
Work owns them.
I ran screaming into the street.
I wanted a million dollars
So I could live like a television illusion.
A little sleep
Under forced sedation
Got things back in perspective for me.
Now I cower in my kennel
The way a dog should.
If I feel the touch of insanity
That makes me think I could be someone,
Then I choke it back.
If I don’t
The force of economic order
Will demonstrate dominance over me again.
I fear that enough
To keep my mouth shut.
I would rather drink myself into liver failure,
Complete with inability to digest, fevers and sweats,
Than stay awake long enough
To again hallucinate that I am free.
Life looks so good on a video screen, but
Life hurts.
 

***************************************
 

All that I came in with:
My sweet, naked ass.
I want to have nothing.
Before the end
I hope I can throw it all away,
Trade,
Trade it all
For a pile of sand at the water’s edge
Waiting for the tide.
I want,
But I am just a slave.
Please
Don’t let me out.
If only I could touch,
“Touch a flickering flame”,
So give the man a razor blade.

The want,
Of freedom
Of cowardly flight
Drives me to eye the door.
If only I could
Release my wretched spore,
Then
Surely I would be well.
All would be good.
Everything forgotten.
This cage
Will never speak.
All of that means nothing
Because all I can do is wait.
I have too much.
I don’t want any of it.
If only
A cold cruel bitch
Or a spiteful, envious friend
Would come to take it from my bound hands.
This is where I stand
On display,
Bruises for wrists and ankles.
If only
I could hurt myself
As deeply as I feel I need to be hurt.
If only
I could set myself on fire,
But I am just a coward,
A coward seeking freedom and flight.
My challenge turns the stomach
Of even those who think they are strong,
But still I must ask.
Hurt me
The way I need to be hurt,
Real bad,
Deep down,
Inside.
I will never respect you
If you can not do
This thing for me.
When there is nothing left but ashes
I will thank you
From the bottom of the dirt.
Scattered on the wind
I have
Just what I always wanted,
Nothing.
If only I could have hurt
Longer
Before death
I would have been even more grateful.
Don’t let me out,
Don’t kill me.
Hurt me as much as you can.
I don’t want to be able to escape.
Escape is for cowards,
And I want to be strong for you.
Take everything.
Leave me only a memory.
Is this too much to ask?
Do you not think you can do this for me?
Where are you going?
Does the truth hurt?
Do you know anyone
who likes the taste of tainted blood?
If you ask in a demanding tone
even in a nice tone
I will cut myself for you
and write you letters in blood
about how much I worship you.
don’t go away
you are all that I have
when you leave
that really hurts
just stay
and I promise I won’t beg you
to cut me
or burn me
or pierce me
or even touch me
in any way
all I really want
is someone
who understands
who sees the cage
who sees what I have
and why I want none of it
stay
we’ll talk about pain later
when you feel you’re ready.
 

***************************************
 

I find it difficult
To wring the truth
From my dry tongue.
You tell me the answers.
You tell me you are right there
In front of me,
But I can not see.
My eyes swell,
Bruised by the light.
The dust in the air
Forms cones where
I failed to block out the sun.
The discord on the floor,
Illuminated in patches,
Reminds me
I was trying to crawl to a corner,
To shake in peace.
I seek comfort
In my personal hell,
And the concrete
Seems to understand.
I feel we share something,
The concrete floor and I.
We are both so cold,
So unforgiving.
The humor reaches me
There,
Not far from my own stench,
Not far from
The place where I removed my guts
And spread them out
For everyone to see.
Funny
I can not even remember
What it is I am not forgiving,
Only that it is not forgiven.
When you come by
You tell me
That once I had all the answers
And now there is only filth,
Putridity.
I think I can remember
Why I don’t want to remember
Anything.
You,
Oh,
The avenging angel
Sent to purge the fallen from the ranks,
You
The voice of God’s purity,
The messenger from
The dream
Of decency
That spiraled out of ancient masculine hegemony,
A wet dream
Of masculine control,
A dream of
A religion fit to rule,
Fit to put the women on their knees
Where they can properly worship
With hands clasped.
I am done with
Your dream.
I can only guess
The look of horror on your face,
The revulsion in your words,
The contempt
Must spring from hatred,
And so I am happy
Because I
A mere mortal
Have earned the hatred of God’s pristine messenger,
Because I have taken the step
That leads to total condemnation.
On my knees
Slave to sensory pleasure
I want only more.
A single wish by the damned
Would be wasted.
I would wish only for a stronger body
So that I could torture it longer,
Fool my mind into thinking
That I have what I always wanted,
Only to laugh when
The warm glow vanishes.
It leaves me here.
So I know
Why you have come,
Arbiter from society’s cruel clutches,
You have come to mock me.
What I have left
Feels only pain at the sight of you,
So perfect,
Once so beloved.
When I look at you I can see only myself
Trapped in a pool of excretions.
If only the shakes would stop
I could speak
I could try to change
The evil things I think,
But it is too late.
You are leaving.
Outside the wind blows,
But the windows are closed
And here there is only
The smell of my skin
Scaling onto the ground.
If only I could turn back.
I realize the only way to move,
The only way to stop the shakes
Is to do it one more time.
As I reach for the syringe,
For what precious little I have left,
I think only of spitting
In my executioners face
When I see him again.
Beyond comprehension
The needle finds the vein,
And I plunge the fluid home.
It’s all gone now,
Everything.
The image of the room
Crashes to the floor
And shatters.
The memory
Of what I could have had
Lingers in the air before me a moment
Before it falls to the floor
And shatters as well.
I crawl through the slivers of my life
Heaving,
Blood on my festering lips.
In the farthest corner
The creature I became
Comes to rest
And moves no more.
I know not what happens next
For I have gone.
I have been painted into a picture
For a grim and gory fairy tale
To nurture the offspring
That will choke the world
In the time when the rivers run black.
 

***************************************

I have been in the cage so long
I have become catty about it.
I’ve been in my cage longer.
My cage is smaller.
I eat less.
I am allowed fewer trips to the bathroom.
You wish
You could be as much a slave
As I am.
I bring my owner frustration
And so I am punished.
I stay in here
Without water,
My mouth taped at all times.
Do you think you know
All about taboo
Sweet?
Perhaps,
But I have learned to retain,
And so taboo has become my life.
That which I am given
Becomes mine to cherish.
I live for a pat on the head,
A pinch
On my naked
Commodity
Ass.
That is what it’s all about.
Don’t talk to me
About the treadmill.
I will claw your fucking eyes out
If you try to tell me about
The treadmill.
That’s why my owner keeps me in here.
Because I am dangerous.
I would just as soon
Eat you alive
As cook you
After you’re dead,
And don’t you look tasty dear.
I like generous portions of semen
To flavor my fresh meat,
Mine, of course
(killing always makes me come).
Come closer.
Let me taste your finger.
Don’t worry.
I’ll only bite you if you let me.
When we are alone
I beg my owner
To let me out,
To let me have my way
With the first weak victim
I come upon.
It must not be proper
Because
I am still locked up in here.
The longer
I stay here
Without being able to talk or move
The more I want to feed
On the wealthy and pretentious.
What am I?
I am only an animal.
I have discovered
The muck from whence our dying race came.
Down here it’s all about power.
My owner tells me the cage
Is for my own good.
My owner tells me the police have guns,
And that if I am free to do what I please
They will kill me.
Oh, no.
My owner is just teasing me.
I want the police to hurt me,
To show me my proper place,
To drag me from their car
Until I don’t have any skin left.
What else could they do,
Put me in a cage?
What a laugh.
And have some big black man fuck me?
Only if he always has his big black convict friends
To hold me down,
Otherwise
I will bite off his big black cock
After I tell him how good I can suck it.
Then I will spit it in his face.
What can he do,
Beat me to death?
He won’t be able to fuck me to death after that
That’s for sure.
Motherfuckers.
Bring on the police.
I am ready for the pain they can bring
As much as I am ready
To get out of this cage
And tear out the throat of anyone
Even my “beloved” owner.
My owner tells me
It’s all about power.
If “my owner”
Ever wants me to smell good again
I will have to be taken out of this cage.
I don’t think even the usual cattle prod
Will stop me this time.
Up my owner’s ass
Is where I am going out.
Hey owner,
I just shit on myself,
Don’t you want to take me out
And bathe me?
One way or another.
Either you take me out
And get torn apart fair and square
Or this entire wing of your “dungeon”
Smells like diarrhea
From now on.
Come on cute, sweet little owner
 With the ineffectual little whip
Take me out for a bath.
Here you come.
It’s pay-back time
Morsel.
Let me tell you about the jungle I discovered
When you left me in sensory deprivation.
Does that hurt?
Good.
It’s supposed to.
 
 
 
 
 

***************************************
 

I heard all of what you had to say
But I am still alive
So you wait, coward,
Until I am sober to kill me.
Some accomplishment
Virgin
You ain’t shit
Check out the dictionary
The more undereducated
Fought you ‘til the end
Dumb fuck
We in there
Cock
Sucker
See
You
In
Hell.
Mother
Fucker.
 

***************************************
 

It was never meant to be told
never meant to be heard
by another living soul
but there it was
right in front of me
spoken out loud
by someone I had not told

where do you get off?
Do you need some help with the door?

Were it a perfect world
one morning you would not quite awake
before having one final moment of fear
as a knife cuts the large vein in your neck

My associates and I
want things to remain quiet,
don’t want any attention for our group,
just think about that truth
while you plan for your family’s future;
how old are your children
anyway?
Wouldn’t it be
such a shame
if something were to happen
to anyone in your family?

I don’t want to hear
These things that were never meant to be told
Get back to me from someone else’s ears
Who heard it in a bar.

You just think about it
Guy
And get back to me
With your apology.
 

***************************************
 

Killing Children

I don’t know how to begin.
The desire to make sense fell by the wayside
When I lost my mind.
If you can read this
Then you are too close
To the demons inside me.
If only I could find some way
To quell this thirst
For the blood of innocent victims.
Maybe a few years in therapy
Could work out the anger,
They said.
A few years have gone by
And more than anything I feel the urge
To strangle all that is good and pure.
If anything
They made my anger worse,
Much worse.
I wonder what the doctors would think
About their honorable profession
If they could see me now,
Squatting in the blood,
Defecating on the corpse
Of someone who might as well be
Jesus Christ.
Absolve me of my signs
Oh savior.
Save me!
Save me lover,
Fuck me Jesus,
Suck my dick.
I am all that is vile.
If he were there
He, the son of god,
Would no doubt be able to see
Nothing will wash,
Nothing will wash.
I wonder how long it will take
Before those righteous men
Piece things together,
Figure out it’s me.
I can’t believe they don’t already know.
I can’t believe they weren’t here
To stop me from doing this.
If I were a real man
I would never let them take me alive.
I’m not.
I am a weak creature
Who kills only to feel important,
Only because I’ve never had any power.
When they come to take me away
I will be like putty in their hands.
I love strong men.
I want them to put me away.
The only time I feel fulfilled
Is after I have killed a few children
Or when I am in prison
Waiting to be traded for favors and goods.
I thank heaven for the system that created me
Tinkered with my internal workings
So that I could be the creature
Before you now.
Thank you America
For my life
For this pleasure
For this blood.
I love the taste of it in my mouth.
I cover myself in it.
Then I go home and wait for the police.
When they do not come I finally get cleaned up
So I can go out and do it again.
I am sure when they come and get me
I will not be given any more
Psychiatric assistance.
Thank you America
For making me possible.
Are there any more brain drugs
You’d like me to take now?
And most of all,
Thank you my doctors,
Thank all of you.
 

***************************************
 

I drove to Baton Rouge every weekend to party with my second fiance.  I sacrificed every other scholarship offer I got to go to NSU, and then I dropped out when I found out Erin (that was her name) thought since I had gone off to college we had broken up.  She forgot to tell me.   My heart broken, I moved in with my best friend from high school.  He had full tuition to UNO, and a nice private dorm with meals.  I lived in the extra bed for four months, and ate his food.
New Orleans.  Ahh, yes.  The town where I made many more bad decisions, but just a few in the long series of tragedies I call my life.  I have no one to blame but myself.  I have spent the past few years counseling all the young people I come into contact with not to do the things I have done.  I usually describe the consequences in enough graphic detail to actually make an impact on them.  Lots of kids think that smoking a little herb won't hurt them, and it won't, or at least not enough for them to notice.  The real pain comes when their judgment has been altered and they take the next step up.  By then it is too late to turn back.  So it was in New Orleans where my close friend and I took that step together, ruining his college career so it would match mine.  I thought I was having fun at the time.
When my maternal grandparents died they left their house on Stanford Avenue empty.  Freshly evicted from the UNO dorm (we painted murals and mantras over the walls, the ceiling and the floor, to the tune of $6,000 in damage) we moved into my empty grand-parents house.  There we abandoned the idea of college.  My house became very popular with people who hadn't quit college yet.  We were the life of the party with a five bedroom, three story house full of old ceramics, but no furniture.  After a few months we got evicted.  My Uncle found out ten people had quit school and moved in, and physically attacked me.  I almost shot him.  Things were beginning to look not-so-fun.  The party house moved to a rented house.  Then, when confronted with having to pay for lodging, most of our friends evaporated.
Mardi Gras that year (it was 1989) I went to New Orleans.  I had been saving a bottle of real PG I found in my grandparents house to drink for fun.  My first fiance and I were still close friends the entire time I was engaged to Erin May (which Erin hated).  We were still friends that Mardi Gras.  Her name was Amye Hollensworth.  Her father, a prominent obstetrician, let us stay in their apartment in the Pontalba.  It was beautiful.  I stayed awake for six days, and then I really wanted to go to sleep.  The beautiful apartment in the Pontalba was full of people though.  I had just drank the entire bottle of PG, but I had no place to sleep.  I decided to drive back to Baton Rouge.  In St. James parish I got pulled over for looking suspicious.  I refused to communicate with the police.  They could tell I wasn't drunk.  They took me to the police station to call my mother to come pick me up.  They left me at the phone in the lobby.  I decided to escape.  I ran out the front door of the police station.  There was a cow pasture across the parking lot.  I tried to jump through the barbed wire fence.  I managed to leave twin scars up the inside of my left thigh from my knee to my groin.  I wasn't thinking too clearly so I continued running (I couldn't feel the pain).
I made it about a quarter mile before the police cars came down the gravel road to catch me.  When they surrounded me they told me to lay down on the ground.  I wouldn't.  Instead I attacked the detective.  It took five of them to wrestle me to the ground.  I must have hit the man pretty hard because the next thing I knew he was beating me with a broom handle, yes, a real old fashioned heavy broom handle.  I kept trying to get up until I couldn't move.  I even felt the pain.
They did not arrest me.  They called my mom to come pick me up.  I bled all over the police car.  I bled all over the floor of the station.  I bled on the walls and the bunk.  They did not call an ambulance.  They did not drug test me to find out what was wrong with me.  They just left me there with two eight inch gaping wounds from the barbed wire that I still have large scars from.  I couldn't walk for three days.  The detective had beat my legs.  They swelled deep blue and purple.  Neither of my legs looked human.  My mother and step-father saw this, but I did not show my father because I think he would have killed the man.  I did not sue because I knew that I had hit the policeman first, and I was strung out.  That was three days before Fat Tuesday, 1989.
I disbanded the party house as soon as I could walk.  My father didn't know what had happened, but he knew I had been having problems.  I had left my mom's house when I was fifteen to live on the street, and four years later I needed my father's help very much.  I finished high school while I lived on Chimes Street, but I wasn't enough of a man to stand up to drugs (no one is).  My father took me in and let me live in the apartment behind his house.  I kept all my belongings there even when I moved out of town on three separate occasions.  He was the best influence I ever experienced in my life.  He was everything to me.  He helped me drag myself from the bottomless pit of drug abuse and depression.  John  had many faults, but he was a fantastic father to me.  He showed me such kindness.  I will love him with all my heart for as long as my consciousness exists.  I finished college because of him.  Years later I told him about what happened in 1989.  He really never knew.  He never knew how much help I needed, or how much he gave me.
 

***************************************
 

Should my hatred be described
The way a scientist
Would describe a new species,
Or in the way a junky
Would describe a dead whore
He steps over in the stairwell
Of his connection’s building?
Her eyes are glassed over,
Her lips are blue.
He wonders,
From whence came the slime
That drips from her face to the floor,
From her mouth
Or from the trick that killed her?
Either way
Lucky for everyone
The temperature never rises
Above freezing in the winter.
It is the same way
With my hatred.
I know it sounds trite
But we are old friends.
We go to bed together,
And think nothing of it.
I am not like the whore.
When Hatred comes on my face
I always make a point of wiping it off
Before Hatred kills me.
I wonder where she grew up,
Poor frozen, dead whore.
She wasn’t dressed up very nice
When she made it to the ice.
She must not have had too much,
Not too much to wear.
If she had been mine
To have and to hold
She would have had even less,
But she would have died clean.
I decide
That I can not leave her there,
No matter the sickness
Welling up.
The dizziness swells,
It tries to carry me to the floor,
And I go with it
Involuntarily.
On second thought
The dead whore can wait.
“My” hatred
Festers inside
Like a cut on diabetic feet.
Black skin bursts,
It never heals.
The ache, I am told,
Has been nothing compared
To what it will become.
I hate every second as I make it up to the door
On the second floor
And purchase a new lease on life.
When “my conn” slams the peep hole closed
I slide down,
Needle and spoon already in hand.
Before another minute transpires
I make myself momentarily well
For the task at hand.
I swim down the stairs to my whore
My beautiful
Frozen, dead whore.
I take the scarf from around her neck
And wipe off her face.
It did come from her mouth,
I discover.
She must have gone upstairs
One last time.
I straighten her out.
I cross her arms on her chest.
I close her eyes
And place pennies on them
Before I go outside to vomit.
It never felt so good.
I notice
The same stuff on my face,
It must be Hatred’s come on my face.
Aroused by my happy condition
It has decided to remind me
That the dead woman may not even have been a whore,
But just another fool like me,
That everything I tell myself is I lie.
I will die no cleaner than she.
If she had been mine
She wouldn’t even have had
The dignity of dying alone
The way she did.
I crawl down the alley
Through the snow.
I hope I die before I come down.
Deep down I know it’s no use.
If there were hope I’d already be gone.
I wonder
At how fast my hatred has returned.
All that’s left is too make the sickness deep.
With that in mind
I eat some snow from the pavement.
When I start to feel the cold
I move to a pile of garbage
And sleep.
I dream of my beautiful frozen woman
And the life we could have had
If we had grown up rich,
In Vermont, or Aspen
Or wherever.
My hatred is like a new species.
It turns me against myself.
It dangles me from strings.
What happened to the part of me
That was healthy,
The part of me
That thought love could be?
 
 
 

***************************************
 

The grass grows.
Languid sun encloses the earth,
Returned from its trip to the far south.
The air thickens.
What creature does not quake,
Does not fear the approach of that great
Entity?
When the sun stares down
Fevered daydreams roil in my brain.
The being remembers everything
It has ever seen,
And many things humanity
Just wouldn’t understand.
We greet each other
But we both know there is only nothing,
Only the heat.
The sun feels no surprise
At the actions of any creature,
Crazed by the grip of the clime.
Across the field the insects float on the moisture,
Inches above the ground.
Even when you are alone
You are never alone.
The warmth holds great power.
Growth contorts the landscape.
What creature does not feel the agony?
Humans only have to grow inward.
Plants forever reach out,
Further.
The plants also
Know what crosses the minds of people
Just before the summer.
Murder and the scent of insanity
Come out from the cold,
Dark corners to plague those
That go about by day.
The weak become slaves to the power
Madness gives them.
There is no place to hide from the feeling,
The cloying heat reaches behind all closed doors.
The only thing to do:
Relax,
Take the sunburn like a man.
 

***************************************
 

The heavens await your vengeful gaze.
Jesus and his father
Want to be raped
By someone as strong
And wise as yourself.
They have waited a long time
To be tamed
To have their religion tamed.
It should be of little consequence.
There will be time to toy with
Creation later.
It,
The earth,
Is ultimately secondary in importance.
After the usurper presides
Then the earth
Will be made to weep.

The woman was at the party.
She was all want.
Flesh quivered under the gaze.
What would she not do
To get that which she so craves.
Her eyes tell me everything.
Even such quiet confession
Increases the pleasure
With anticipation.
Of course her body movements
Spoke much louder.
The restless crossing
And uncrossing of her legs
Punctuated by an occasional stomp
To draw attention.
You try to tell her
That she shouldn’t play with fire.

She doesn’t know
About the war being waged
In the hearts of real men,
Or else she would both long
And fear
Becoming the spoils of war.
She just likes what she
Can see, hear, smell
Taste
And feel.
 

***************************************
 

What could it be that you want to hear,
Meaningless apologies,
Insane optimism,
More lunatic raving?
Rather
Sit silent for awhile
Stare at the age as it settles over me
Hurt
My face turns red
Five hundred years ago
The average man
Spent his entire life
In a ten mile radius
1999…coming soon
Here’s a man
No better than a serf
still in the ten mile radius
this
kills me
so fuck it
I’m not sorry
what do you have for me?
I’ll see you under
the layers of shit when
we get to hell
mother fucker
that’s when you’ll know
just how I feel for you
just what I think
Would you like to hear what I think?
Slave to your own stupidity
you can see no better than I
this life is a stupid joke
we are played
entertain
for the higher
suffer and entertain
so funny
when we hurt ourselves
so funny when
we slit our wrists and drink the blood
what could be better
for a Sunday afternoon?
Always
so pleasant
to find you here
we all come here
for the same reason
the outside doesn’t look too good
some of us
escape
call on the worst
we have to offer
armor for the psychic
war,
the guise too realized
too late to hide
the awake can see
I wonder when it will hit me
the knowledge
I have died.
Will I want to wake up?
No
I don’t think so.
I wouldn’t trade
My dreams for a world of pain.
I have the utmost
disrespect for you.
You linger here
Instead of looking ahead
to the truth that overtakes all of us.
When the time comes
to tell the truth
I will shit in my pants.
My dreams are more convoluted
Than the real thing.
In there
Life doesn’t seem like a joke,
Life seems very serious.
Mistakes
Wrack me forever.
My true being
Writhes over hot coals
When exhaustion overtakes me
And I drift off.
The origin of the nightmare:
Personal weakness,
Coincidence,
Fear.
And then reality
only a joke because it’s the biggest scare of all
you are here
nose to the ass of the big fat dollar
we’ll wake up
and laugh
because you are
a funny,
stupid mother fucker.
Just like me
I hope you know
how much the old gods enjoy your ignorance
water boy
it’s their cold amusement
that makes our faces red
as we understand from time to time
what goes on
(nod ov thee hed)
the slime at the top
have turned green
from the fumes they have inhaled
while worshipping at the posterior
they are dangerous
and not to be underestimated
the semblance of the snake
easily seen in their eyes
dog eats dog
man ruins man
I just can’t stop laughing.
 

***************************************
 

What the fuck do you want me to say?
I hate them all,
And here I am,
Full of it all for the next shift,
Just another joke
For the people who can take it.
I can’t take it,
Tiny,
Can you hear me?
I didn’t mean to call you
Fat and stinky,
You fat motherfucker,
you stink like shit.
Dumb ass.
You deserve what MTV gave you.
 
 
 

***************************************
 

You want to be fucking gone
welcome to the club, sweet
problems, problems, problems
what’s that noise?
Too far gone
as long as you have practiced
I have heard what you had to say
because I can not find my own way
tell me
how long
I need to be satisfied
how
have we been together?
What a failure
dick limp as a rotten banana

this story is all about Brendan
and the trouble
we could have made together.
Sick
think about it

I think about it all the time
you tell them you have returned
from the hunt
you keep missing
expected results in me
much too soon

am now ready
to drift away
 

***************************************
 

To All The Girls Looking For A Lover

What could I say to put you at ease?
What would resemble the sincere flattery you are so used to?
Compliments, suggestive remarks?
Maybe instead you should hear the truth
About how your friendship is useless,
Most men only want you for sex,
And that is all you want from them.
The friends you call sweet
Snoop around for discord,
They wish they could snoot all the time.
They sound so educated
When their guffaws of enjoyment
Echo through the house
They think becomes theirs upon their entrance.
Unless you can promise
That you will change your attitude,
Give me all the things you wish you had,
Get rid of your stinking friends,
Or at least the useless pretty males,
And stop judging every moment as if you think
That every moment will be read
Over and over again by God in eternity,
After you have done all those things,
And above all else have learned how to make me happy,
Then you might be able to be free,
To be happy, to love.
Until then you can count me as a critic.
Do not ask for support
Though possibly friendship would be all right.
Donations are always accepted at this end though.
Do not expect servants
Unless you and your friends intend to be them.
The objections you spout about my admiration
For all your little girlfriends
Will have to be kept silent while they service me.
Do not pout your lips so
When I tell you I can not love you
Because it would hurt us both more
Than our mutual comforts could make up form,
And because your gender as a whole is spoiled,
Self centered and overly idealistic
To realize that all of the things we crave
Usually become detrimental to us in the long run.
Do not be upset, little detriment,
Our relationship could be a lot of fun.
I could enjoy twisting your heart around my finger
While you beg me to consummate the friendship,
Or carry out nuptials,
Whatever you might call the diseased ceremonies
Conjured by a sick society that thrives on binding free people
To each other just because
They have come to know each other inside and out.
There should be no penalty for that.
Life stretches out too long later.
Now is a time that should be enjoyed,
And I do intend to enjoy it,
Sweety.
 

***************************************
 

Funny
The way intense emotion fades
Out of too personal to relate
Back into mediocre drudgery,
But that is just the way it is.
Never become attached to the good people,
Always treat them as if they won’t make it;
That’s the best policy,
They are already gone.
They do not even know that by choosing to be good people
They have relegated their spirits
To the group that God always takes away first.
Never care about the nice ladies,
The elderly who become more like children
Than when they were children
(they only wanted to grow up then).
When old age comes
Everyone wants to be as pure as children,
And many old people are.
Try to never care at all.
Children would wonder at the harsh and callous attitude,
But the elderly know about the end,
How it comes to everyone,
The well loved first.
I am callous but yet
I still can not bring myself to hate,
It would be too acidic.
The hole in my stomach already gnaws away;
It grows larger.
My stomach thinks I would enjoy a larger hole more,
And I don’t really need to digest food.

Wrinkles take away the hardened look of maturity.
There is no need to be taut near the end,
But there are old people who remain tense.
They hold onto that which they once had,
Though it is gone they remain formal with those who don’t know,
Angry with those people who just want to help.
Those old people are good people too.
They are the one who least want the hassle of being helped.
They become hardened beyond any control they have.
Work’s sour reward is the ability to remain aloof
Until no one can remember why you became so upset to start with,
Until only a few people could ever understand
That anger is something that everyone deserves
To keep inside their heart forever,
Or else, for many, there would be no identity.
The people who help the angry
Often dislike them intensely.
Even if no one gives a damn
When death approaches the angered need not fear.
The people who understand would help for nothing
If they could survive working for free,
And the anger of the old folks makes things difficult enough
To warrant a much higher salary than they receive.
So the angry little old folks have nothing to worry about.
Through anger they have gained respect
That lasts after life is finished
Down into the grave.
So you see,
It is better not to care,
It is better not to know or understand.
It is better to forget.
 

***************************************
 

The corrupting agent in authority
From out of nowhere causes strange desires to regulate,
To have other people do your bidding.
Some things do not need to be regulated.
Seldom is the bid for control of a person’s time
Undertaken for any good reason.
The corrupting agent in authority
Dictates that the minute details
Should be described as if they mean more than they really do.
People without petty authority
Must heed every spoken word, must recognize
The power of someone granted dominion of a sort,
Must recognize the sovereignty of the small kings
Of the realm of the rubber stamp,
The office boys who have grown up
And now strain to act like men.
To do this they make someone else have a bad day,
Take away some of their personal freedom.
The grown office boys
Turn red inside repeatedly
Because people call their authority into question.
The corrupting agent in authority
Won’t let them learn from their mistakes,
Prevents realization that they pick on equals,
People who desire nothing more than to be left alone,
To not be disturbed.
After all, the jobs that underlings do
Would have to be done by the pompous asses if
All the helpers split and they couldn’t find anyone else.
Something keeps the petty powers from understanding,
From waking up, they are in a dream.
Everyone in the dream must address them as
“Oh, Most Exalted Leader,
Ruler of all the sand beneath our feet,
Ruler of the starry skies that contain your heavenly soul,
Oh, May all your wives bear many children,
And may they bear you many grandchildren,
One day you will be a nation great leader,
Shall I type this memo, great one?
May I lavish affection on your boots again,
Oh Bountiful Superior?
Is this not what you want?
Never in your intentions?
The power corrupted are living in a dream.
They think they can conquer Europe this week, like wise Adolph.
They have no idea that their commands
Belch forth from filthy, ugly troll personalities
Devoid of any aesthetic qualities.
Their disgusting psyche revolves around
A gruesome desire for minute pettiness
To be enhanced, enlarged, carried out,
To burden those around with burdens created
Just for the sake of burdening.
Your tomb, oh glamorous decorated toad,
Will bear the truth about your sorry disease,
No matter if you one day wake up from the egotistical fever
Which you so craved and allowed yourself to fall into
Even when you were nothing at all, not that long ago,
You aren’t just a toad, you are Toad Supervisor.
Hail the great Toad Supervisor!
Hail!
Hail!
 

***************************************
 

Before the dawn rests
A time of empty thoughts.
The sunlight brings activity
But now there is only the praise of God
Reserved for such still moments.
When did all this begin?
The origin holds the answer
To all questions about the end.
The great beginning,
Missed by every generation since
Must have been spectacular like the rising sun,
The hope of every traveler.
It is a far voyage from the end of one day to the next.
Before sight vanishes one takes the longest steps.
Intents focus on reaching safety,
Quickly, before darkness comes.
Some people love darkness,
A close friend to the astral plane.
Early morning clouds often streak the sky
With daintier colors than man could ever hope to copy.
The clouds are blown in by the wind,
Herald of the fiery chariot,
An old god too beautiful for Yahweh to destroy,
The sun is just too nice to do away with.
Though God is jealous
He also recognizes true value.
The only reward of the night voyage
Must be the light at the end of the long wait,
The breeze across a lake in the sunshine
After many hours spent awake,
The sensation of being among the minority
Who worship just as well after midnight
With eyes open and mouths shut, alone.
The guidance of the pastors putrifies the beauty
Inherent in reading the untouched Christian philosophy.
The interpretation of the material to justify selfish ends
Is a sick trend meant to indoctrinate weak minds.
The prejudices, the biases,
Evil misconceptions, cancerous faults,
Escape from the preacher’s mind through his mouth
And slither around the room into the open
Ears and minds of his audience.
In them he instills his own poor judgment.
One mammoth goes over the cliff
And the rest follow.
He speaks of trust and faith
Until his head bursts on the rocks below.
He preached to his easily led flock:
     Abortion is murder.
     Niggers are animals.
     Jews are evil and unclean.
     Drugs cause all crime.
     Sex before marriage is sinful and vile.
     Obedience to your husband is the path to holiness.
     All other religions are damned.
     Muslims and Buddhists are terrorists and murderers.
     Foreigners are stealing all our jobs.
The list of detestable preconceived trash never ends.
When the holy words come these words will be treated
As blasphemy deserving of the harshest punishment
And this author will become a fugitive.
I will be described as a scum dog God wants killed.
They know because God told the preacher directly
To hunt down and kill everyone like me
Because we let the babies die,
We love niggers,
We have corrupted women into thinking willfully.
He preaches:
     Kill the abortionists!
     Kill the drug addicts!
     Kill the niggers and burn their churches,
     They’re only animal churches!
     Take the rod to your wife and make her obey!
     Kill the Satanic Jew cultists!
     Kill for God!
     Purify his perfect creation for the true race!
     Good people fight this war!
     Good white people!
The future:
His flock gives their amens,
“We have faith!
We believe!
We understand!
We will hate for God!
We will strike for God without hesitation!
We will kill as God has ordained!”
 

***************************************
 

Power Struggle
Who will get to eat the largest piece of cake?
The director claims that someone must be cut.
In the argument over quality mention perhaps
Something about mistakes made,
Toes that got stepped on.
The director threatens major repercussions.
Your choice:
Adhere to the incentive plan
Or cease all company related activities.
The threat comes across frivolously;
The human mind never stops creating.
After the company regulated daily interplay
And the works of business
Jurisdiction evolves into a touchy matter.
Disbelief rises from the claim that further research
Will result in fines imprisonment or death.
Security steps in.
The director claims the negotiations are over.
The party to the cut didn’t like the sound of that.
He threw a chair through the window.
It was an expensive designer chair.
They were expensive yuppie windows.
Security beat the man to a pulp.
They claimed he was under the influence of narcotics.
The truth:
Too much work, coffee on an empty stomach,
And not enough sleep.
Jurisdiction over the corporate computer –
No one was supposed to know about the work.
The kitchen became the laboratory.
Everyday motions took on sinister tones.
The mixing, the stirring,
Downtown chemistry never intended for such purposes.
The children who got it never had a chance.
The company had planned to use the agent,
Separated from so many other active compounds,
In its fight to control consumers
Who had lost several court battles for their rights recently
And would probably remain defiant without any rights
Until properly subjugated and shelved for future tests.
 

***************************************
 

The Era Often Strikes

Incest uncovered in violent political unrest:
A narration of political history brings innovation
To ideas of self and self expression,
An articulate image of justice,
A dream in the sense of social mobility and rule by law,
A nightmare where members of the “open ended” oligarchy
Spasmodically growl and roam for meat.
Law exists to control the lower ranks.
Despite the open opportunities
The stench still fills the nostrils
And poverty does not appear to break.
The ivory towers refuse to descend.
Mutual obligations submit to interruption
Until the eruption of riots in a carnival of violence.
Reciprocity should know better than to shut down.
The folk flourish in social unrest
So accutely urban philosophy may not escape it.
Intellectual prose vernacular
Grows to represent youth and revolution.
Greatness weeps shackled to defiance.
Enemies thrive on attention.
Clashes with the norm raise eyebrows.
Civil war for liberty and freedom
Becomes a conservative notion.
Despite the passage of time
Just ignore the opposition.

This flood of emotions breeds hybrid versions of disappointment
For my readers who can not follow
It’s all about the big street party,
The crunch, the gig, the rumble,
A wave of protest dedicated to values
That will finalize the crumbling of the rotten foundation
Or fail and watch it crumble soon enough anyway.

Conflict between rebellion and orthodox conservation
Strains religious stability
Eternally necessary to separate the self liberated
Individual with a clean conscience
From the fool who pretends to revolt
The same way fools in a play hide in dissenting thoughts.
The king knows too little.

The creation of danger through deep education
Plays at the open weaknesses of society
In any debate over sacrifices for education
The lower class only appears to contained
When they are confined to illiteracy’s ranks.

Dissent cuts slivery scars
In the soul of the pure idealist.
It is a must to do combat finite vocabulary.
Feelings akin to limited accomplishment
Claw out of natural self without innovation.

On a balance at the pinnacle of the modern
Authority holds venerable court
In reason’s optimistic imagination.
Any skeptical of such legally attentive expression
May search for destiny in metaphorical symbolism
While I lark at subliminal aesthetics.

Any vision of internal flaws
Must be more beautiful and honest by interpretation
Than the time lost meaning bestowed by integral egotism.
Resist the laws of fatality
Through defiant self definition.
Embrace the concept of solitary thought
As a narcissistic act of reflection.
Ideal never decays.

Masculinity displays definite drawbacks
Misunderstanding of the opposite gender
Displaces utter sympathy.
Sometimes culture gives biology cause
To rock freedom’s boat.
Acceptance of gender roles and equality without objection
Often pains the strong willed,
Leaves the unmasked masquerade subjected unjustly
To the lash of bitter complex labels.
Femininity finds physical appearance a devaluation.
Ability to act with good measure and intellectuality
Shows the power of the feminine mind.
Women see gender as a disguise.
Men avoid gender issues as a gall.

My closeness to normal truth reveals
Overvalued rationale.
Clichés  exist beyond presupposition,
The domestic angel and the enchantress
Exist without inhibition as ideas
In expressive permanence, free
Except for their intentions.

Lyric will survive the stripped menace of new concepts
Though perhaps only reconstructive analysis
Will reverse puzzle pieces that have been laid down askew
For the sake of provocation,
To organize in a way that breathes new life.
Similarly, women should be understood
Even if the undertaking seems impossible.

A vacuum exists in my mind.
When the truth of language returns to me from my utterance
Coarse intention will owe a fair sum to rhetoric and reference.
The honesty of repetition chokes Homeric mnemonics,
Squeezes the field down into tightly accessible divisions,
Forever after to exist as mastery just because the attempt was made.

Scandal makes a wedding of integrity and originality possible
For few minds reduce all things to Biblical terms.
The writer must sometimes resort to gossip
As a source of ancestral wisdom.

The quest for absolute escape
Is only undertaken by the noblest of spirits.
The interplay between the forces of light and dark
Contains a beauty safe from the severity and importance of goodness,
A detestation of all one beholds in nature and the self.

The episodic pursuit of embodied angelic tradition
Extends deeply into ethical misgivings.
Though recurrence of non-discovery frees the medium
Any open ended move away from alienation
And the pangs of loneliness
Merely defers the inevitable conclusion.

The world view composed by darkness
Fashions traps for the suitor of language.
Any heroic pursuit of spiritual superiority
Might be glanced on favorably even by the dark corners.
Therefore the conjured bindings of language
Magnify the personality who utters imperfection
And imprison him to specific citations of shortcomings.
The soul finds comfort in going through the motions
Beside the gulf of voided amicable direction.

The small amount of energy it takes to release
Rushed attempts at universal ulterior motives
Lifts the world out of chaos
And delivers it into sympathetic imagination.

If personality causes history
My plight signals the end of favorable recognition.
My love for circumstantial clarity
And the plague of debunking falsity
Resists the fatal mistake
Of buying social grace with vocalizations.

Monumental failure amounts to voluminous defeat
Like the paradox of stirred political protest
Containerized in small glass jars for the entertainment of ancient deities,
Some of whom may be alive in us today.
They show all eyes that original nobility
Vanishes when sought
And reappears where spite resides.

A collapse of government concessions
Excludes the vindictive social reformer
For the sake of patriotism,
Secure in the comfort of numbers.
All attempts at poetic politics are pain to read.
Few tread the bloody line of loyalty to an author’s dignity.
My own exposure to currents
Awash with imperialist propaganda and physical subjugation
Sickens close followers
And drives the movement to quiet defeat.
The assignment of idolization never reaches the lower strata.
Death overtakes the impoverished workers bound in time
Before any concrete culture sense reaches their kind.

How outrageous is irony at its most primitive,
Not to mention volumes filled
With attempts to charm the softer sex.
Imagination and loyalty should not be attached,
And separatism must not be embraced
With the doom of stereotypical categorization.
In the absence of the destructive warlike template
Any social view should be acceptable.
While this fire of mine burns low and humble
The sanctity of posthumous hope will not extinguish,
Even in the face of a cynical orthodox majority.
Merely to accomplish an inversion of analytical love
Includes works and accomplishments as a titular award.

Paranoia preys on a web of fear,
Fear of tiny character.
Expansion of character can not be attained
As easily free individual expression.

The public eye casts scorn
Unthinkingly upon the thinker they have not seen
With substantial mistaken dogma for security.

The delusional seduction of fame by imagination
Conquers the impassioned only in moments of weakness.

Educational readings are suppressed
At high occult levels that scold mundanity as an indulgence
For prolonged survival.

Dreams do not empty data.
Darwin chided fantasy for ignorant, common drivel.
The modern thinker should chide Darwin
For blustery over success at correctness.

The issue remains.
Is the process of intellectual projection
A sinful endeavor crouched in selfishness?
Does it lead to a catatonic mental state
Or identification with a tradition beyond man’s control?
The best course out of self centered sedition
Divests life of whimsical folly.
Refutation of self beauty
Projects absolute importance into the length
Of even short, trite endeavors;
If cliché brings humility and worth
Then truth will have been reached.
Even in obscure shackled and shameful corners of the mind
The self requires interactive appreciation.
The most difficult love is accomplished
Despite cold intelligent want of final release.

This rambling serves not as an attempt to corrupt innocents
Who find the sepulchered croaks of adamant opinions
In a caliginous vault far in the distant future.
They fear licentious contemporary smut at first approach,
Until their eyes unveil the words coupled by my personality,
Transcribed dialectic wisdom not alien to history.

Behavior at this purist level resists interaction
As potentially harmful.

After the strike of delusion only once
Never again can innocence be described as a given.
This dark temple warns the holy reverence of physical pleasure
Against partaking of too much orgasmic revelry.
Poetry declines into Bacchanalian levels of satirical humor,
Unctuous wit to be handled carefully,
Like an infected medical tool,
It slips away easily.

Hypocrisy lives, disillusioned.
Culture would make the remark
That to direct language to express revulsion at stupidity
Wastes time and confounds reason with suicidal thoughts.

Prosody does not supply popular verses on this subject
So hatred for community refuses to take hold.
 

***************************************
 

Plagiarism creeps into my dreams.
The judges spot it
And they have knives at their disposal.
There is no space to move stately
Asleep and uncertain at a lover’s side.
In relationships of ill defined importance
Are feverish and pained recollections of monsters.
Without the tincture of stricken heat
Certainty awakes at the boundary of sobriety.
Disaster lurks in conquering your conscious refusal to touch.

The god Shiva brandishes his arms.
He sends a message to future conquerors.

There is no room to stretch your ambitions beyond conjecture,
Even with hoards of topical knowledge on ancient culture.
Embedded in the nerves of your palms:
Despair of the ruined prize,
Most relished and hidden thought of the god.
Indian high crowned deity,
Lost in a sea of global entropy,
Let nothing like my adjectival nightmares enter your mind.
Shiva lurks in the mirror.
He waits on the other side,
And he torpidly forgives intelligence.
The stench of my mind stretching out too far,
Out of my body and out of the frame,
Expands,
Curls about the air before his gaze,
While Sphinx-like and forever still souls
Of almost dead drug addicts rise up see the look on my face
When I catch my first glimpse of hell.
Before my titanic caste
They prostrate themselves and beg for mercy.
Disgust of repetition should sicken the observer.
Only a tightened stomach
In the throes of nausea
Could give testimony about the event.
The mirror heals in the corner,
Just within the realm of reality.
And magical tapestries give eloquent bows
Just out of sight in the study.
How could this soul refuse
The noble sanctuary of dreamy opium
As long as memory of the thunder clap of wired fear still lives?
Perfection is greater in innocence,
And the stuff of youth rapidly diminishes.
With no return to someone waiting happily,
With nothing in the final assault on the self,
Heaven warm and welcome just out of reach,
You feel the chill of the space one must leap to leave the body,
Colder still the fall through the chasm never bridged.
There is no road to the home of time,
There is only a precipice and your courage.
The crags of eagle’s true freedom
Might as well be hidden in your pockets.
You settle slowly down
Into sleeps of slow tided ocean wrapped destiny.
Conjunctive truth occurs far away from the ideal
But it does pursue definition.

You are asleep next to someone you do not know.
There is no room to move around.
The room closes in.
You give out a suffocated sound, and you think
That you have woken up
But all things that glitter are not gold.
 

***************************************
 

To My Friend
Years ago when your tap on my shoulder
Informed me of your nature, I reeled
Under the weight of the many burdens I carried.
I have lost too many friends to their prejudices
And I have wasted too much time on moral philosophy
While the practical use of my mind withered.
Some people have minds that shine.
They spill out words that stun with their inventiveness.
Yours is such a mind.
When the afternoon settles down into a ghostly routine
The things you have to say are still as energetic
As the life of the morning culture.
When I told you how brilliant I thought your art,
Each piece like a window into your thoughts,
A parade of all your emotions,
Care taken to calculate just what effect each display would have,
Those things I said were true.
Never believe that your efforts are wasted
Or that the vision of your work
Could be anything other than the heart and breath of talent.
Worthless exhibition to the public around you,
The populace so slow to think on its own,
Will get you nothing your efforts
Did not already gain.
Don’t worry about being forgotten
Because the quality of your ideals deserves
The most positive of remembrance.
When the passing of your spirit from the body
Throws the people who have known you
Into depression and despair
It will be said of you that you were truly an artist.
There is no need for a degree
Because true artistic respect does not come from
A paid-in-full receipt for tuition.
Worry even less about who you are.
Ignorance about the human body has not yet been stamped out,
But there are those people that believe in a simple morality.
Let the fates make your demise a pleasant one,
The best people should not have to suffer.
Such a fate is reserved for the people who abuse
The gentle artistic spirits of this planet.
May their passing be filled with howls and moans of pain
And the agony of the realization
That they treated good people badly.
Also let none come upon this memorial
With the intention of defaming it’s message.
They will suffer worse than the rest
For trying to think wicked thoughts into friendship.
The plague that overtakes them will be a curse
Not unlike the swelling of the brain,
And it will be called sheer stupidity.
So while the rest of the world festers in condemnation
Carry on the illumined life you have dedicated yourself to.
In the end a reward does wait.
(For Tommy Smith, with love)
 

***************************************
 

To Matt Bailey
Anger dissipates under the cooling influence of feminine subtlety.
Let it never be said that nothing repeats.
You think, “Why did he write something so offensive,
Why does all this make so little sense?”

Too opaque for the gentle minds
And removed from its source,
Emotion falters for reference,
Still strong in your heart, you find.

Conversation’s flow balks at inhibitions,
On our behavior and time’s restrictions,
Placed callously by capricious business.

Nothing ruinous comes of honesty
Or nice behavior founded on trust;
But those dominos leave the inside barren.

Grievance is a welcome term for the friendship ended
Through the terminus of casual employment.
Human interaction was meant to mean so much more,
Was not meant to be so easily severed.

This is tribute to the endurance of someone so kind,
Good enough to occupy a place
Feared by most to be a doomed horizon
For longer than this braggart could prevail.

There is a place where there are no walls
Between the formal world and the honest one.
The erectors must have been sick
To believe in the standard of goodness
That everyone must display inside
But no one can follow internally;
Goodness carries no negative associations
But there is a different guideline for goodness in private.
 
 
 

The reflection from the other mind’s perspective
Allows self judgment to better,
So as much as criticism can redden the face
It has always been welcomed by the dedicated pupil.

Our farewell, then, should be glad,
Having come to mutual trust.
No higher compliment can be paid
To anyone I have known for such a short time.
Trust withheld would have seemed so wrong.
The laurel of the egotist is that he finds
Greatness in the values of the gifts he gives.
The only saving grace is that sometimes value really exists.
(to my supervisor about how it wasn’t his fault)
 

***************************************
 

The waterfront secludes humanity
Behind the curtain of economic struggle.

Does the urban nightmare spring from introversion
Or idolatry, and can those be defined as distinct?

The city fauna converse at length on ostracization,
The flora lecture on natural hierarchies of beauty.

Sometimes gray walls must suffice
To fill the emptiness of zero leisure.

Proper nouns have never quenched
My existential thirst for knowledge.
The Mojave of education:
Dried up the town’s people who have no time.
They never advance their abilities
Because they have to earn their shelter.

The strength of the poet comes from the time
He takes to express his views on strange surroundings.
Hard copies limit agility;
Incisive shadows descend to rend spoken words.

As life fades it shrugs off past mistakes.
A mystic feels ill with no followers.

The imperfections of my art hinder progress
Just as fear captures my attention.
I gaze in ghastly dismay at the journey
Through passes of lore beyond ken.

Certain threads of absolute integrity
Prove my ailing reputation
To be a travesty of my natural rights.
Principles of misericordium and despair
Should be thrust upon no one systematically.
To rise from the depths of sorrow
Provides the only safe passage through astral faith.

At an unforeseeable juncture of future time
Poetic greatness will exist,
But certainly the end will come to me first,
As I have witnessed too many fallen expectations over the years.

Anecdotal references harm nothing.
Creativity breathes on in the adventurous race to the finish.
I know that finality will be total.
Gargantuan carnival atmosphere welcomes me there.

Love must believe in literacy.
The designers of the establishment
Never predicted this rude reality
But the pert authoritarianism of their educated faculties
Brought it to life.

I bitterly mingle utilitarian reason with invention,
Intersperse avant-garde dialog with stoic truth.
Hungover, dogged thick muddy vision
Terrifies life into a moment of fame.
I realize its utter worthlessness
And unleash a cataclysmic hindsight on the world.
Pestilence knows me well.
 

***************************************
 

Rituals

Ms. Lyle raises the cup of coffee to her lips.
A large sip restore energy
Revives sleep dulled senses.

The weather… what a mess,
Everyone is so down.
What a shame it is
To be stuck inside for so long.

There are only several more hours to dinner.
Ms. Lyle smiles diminutively
Whenever someone meets her gaze.
She looks around for someone to smile at,
Sometimes for days before she can make contact
Even though there are plenty of people around.
It is not that anyone avoids contact with her,
It is just that deep privacy has sealed the nation
Into a multitude of individual cocoons
That wait for their moment of death politely.

Memories allow her to have
Quiet internal conversations
Before skipping away to join the forgotten.

The old people smile at the news of the rain.
There has been three weeks of it
With very little intermission.
One can find no more color
Than in the smile of old people who no longer care,
Who no longer worry when God takes away the sunshine.
They can tell you,
He always puts it back.

The news of the afternoon entertains,
So pleasant to know what everyone does
And who was involved with what.
Details make the stories last longer.
There is more fun to be had when more time is used.

Routine permeates every nook and cranny of the old building.
In the morning before the sun gets the courage to rise
The man arrives with the morning paper,
Word of all the special important things from the day before.
The helpers prepare for the waking residents.
They scurry to turn on lights
To fill the fountain.
They turn on soft music for the background.

Ms. Lyle loves the activity.
She sets out on her day early.
She watches the helpers.
It makes her think about being young again,
About the time when everything was a rush and a bustle.
She enjoys watching the action
As much as she used to like doing it all.
She finds that intentions, attitudes and personalities
Can easily be read.
She reads the helpers by watching their faces.
She listens to the level of tension in their replies to one another.

After she gets her paper,
And all of the building staff have prepared the sitting area,
The cooks begin setting up the breakfast room.
Everyday at exactly six o’clock.
Hot biscuits and the first batch of coffee
Can always be had by half past.

The other residents of the old building
Trickle down shortly before the repast is served
To engage in polite gossip and discuss the newspaper.
On occasion one of them will complain
That their physical problems have got the better of them.
The others nod in understanding.
They are unable to heal the problems,
But they sympathetically hope for surcease,
The same way they hope their own ills
Do not come back suddenly or grow worse.

When the breakfast room starts to fill up
The noise gets louder.
The food warms hearts and stomachs.
The chill of the morning dissipates.
Many things come up that can be touched on,
Talked about during the civilized, formal meal.
The talk sounds like practiced dance pirouettes.
There are gentle child like qualities in the banter.
The talk can go on about things unimportant fifty years earlier
For a long time after the food has been eaten.

The housekeepers arrive and begin tidying
Just before the breakfast room begins
To empty its antique contents into other areas.
The old building guards those who survived
Three quarters of a century, and much longer,
And they think it is more pleasant a place to be
Than just about any other place they can think of.

In the winter the cozy heaters draw life down
From the upstairs apartments.
All the residents know one another
And most of them get along well.
In the summer the cool verandas
And the smaller parlors in the far wings of the building
Attract more people than the main sitting areas.
With so much sun outside the residents
Find less need to seek light through interaction,
They can find light and warmth wherever they go.

Many of the residents exercise in the morning
As an outlet for the time they accumulate.
They walk or do aerobic exercises in the small gymnasium.
Their walks are always slow and meticulous.
The women sometimes look like birds stalking small bugs.
They walk as though all the things there are to see
Might be missed if they go a little too fast.
Some of the women look like plump greedy robins
Who gobble up all the sparrows’ food
After they arrive triumphantly in the spring.
The old men are more like gray squirrels.
They prick up their noses and ears
To catch the scent or sound of anything they need to know about.
Their tails flap wildly
At any news they do not like.
They seldom fight over food the way real squirrels do,
It’s just that a lot of the qualities they had
When they were young boys who liked to play
Linger on inside them.

The large and stately old building,
Just short of being designated a castle,
Was built shortly before the outbreak of the last world war.
The residents who have not lost their memories,
And that is most of them,
Remember the time period from which it dates.

The building boasts twelve doors
Into and out of the hallways.
Four wings branch off from the main hall.
Their are stairs at the ends of each wing.
And stairs on both sides
Where the long main hallway converges with the wings.
The overall shape of the building, then,
Equates to a huge square,
Split through the middle by the main hallway.
The hall extends ten apartments from the center
Before splitting into the “x” of the wings.
A primary entrance in the front opens into the foyer,
Beyond which are the sitting rooms, dining rooms,
The library, the exercise room, and at the back the kitchens.
For the sake of the old residents elevators were installed
At the two cruxes of the far wings on opposite sides of the building;
The location provides equidistant access for every resident.
Also in the cruxes of the “x”, on both sides,
Are the open air verandahs.
These are on all three floors.
The wealthy owner of the building
Plans to enclose the ends of the towers with an addition
That will make the shape of the building
A huge dumbbell with a massive box in the center.
The addition would provide two enclosed gardens
And extra courtyard space.
The old building faces east.
The wings extend to the northeast, northwest,
Southeast and southwest.

The manager of the estate,
Kept around by the residents for their convenience,
Has an office located just inside the front doors.
Before his office is a long, dignified front desk
At which sit young clerics and a secretary.
They tend to all the tedious business paperwork.
The secretary sits there during business hours
And the young men sit there all night.
On the other side of the foyer from the front desk
The architects nestled a small waiting room and employee kitchen,
For the sake of the night employees who can’t eat supper
Than the day employees who can walk back into a busy kitchen.
Small gold engraved mosaics from the middle east
Adorn the walls of the entranceway,
As well as daring art from the nineteenth century
(now old fashioned)
And elegant tapestries from northern Europe.
Silk curtains cover the large windows that surround the front door.
The designer of the building was evidently fond
Of an unobstructed view of the outside world from the foyer.
Mahogany shelves burst with well tended plants
Along the walls of the foyer.
The foyer opens into a center,
Where a grand fountain spews forth water all day long.
The residents take delight in stopping to toss in pennies
To make wishes or help their prayers along.
Around the fountain a cupola sits on top of a circle of wooden benches,
Latticed and trimmed with posts and banisters.
Here the residents sit and rest.
It is actually an octagon shaped affair
And can be seen clearly from the verandahs at the ends of the hall.
Beyond the fountain are the common rooms,
The sitting room, the game room, the large dining room and the kitchen.
A large block shaped area was constructed to house these areas.
It is as if the back area was designed to be the opposite
Of the very concentrated, petite front.
Before the main hallway leaves the central area
It sports signs that announce the location of the health center,
The activities office, the beauty shop,
The built-in chapel, the ice cream parlor and the mailroom.
At the south end the residents quarters begin just after the health center,
And at the north end they begin just after the beauty shop.
The main hall only contains five residences on the first floor
On both the north and south sides before the four branches.
Those residences are considered very elite
As they were the first to be grabbed up after
Construction of the old building was completed,
And they have only changed hands once or twice.
They are regarded so highly
Because of their proximity to the common areas.
From those quarters the resident need not walk far
To eat or participate in other social activities.

Headquarters