Street Map

I would like to think our paths are straight
Disconnected from choices we make
That there is no reason why it can't be like you said

One day it's gonna happen
I dont know when I'll be on your street
But I know one day it's gonna happen
You're gonna be swept off your feet

I would like someone to make a map
Mark my home and draw some lines that match
All of the reasons why it can be like you said

I dont know when / I dont know why

It's not your fault you didn't see it coming
90 miles an hour
Gone so fast and now you're left with nothing at all.

It's not your fault
I give up every part of you that they could spare
Mixed between the petrol and the one lie
And it's code

It's not your fault
Something
You made up to your bedroom every night
Leaves us chasing memories and trying to understand
We can't wait
But their still eyes
And now that your gone to some place
I can't save you because the brightest lights are closing in on us.

I'm not gone
What the hell just happened here?

Take me over

If I had the chance to start again
Then you would be the one I'd come and find
Like the poster of Berlin on my wall
Maybe there's a chance our walls might fall

It's all about your cries and kisses
Those first steps that I can't calculate
I need some more of you to take me over

I know I because I cant calculate
How to respect you
How to start again

It's all about you

I'm nowhere without you
We don't go breaking down - I feel like nothing ever will
We don't go breaking down - I feel like nothing ever will
We will never go breaking down - I feel like nothing
Just wanna be with you
My baby
Just wanna be with you

I'm counting up the cost of time
And when I waste some time away

And all that I've seen means nothing to me without you

So when I see you next we'll make the most of it,
Tell the sun to start moving again,
The taste of your kiss I still got on my lips,
And ill take you there with me

Trading air once more from the start
I can open up a thousand paper cuts
People hear what they want to hear but they wont change a thing

And all I needed was this one to get me back on my way
It wasn't long before I realised there was no time to waste
There was soul all around me
Everybody let go
It wasnt long before we realised
There was no time to waste

He sees the flames in her tears
Sketching on her skin and he knows
That it's come to an end
And it's no point pretending it's not

And it's a long way down, a long way down from here.

-Athlete

Everything you need to launch

5’8” / 130lbs

Sing: Alto/Mezzo Soprano.

Dance: Talented but limited training. Highly capable of learning any stage choreography.

Experience: EFFIE in “Maltese Falcon” (RT); BELLE/CAROLER in “Christmas Carol” ’07 (FP); HELENA in “Midsummer Nights’ Dream” (SOTM); BELLE/CAROLER/GHOST of FUTURE in “Christmas Carol” ’06 (FP); BONNIE (ELECTRA WOMAN) in “Captain Fantastic!” (RT); EXTRA in “Like Moles, Like Rats” (Kooroc Films); JO in “A Little Woman Christmas” (Excalibur Drama Club); SISTER/DANCER in “Cinderella” (FP); MAID in “Lady Windermere’s Fan” (TH); Fantasy Players (FP); MERMAID in “Peter Pan” (FP). Performances in multiple productions of ‘Shakespearean Shorts’ 2004-‘08 with roles including Witch II, Bottom the Weaver, Verges, Sexton, and Ursula.

Preferred Roles: Comedic to serious and everything in between. Fond of mature roles and pursuing character development.

Noteworthy: Currently taking voice from Von Lederstenger at International Voice Studio. Participated in many choirs and chorale productions. Can sing Italian, church Latin and character voice. Piano instruction with Lisa Belk from 2002-2007. 2007 Judges’ Choice Best Performance Wings Award (‘Ghost of Christmas Future’). 2005 Nomination for Judges’ Choice Best Youth Performance. Received “Overall Outstanding” in piano performance at the statewide AMTA Music Festival in Montevallo 2004 and 2005.

Wrong, graceless, sick

I'm not the one that you want, I'll only let you down.
And I'm pretty sure that you've caught on.
And you can say that 'Oh, I'm just feeling sorry for myself.'
I think it's every time I walk into a room
a silence so sudden that I seem to hear it (smiles turn to frowns)
Or maybe it's all eyes on him, in love with ego and intention.
The eyes that are just begging me for more -
This is gone and I can see it.
Your head is full of words, full of words that don't mean anything.

I'm not the one that you want, I'll always let you down.
And I'm pretty sure that you've caught on.
And you can say that 'Oh, I'm just feeling sorry for myself'
(If that's how you feel, then what's there to do?
I'll keep this feeling in my heart
but when you look in my eyes, you will know the truth.)

Spelled out your name and list the reasons.

A million hours left to think of you.

I can't untangle
I can't untangle what I feel and what would matter most
I can't get close and I, I can't get close
And now there's just no point, in reaching out for me
In the dark, I'm just no good at giving relief
In the dark, It won't be easy to find relief
And I'm not proud that nothing will seem easy about me
But I promise this I won't go my whole life telling you "I don't need..."
I'll tell you now, I guess like I should have told you then

Without you is how I disappear.
-Such a paradox, isn't it, isn't it?

I dropped all of my lovers.
I stood up and screamed 'I'm in love!'
You gave it to me through the eyes, hatred.
Centuries deep and true. I was wrong, graceless, and sick.
All of the things that I had learned had been wasted.

There was no living creature as foul as I,
and all of my poems were false.
I could feel my soul, dropping down through the mattress.
I had to leap up before it hit the floor.
and I'm so alone.

Illumination held out in front of my reaching arms.
The darker things get the better I see.
I'm so alone and so are you,
we all live and die that way.
I feel weak.
Thrown in wide open spaces.
We turn ourselves inside out,
expose what we're afraid to see.

You haven't seen how far down I can sink.

Tell me that you know another way to get it done
It's not me or how I would be but it's a different situation
You lay awake in the night
Just staring at the ceiling above
Pulling pieces of it out is such a waste of time
Keep on fighting to remember that nothing is lost in the end
When you burn burn burn your life down
Get me to the door
Out of bed on the track
I'm not sure starting over
It's a different situation

Undeserving of your sympathy
'Cause there ain't no way that I'm sorry for what I did
Through it all, could you cry for me?
'Cause I don't feel bad about it
So shut your eyes, kiss me goodbye
And sleep.

The hardest part is letting go of your dreams.

So nothing will be lost in the end
And you burn burn burn your life down

I break my heart around this
Break my heart around this

-Chiodos, My Chemical Romance, Tegan and Sara

Living Partial-liver Lobe Transplantation

Abstract: Living-donor versus Non-living-donor in Liver Transplantation

What is the viability of continuing partial-liver lobe transplants (PLLT) from the living donors taking into consideration the scarcity of quality brain-dead liver organs and the ethics behind the living donation process? This procedure could have a significant impact on liver transplantation in the United States because it provides a greater pool of opportunity for end-stage liver failure patients to receive a transplant that could extend their life span and enhance quality of life. Yet, simultaneously, this procedure is marked by many ethical concerns for the donor.

The regenerative properties of the liver were known by the Greeks over 2,500 years ago, but it wasn’t until 1987 that PLLT was first attempted. The first successful PLLT was in 1987 in Australia as an initiative to benefit children and used the left lateral segment containing 20% of the adult liver (Florman, et al 2006). In Japan, approximately 99% of liver donors were living, and as this operation was proved viable it was attempted in adults in the United States during the mid nineties (Jabbour 2004). Yet the racial difference in body size and mass complicated the liver regeneration and functioning, therefore medical teams began using the right lobe about 1997 (Jabbour 2004). As of December 2007, 3522 PLLT have been performed.

The main issue relating to successful transplantation is to ensure the graft given to the recipient is large enough to maintain proper blood flow in order to achieve full functioning and regeneration (Jabbour 2004). The liver is anatomically divided into eight segments, where three different grafts can be formed for liver transplantation (Florman, et al 2006). Donor assessments includes blood and HLA typing, liver biopsy, compatibility of hepatic artery size through anteriograms, and testing liver size through Chromotagraphy (CT) Scan (Abougergi, et al 2006). When liver graft is sufficient and transplant is successful, near-complete regeneration and functioning of the liver returns in 1-2 weeks while the patient remains in the hospital (Florman, 2006).

The main argument in favor of PLLT involves gaining additional transplant resources for end-stage liver failure patients. PLLT grants more opportunities for patients suffering from liver failure to embrace a healthier lifestyle. Split-liver (cadaver) and whole liver (cadaver) transplantable organs are not plentiful enough to supply the liver-organ demand, and partial-liver lobe donors would increase the availability. Recipients have the advantage of receiving a liver transplant as soon as diagnosed with end-stage liver failure, which also prevents the body from experiencing further deterioration. Ischemia time is minimized and the liver received is of better quality coming from a healthy, living donor (Jabbour, 2004).

The main argument against PLLT is the experience of the donor during the donation process and recovery. To compromise the life of a healthy individual to save the life of an end-stage liver failure patient has its ethical concerns. The informed consent from patient may be motivated by obligation and a sense of duty to relative or friend, especially in an emergency situation. The donor is affected by the surgery recovery time, which involves on average one to two weeks of hospitalization and several more weeks for regaining pre-donation health (Florman, et al 2006). There are several potential medical complications for donor, including difficulties regenerating the liver, blood clotting, bile-duct blockage or leakage, and severe scarring of the abdominal wall and skin. Also, the procedure of PLLT is more costly than cadaver liver donation (Abougergi, et al 2006).

The PLLT has a significant and direct impact on the nursing practice. Nurses need to consider the ethnicity and culture of the patients when approaching the topic of assigning a liver donor, considering factors that affect potential donor decision (Abougergi, et al 2006). They must provide emotional support to both recipient and donor during the process and have sensitivity toward donor obligation and recipient guilt. Informed consent of the donor should be obtained only after being thoroughly explained by the nurse. Nurses must understand the psychosocial origins of the disease causing liver failure in the patient (Abougergi, et al 2006). Nurses should remain the patient advocate as well as the donor advocate in maintaining a neutral, unbiased help to both sides.

Further research needs to be conducted to prevent donor complications post-surgery focusing on correct graft sizing to enhance regeneration and functioning (Humar, et al 2004). Research should be conducted concerning the ethics of nonmaleficence towards the donor and recipient, focusing on the psychiatric state of donors in post-operation. UNOS needs to regulate the PLLT testing process for quality control between transplant centers (Brown, et al 2003). Also, improved cadaveric donation to minimize the need for PLLT altogether, including more public education conducted by UNOS.

-Rachel Streams and Kaitlin Rich

Selections

^Upperclass^
Portishead::Dummy
Radiohead::Hail to the Theif
Radiohead::In Rainbows
Radiohead::OK Computer
Massive Attack::100th Floor
Massive Attack::Mezzanine
Thom Yorke::The Eraser

^Rock Beautiful^
Evanescence::Fallen
Evanescence:: Open Door
Evanescence::Origin
My Chemical Romance::Black Parade
Chiodos::Bones Palace

^onomatopeia^
The Shins::Chutes Too Narrow
The Bravery::The Sun and the Moon
Teagan and Sara::The Con

^the Balladeers^
The Decemberists::Picaresque
Flogging Molly::Swagger
Drop Kick Murphys::The Warriors Code

^Sweet Death^
Imogen Heap::Speak for Yourself
Jem::Finally Woken
Blaqk Audio::CexCells

^When Finally Set Free^
Copeland::Eat, Sleep, Repeat
Copeland::Beneath the Medicine Tree
Copeland::In Motion
Postal Service::Give Up
Death Cab for Cutie::Transantlantism
Death Cab for Cutie::Plans

Situational Suicide

In our highly progressive modern culture, medical advancements are occurring everyday. Discoveries in the fields of drugs and developments of life-sustaining mechanical systems are revolutionary, creating miracle medical recoveries where a few years previously survival was a slim hope. As miraculous as the medical advancements prove to be, they can also tread heavily on the lines of life. Life-support systems where the patient is sustained by oxygen and nutrition tubes, without hope of recovering independent functioning, is a situation that is new and strange to our society. Never have humans faced the many moral components that a position like this raises. For example, consider a person with normative mental functioning, yet reliant on machinery for breath and food because of permanent paralysis - never before have people existed in this way.

Philosophers, as well as scientists and psychologists, maintain an under-pinning debate of quality of life versus quantity of life. Although nothing is novel concerning the basic ethics in this debate, a situation like the one described can strike up a fierce dispute in modern philosophers. Should value be placed on the quantity of years spent living on this earth, or should quality of life be considered only? And how do you compare two immeasurable concepts? One person’s view of quality of life differs from another, and one person might view quantity to have a value higher than quality itself. Yet despite conflicting opinions, these are merely the roots underneath the looming issue of Physician-Assisted Suicide (PAS).

The definition of PAS is the administration of a lethal dose upon the patient’s request with the intention of ending their life with relative ease. General euthanasia is distinguished from PAS by the fact that the latter must be patient-initiated and administered. PAS, as well as general euthanasia, is in a unique moral situation. Not only is it philosophical, but the issue extends into a myriad of levels –encompassing ethical, political, and medical spheres. It is an issue that radiates into all aspects of social life, because once the legal and therefore accepted view on a decent end-of-life alternative is or is not changed, the entire society will be influenced. Now will the influence be for good or for ill? That is the crux of the matter.

Oregon has legalized Physician-Assisted Suicide since October 27, 1997 upon enacting the Death with Dignity Act. The Act gives patients a way to avoid a prolonged inevitable death through legal suicide. Many stipulations surround the application for and administration of the lethal dose; primarily the patient must be under the care of a physician that has declared the patient terminally ill without hope of recovery. Proponents of the Act support the freedom it grants to Oregon residents. The privilege to choose a relatively painless and rapid death gives terminally ill patients a peace about their end, supporters say. To debilitated patients, the Act functions as a trump card over a fatal illness.

This Act essentially involves the issue of quality versus quantity of life. The Oregon Death with Dignity Act upholds that quality of life is more precious to a person than quantity, and therefore grants the right to terminate the life of a person once their life is unlivable, being void of quality. In establishing the Act, the lawmakers in Oregon defined a person’s life as unlivable because of lacking livable health qualities or being sustained in unlivable circumstances. Pain is paramount in their definition. A patient suffering from unendurable pain or facing a lingering painful death from a disease, such as malignant cancer, have the right to an honorable and painless suicide in the views of Oregon lawmakers.

PAS laws are appearing on more and more state ballots as interest in the issue spreads throughout the nation. The advancements in medicine leave people anxious about end-of-life issues, and what personal control their medical options allow. Patients desire that their decisions are dominant, and that the quality of life versus quantity of life is their decision alone. Current statutes establish that patients have absolute right to know every medical process performed and full rights to deny medications or procedures at anytime. Documents such as living wills and Do Not Resucitate (DNRs) are growing in popularity because they guarantee the patient's wishes are known and followed. Refusing life-sustaining medical equipment or medication can be outlined in these documents, and the patient can also stop the administration of them at anytime.

The US law regarding end-of-life issues already encompasses respect for the patient's decisions and protects their rights to refusing treatment. Because of the provision currently available in the law, Physician-Assisted Suicide acts are unnecessary, and even harmful to society. PAS is morally wrong and should not be legalized because the issue negatively affects numerous ethical, political, socio-economic, and medical areas. Passing PAS acts across the nation could endanger the medical circumstances of the poor, the weak, the aged, and the debilitated as PAS becomes a standard end-of-life option that would target and pressure patients in these situations. Patients outside these situations, namely the wealthy, middle-aged, and those of full mental capacities should consider the impact such laws would have on other situational levels, and detest the possibility of coercion in them. For example, a lower-class elderly retiree with a debilitating disease might not want to become a financial burden to her family for her remaining life-span, and therefore opts for PAS because of convenience.

Undoutedly, issues regarding retarded or quadriplegic individuals will be raised - perhaps the law-makers will decide that they maintain a low quality of life, therefore they can be allowed to request a suicide. How would that demonstrate the value of life? If patients who meet a certain criteria can be aggressively euthanized by the medical profession, what is to stop that criterion from expanding? Where do you draw the lines regarding the appropriateness of suicide? Or do we simply believe that suicide through the administration of a physician becomes acceptable by affiliation?

In consideration of the Natural Law Theory, PAS stands in opposition to its values. Natural Law Theory (NLT) states that life should be preserved and fostered in every individual, regardless of their state of health. Performing suicide for reasons of declining health or impending death would never be supported, espcecially injecting a patient with a lethal dose. Although PAS is morally wrong, and inconsistent with NLT, refusal of medication should always be a patient’s right. Although firm on the subject of suicide, NLT does not ignore the importance of quality of life, and is only adverse to its artificial termination. Modern technology has expanded until life can be preserved beyond that of natural stamina, supported by medical machines and high-dosage prescriptions. The patient may choose to let the disease run its course uninhibited by medicine, knowing it would lead to certain fatality. This is within the full moral compulsions of the patient, and does not endanger the rights of other humans.

I find that the provisions already enacted within the United States regarding patient’s rights and medical procedures allows for decent and comfortable deaths without necessitating Physician-Assisted Suicide laws. End-of-life quality can be facilitated through non-invasive pain-killing medication and establishments such as Hospice care. Legalizing suicide is morally wrong, regardless of medical situation or of support from medical and governmental agencies.

Links: Access to Oregon’s Death with Dignity Act: http://www.oregon.gov/DHS/ph/pas/

Following official document retrieved from Oregon's Death with Dignity Act:

REQUEST FOR MEDICATION

TO END MY LIFE IN A HUMANE

AND DIGNIFIED MANNER

I, ________________, am an adult of sound mind.
I am suffering from _______, which my attending physician has determined is a terminal disease and which has been medically confirmed by a consulting physician. I have been fully informed of my diagnosis, prognosis, the nature of medication to be prescribed and potential associated risks, the expected result, and the feasible alternatives, including comfort care, hospice care and pain control.

I request that my attending physician prescribe medication that will end my life in a humane and dignified manner.

INITIAL ONE:
_____ I have informed my family of my decision and taken their opinions into consideration.
_____ I have decided not to inform my family of my decision.
_____ I have no family to inform of my decision.

I understand that I have the right to rescind this request at any time. I understand the full import of this request and I expect to die when I take the medication to be prescribed. I further understand that although most deaths occur within three hours, my death may take longer and my physician has counseled me about this possibility.
I make this request voluntarily and without reservation, and I accept full moral responsibility for my actions.
Signed: ___________
Dated: ___________

-Kaitlin Rich

Knife Going In

If I don't recover,
Sell this house and find something lost outside your window.
Not forever.
On the night I die I swear I'll sleep outside your window.

I feel the knife going in,
I'm feeling anxious.
Not enough to kill me, I thought it'd happen fast.
But I'm feeling it now and I feel anxious.
Sleeping inches from me, I let it pass.

Emmy should I stop?
Do you think I'll make it to the morning if it's written?
Stitch it up.
The kind of song I know 'cause mother, sister, you're the worry.

I feel the knife going in,
I'm feeling anxious.
Not enough to kill me, I thought it'd happen fast.
But I'm feeling it now and I feel anxious.
Sleeping inches from me, I let it pass.

-Teagan and Sara

Pink Bullets

I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole
You held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold
Oh what a contrast you were to the brutes in the halls.

My timid young fingers held a decent animal.
Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick, sweet as a song
The years have been short but the days were long.

Cool of a temperate breeze from dark skies to wet grass
We fell in a field it seems now a thousand summers passed
When our kite lines first crossed, we tied them into knots
And to finally fly apart we had to cut them off.

Since then it's been a book you read in reverse
So you understand less as the pages turn
Or a movie so crass and awkardly cast
That even I could be the star.
I don't look back much as a rule
And all this way before murder was cool
But your memory is here and I'd like it to stay.

-The Shins

Marsh King's Daughter

Come on come on, lets take a chance now, we could fall in love!
Come on come on, lets take a chance now, we could fall in love!
Stealing to your window, again. Now I say "We could fall in love"
Sighing in exasperation, "No." you say again "This simply is not love"

And I just know that we could work out
Even though your royalty and I am not
But there's a chance that you are wrong
And I am right this time

Come on come on lets take a chance now, we could fall in love
Come on come on lets take a chance now, we could fall in love
Thrashing through the fen and dew, I thought what I wouldn't do for you
Stealing hearts of Marsh King's daughters, well this is something new

And I just know that we could work out
Even though your royalty and I am not
But there's a chance that you are wrong
And I am right this time and you are out of line

Come on darling run with me, we'll take the bog on foot
We'll be not lost you see, though dark the bog shall be
When we arrive there on our feet you just stay close to me

Come on come on lets take a chance now, we could fall in love
Bring the rain and the bring the mire because we've always been okay
There was this time not too long ago that you listened to me say
Come on come on lets take a chance now, we could fall in love.

-Eisley

.Nothing Original.

Lately

I haven't written anything good.

Or anything of worth or meaning that I feel comfortable expressing right now.

Funny how we can pretend to be so free with our thoughts and poetic in our musing and yet when it's all stripped of the brave facades we're all very silly people writing on very silly things and I'd rather shut the book on these silly blushing words before they reveal all our silly gnawing flaws.

Crystal Ball

If only we knew. . .


the next
step


It can't be healthy
just gazing your life away
Yet how do we tear our eyes
from those lurid flashing depths

To execute our own uncharted destiny

Flogging Molly

I want to believe in myself once again
So I dream of a man whose hopes never end
To kiss with a girl who's as lovely as you
I'd give you my heart, if you gave me the truth

And for every tear that is lost from an eye
I'd dig me a well where no man could destroy
I want to believe in a freedom that's bold
But all I remember is the freedom of old

This mess in my head is a mess getting out
Ya drink too much coffee, I drink too much stout
But after a while, when my mouth's not so dry
I'll dance up a storm, sure life's looking fine
But as darkness falls, I return to my bed
Don't ask me more questions, don't fuck with my head

I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
Like thousands of people, left standing in their shoe
I've been down in this world, down and almost broken
As thousands they grieve, as the Black Friday rule


'Cause every dog has its day
Like every woman, she gets her own way
And if there's a ship that sails tonight I'll captain that too,
just to be there with you

Shine On. . .

Are they calling for our last dance?
I see it in your eyes. Same old moves for a new romance.
I could use the same old lies, but I'll sing

Shine on! Just shine on!
Close your eyes and they'll all be gone.
They can scream and shout that they've been sold out,
But it paid for the cloud that we're dancing on.
So shine on. Just shine on!
With your smile just as bright as the sun.
'Cause they're all just slaves to the gods they made
But you and I just shone.

And when silence greets my last goodbye,
The words I need are in your eyes, and I'll sing.

Shine on! Just shine on!
Close your eyes and they'll all be gone.
They can scream and shout that they've been sold out,
But it paid for the cloud that we're dancing on.
So shine on. Just shine on!
With your smile just as bright as the sun.
'Cause they're all just slaves to the gods they made,
But you and I just shone.
Just shone.

Here, I swear, forever is just a minute to me.
I'll take everything in this life.
I'll join everyone when I die.
'Cause all men die, 'cause all men die. . .

Just shine on.

-James Blunt

Better Together

There's no combination of words I could put on the back of a postcard
No song that I could sing but I can try for your heart
Our dreams, and they are made out of real things
Like a shoebox of photographs with sepiatone loving
Love is the answer, at least for most of the questions in my heart
Like why are we here? And where do we go?And how come it's so hard?
It's not always easy and sometimes life can be deceiving
I'll tell you one thing it's always better when we're together

Mmmh it's always better when we're together
Yeah, we'll look at the stars when we're together
Well, it's always better when we're together
Yeah, it's always better when we're together

And all of these moments just might find their way into my dreams tonight
But I know that they'll be gone when the morning light sings and brings new things
For tomorrow night you see that they'll be gone too
Too many things I have to do
But if all of these dreams might find their way into my day to day scene
I'd be under the impression I was somewhere in between
With only two - Just me and you
Not so many things we got to do or places we got to be
We'll sit beneath the mango tree now

But there is not enough time,
And there is no, no song I could sing
And there is no, combination of words I could say
But I will still tell you one thing
We're better together.

-Jack Johnson

Continue

Please place me unimaginably beyond

Doubts
[Flames to dust]
Consumed one moment
Abandoned the next
Left corroded
In the half-engine still churning
Make that step
Irretraceable
Take a faltering leap
Into a more than controllable
Future
Grasp the reigns as they slip
Demand more than satisfaction
More than meekly jolting along
AS IT WAS WRITTEN
There is no wrong answer
Only wrong motives
There is no wrong decision
Only wrong paths
Irretraceable

Midsummer

How happy some o'er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste;
Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste.
And therefore is Love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjured everywhere.
For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia's eyne,
He hailed down oaths that he was only mine;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolved, and show'rs of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight.
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense.
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.

Word Vomit (v)

po·et·ry (n)
1. The art or work of a poet.

2. Poems regarded as forming a division of literature.

3. A piece of literature written in meter; verse.

4. Prose that resembles a poem in some respect, as in form or sound.

5. The essence or characteristic quality of a poem.

6. A quality that suggests poetry, as in grace, beauty, or harmony

Expression of the inexpressible the helpless feeling of involuntary words uncontrollable violated movement in meter then leap into a rank spewing of emotion unknown unacknowledged before beating on hollow shields to destory the regions of consciousness that form and society construct blast threw with the torrent -

Escape.

XXXVIII

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white.
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "O, list,"
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."

-Elizabeth Browning

Bones

Come with me. We took a back road. We're gonna look at the stars.
We took a backroad in my car. Down to the ocean, it’s only water and sand
And in the ocean we'll hold hands.
But I don't really like you, apologetically dressed in the best, but on a heartbeat glide.
Without an answer, the thunder speaks for the sky, and on the cold, wet dirt I cry.
Don’t you wanna come with me? Don’t you wanna feel my bones on your bones?
It's only natural.
A cinematic vision ensued like the holiest dream. It's someone's calling?
An angel whispers my name, but the message relayed is the same:
“Wait till tomorrow,you'll be fine." But it's gone to the dogs in my mind.
I always hear them the dead of nightcomes calling to save me from this fight.
But they can never wrong this right.
Don't you wanna come with me? Don't you wanna feel my bones on your bones?
It's only natural.
Don’t you wanna swim with me? Don’t you wanna feel my skin on your skin?
It's only natural.
I never had a lover. I never had soul.
And I never had a good time.
I never got gold. Don't you wanna come with me?
Don't you wanna feel my bones on your bones?
It's only natural. Don't you wanna swim with me?
Don't you wanna feel my skin on your skin?
It's only natural.

-Killers

Canceled Crayola Colors: an exercise in humour.

Hemoglobin

Frostbite Blue

Soap Scum

Springtime Pollen for the Severely Allergic

Gingivitus

Emo Black

Duodenum Purple

Diaper Green

Cut-Me-Crimson

Dark Alley

Orangelo

Mucushiny

Dandruff White

Hairball

Red-light District

Transvestite Mauve

Smog

Oil Slick

Cubic Zirconium

Putrid Flesh

Pepto-Bismol Pink

Mildew Montage

Not-Quite-Virgin Cream for the Honest Girl

Iron Fist

Mullet

Gandalf Grey

Bile

Farmer's Tan

Monkey Poo

Seaweed Stew

Corpuscule Yellow

Clear

-mostly Anna Crabtree and Kait Rich

About the Man Who Began Flying After Meeting Her

When he met her and they liked each other a great deal, he heard things better, and in his eyes the lines of the physical world were sharper than before. He was smarter, he was more aware, and he thought of new things to do with his days. He considered activities which before had been vaguely intriguing but which now seemed urgent, and which must, he thought, be done with his new companion. He wanted to fly in lightweight contraptions with her. He had always been intrigued by gliders, parachutes, ultralights and hang-gliders, and now he felt that this would be a facet of their new life: that they would be a couple that flew around on weekends and on vacations, in small aircraft. They would learn the terminology; they would join clubs. They would have a trailer of some kind, or a large van, in which to hold their new machines and supple wings folded, and they would drive to new places to see from above. The kind of flying that interested him was close to the ground - less than a thousand feet above earth. He wanted to see things moving quickly below him, wanted to be able to wave to people below, to see wildebeest run and to count dolphins streaming away from shore. He hoped this was the kind of flying she'd want to do, too. He became so attached to the idea of this person and this flying and this life entwined that he was not sure what he would do if it did not become actual. He didn't want to do this flying alone; he would rather not do it than do it without her. But if he asked her to fly with him, and she expressed reservations, or was not inspired, would he stay with her? Could he? He decides that he would not. If she does not drive in the van with the wings carefully folded, he will have to leave, smile and leave, and then he will look again. But when and if he finds another companion, he knows his plan will not be for flying. It will be another plan with another person, because if he goes flying close to the earth it will be with her.

-Dave Eggers

Collins, times three

Vade Mecum

I want the scissors to be sharp
and the table perfectly level
when you cut me out of my life

and paste me into that book you always carry.

---------------

Man in Space

All you have to do is listen to the way a man
sometimes talks to his wife at a table of people
and notice how intent he is on making his point
even though her lower lip is beginning to quiver,

and you will know why the women in science
fiction movies who inhabit a planet of their own
are not pictured making a salad or reading a magazine
when the men from earth arrive in their rocket,

why they are always standing in a semicircle,
with their arms folded, their bare legs set apart,
their breasts protected by hard metal discs.

----------------

Aristotle

This is the beginning.

Almost anything can happen.

This is where you find

the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,

the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.

Think of an egg, the letter A,

a woman ironing on a bare stage

as the heavy curtain rises.

This is the very beginning.

The first-person narrator introduces hirnself,

tells us about his lineage.

The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.

Here the climbers are studying a map

or pulling on their long woolen socks.

This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.

The profile of an animal is being smeared

on the wall of a cave,

and you have not yet learned to crawl.

This is the opening, the gambit,

a pawn moving forward an inch.

This is your first night with her,

your first night without her.

This is the first part

where the wheels begin to turn,

where the elevator begins its ascent,

before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle.

Things have had time to get complicated,

messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.

Cities have sprouted up along the rivers

teeming with people at cross-purposes—

a million schemes, a million wild looks.

Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack

here and pitches his ragged tent.

This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,

where the action suddenly reverses

or swerves off in an outrageous direction.

Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph

to why Miriam does not want Edward's child.

Someone hides a letter under a pillow.

Here the aria rises to a pitch,

a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.

And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge

halfway up the mountain.

This is the bridge, the painful modulation.

This is the thick of things.

So much is crowded into the middle—

the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,

Russian uniforms, noisy parties,

lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—

too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end,

the car running out of road,

the river losing its name in an ocean,

the long nose of the photographed horse

touching the white electronic line.

This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,

the empty wheelchair,

and pigeons floating down in the evening.

Here the stage is littered with bodies,

the narrator leads the characters to their cells,

and the climbers are in their graves.

It is me hitting the period

and you closing the book.

It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen

and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.

This is the final bit

thinning away to nothing.

This is the end, according to Aristotle,

what we have all been waiting for,

what everything comes down to,

the destination we cannot help imagining,

a streak of light in the sky,

a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.

--------------

-Billy Collins

Trite

How can I convey
what is nothing new under the sun

reprint

of what they've all said before (cycle, cycle, recycle)

and it being a four-letter word
I don't wish to be vulgar
when I say it for myself don't be scared or disgusted
buck up - write - squeeze it out-
breathe.

Love.

(Merely a gentle twist of heart to release that high-strung emotion
convulsing to the sky like a slender wounded dragon
a flash of red
and death.)

To the Poets

I read you all closely
feverishly turning the pages
breathing in line after line
like an intoxication
words I refuse to pen
words I forbid to say
a meaning too intricate
dont' say I'm shallow
it would break my heart
the terror of admission is too severe
while savagely repressed
I read you all closely
you allow my feelings to
explore emotions my will does disguise
the indulgence of your sonnets
free some inner chord
yet I recoil and snap
- how can you say that with such fervor?
word love is too fragile to toss around pin down
and you say love dead on
how can you be so intense?
I am frightened to write such words
I might regret
later laugh at my foolishness
yet you all continue to say the
words I refuse to pen
words I forbid to say
with such addictive force my barriers weaken
you demand: does the mellowing of love
discount the reality of its present experience
I reply: never
you demand: if feelings later change should
you scoof upon the words penned in the
present earnest sincerety
I reply: never
word love is too fragile to remain caged
don't say I'm shallow
it would break my heart
just take and guide my hand oh poets
let my pen experience unrestraint
and show me how to be
unashamed and love

[10/2/06]

Eros

The sense of the world is short,
Long and various the report,
To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it,
And how oft soe'er they've turned it,
'Tis not to be improved.

- Emerson

Insomiac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

-Sylvia Plath

Exercise: A New World

30 minutes
Alone
Public place
Observe

Lonely Soul

A turning tide, lovers at a great divide
Why d'you laugh when I know that you hurt inside?

And why'd you say
It's just another day, nothing in my way
I don't wanna go, I don't wanna stay
So there's nothing left to say?
And why'd you lie, when you wanna die, when you hurt inside
Don't know what you lie for anyway
Now there's nothing left to say.

A tell tale sign
You don't know where to draw the line.

Well for a lonely soul, you're having such a nice time
For a lonely soul, you're having such a nice time
For a lonely soul, it seems to me that you're having such a nice time
You're having such a nice time.

-Keane

Miniature Disaster

I don't want to be second best
Don't want to stand in line
Don't want to fall behind
Don't want to get caught out
Don't want to do without.

And the lesson I must learn is that I've got to wait my turn
Looks like I got to be hot and cold - I got to be taught and told
Got to be good as gold
But perfectly honest - I think it would be good for me
Coz it's a hindrance to my health and I'm a stranger to myself.

Miniature disasters and minor catastrophoes
Bring me to my knees.
Well I must be my own master or a miniature disaster will be
It will be the death of me.

I don't have to raise my voice
Don't have to be underhand - just got to understand
That it's gonna be up and down - it's gonna be lost and found
And I can't take to the sky before I like it on the ground.

And I need to be patient and I need to be brave
Need to discover how I need to behave
And I'll find out the answers when I know what to ask
But I speak a different language and everybody's speaking too fast .

Miniature disasters and minor catastrophoes
Bring me to my knees.
Well I must be my own master - I've got to run a little faster
I need to know I'll last.
If a little miniature disaster hits me it could be the death of me.

-K T Tunstall

Love Has Reasons . . .

The smoothness of my soul brushing yours is faint and golden
Can this be understood?
I want to throw my messy, incoherant love at your feet
But against all inclinations - refrain
for your sake, for my sake.
I am too young and you are not ready.
This could be a peddling infatuation
and this affection only as genuine as the moment allows.
I'm terrified
for your sake
for my sake
Ripping dissappointment and lacets of regret
might be all that remains with one false move.
I prize you higher than myself and never want to make you bleed
-so refrain
for your sake/mine.
These are my reasons which love does not understand.

Apprehend

One day
there may actually be something worth saying
there may actually be someone who knows

Until then
I'll spin these long-weathered trite words
I'll spin these cookie-cutter kaleidescope thoughts

(just shake and serve)

while the present now holds his breath -

O Holy Night

O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born.

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
O'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming,
Now come the wisemen from out of the Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus lowly manger;
In all our trials born to be our friends.
He knows our need, our weakness is no stranger,
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!

His power and glory ever more proclaim!

-Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure

Portrait of a Lady

Thou hast committed--
Fornication: but that was in another country
And besides, the wench is dead.
(The Jew of Malta.)

I
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itself--as it will seem to do--
With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
--And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you--
Without these friendships--life, what cauchemar [a nightmare]!"

Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettesOf cracked cornets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotoneThat is at least one definite "false note."
--Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Admire the monuments
Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.

II
Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you should hold it in your hands";
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.
"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
"I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey's end.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...."
I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
For what she has said to me?
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page.
Particularly I remark
An English countess goes upon the stage.
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
Are these ideas right or wrong?

III
The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that's a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn."
My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
"Perhaps you can write to me."
My self-possession flares up for a second;
This is as I had reckoned.
"I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends."
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
"For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
We must leave it now to fate.
You will write, at any rate.
Perhaps it is not too late.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression ... dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance--
Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for quite a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon ...
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a "dying fall"
Now that we talk of dying
--And should I have the right to smile?

- Eliot

Progression

A stealth-like intertwining of souls with growth in spurts
A timid creep towards another's delicate fibrous heart
(considering every move
safeguarding every thought)
while gently feeling testing maturing seeking asking

"Is this. . . "

Peace, child.

So deeper still, inward on.

Comments on Poetry

"There is no such thing as a perfectly adequate poem, because a poem into which some strange and surprising excellence has not entered, a poem that is not in some inexplicable way beyond the will of the poet, is not a poem. [. . .] The truth is, sometimes poetry is embarrassingly easy to write. Just about every poet admits to some simultaneous feeling of helplessness and unaccostumed power in writing of his best poems, some element of mystery. "If you do not believe in poetry," Wallace Stevens once wrote, "you cannot write it," and indeed this is the chief "difficulty" in poetry, that it comes so infrequently that it remains beyond our will." - Christian Wiman

"But even the most dull-witted author was obliged to realize that his freely associating the work of art [informal poetry] - proudly meaningless, although really meaning everything - would have no readers unless it had its moments. Whether in a formal poem or in an informal one, everything depended and still depends, on the quality of the moment. Formality and informality are just two different ways of joining the moments up. The question will always be about which is superior, and the "always" strongly suggests that neither of them is. Whatever kind of poem it is, it's the moment that gets you." - Clive James

Soapbox, part 1

They say this is the hardest language
perhaps second only to the orients far east.
The words never mean what Mr Webster says
but are pliable to context, nuance, overtones, and bias.
In addition is modern connatation that can turn
even the most puritan phrase into slanderous flilth.
The rules never apply to more than one incident
and generally contradict one another at every turn.
The intricate webbing of "'I'-before-'e'-except-after-'c'"
and "When-a-word-ends-with-a-short-vowel-and-consonant
the-last-consonant-is-doubled-before-adding-a-suffix-that
begins-with-a-vowel-but-only-while-wearing-purple-lingerie,"
is complicated beyond reason.
Take into consideration that the identification of a compound
double predicate would force a weathered english instructor to weep,
and the layman's abuse of the apostrophe is - at minimum -
enough to produce the gnashing of teeth in the sternest grammatician.
In short, what is produced is a world-wide classification of
life-loving persons who are TERRIFIED OF THEIR OWN LANGUAGE.

And so they should be.

. . .
What is called for is the massive reconstruction of the world's English language.
Or the decimation of mankind.
It's our choice.

"Dear Ms Truss:
I understand why
such woes cause all
stickler's premature greying.
Not the least of which is
the infamous comma, splice."

Rebellion

I pray you drown admist the self-induced doubts
about my beliefs - standards - behaviors - existance
and why I press the boundaries until one of us
snaps into the vaccuum of accusations
while complaints of
misinterpretation
misrepresentation
misquotation
mistakes
and misguidance
fly as fire darts in the void.
The gagging stifles of expressions:
lift of cocked eyebrow
movement of judgmental finger
exasperated sigh
catch of slow blink -
force me to shudder
look away
breathing forcefully and praying peace.
I abhor this clutching guilt and loathing of self and it's inadequacies.
I sojourn toward a stoic heart
pulsing emotionless
coursing calm
flying unburdened as a crest on a wave
in this mortal spindle-drawn life.

Afterglow

Just when the days start getting colder
I walk the streets I never knew
And there's some words I never told you
The sound rings out like the truth

And if you could see what's come over me
then you would know.
Cause I'm walking free
the wind at my back
Bathed in afterglow.

And as I sit here in this dark room
All I seem to feel is light
And I see color, I see the maroon
In the blood of this life that's ours

Watch the sun paint an orange sky
Lay me down and feel the days gone by
Just when the day Just when the day
Oh...Just when the days start getting longer
I walk the streets I never knew
The sun comes out for you.
And if you could see what's come over me
Then you would know
Cause I'm walking free
The wind at my back
Bathed in afterglow.

-Vanessa Carlton

Mending

A wise woman once made
a delicate needle of the sharpest kind
of tempered gold looped with a crimsom silken strand
to pierce
and thread
and tug together
the ripped shreds of the heart:
gashes of abused trust
and false words
and exploited affection
and searing misunderstanding.
So I traveled far and wide - searching
for her darkened cabin beside a hidden wood -
and hesitated under lengethened moonbeams
to cross the mossy threshold and undergo
the meticulous reconstruction of my ravished heart:
which a wise woman once remade.

Fear Of Fearing myself....

Why is it fear that is considered a threat
I fear that I fear myself
That I regret
What is fear a curse, or a gift
My mind's stuck in Neutral
And that's something I can't shift
The old,hard of hearing and yet I don't care
What I hate the most is it's me that I fear
I fear that I began, middled, and ended
That I fear of fearing myself
which no one comprehended
I hate that you fear all the small things in life
Like hating your parents, and losing a life
But what I fear most is the last book on the shelf
My biggest fear, is of fearing myself
I fear of fearing myself
Now asleep in clouds it was me on the shelf
I no longer have a fear of fearing myself

-Edgar Allan Poe Jr.

Dear Reader

Baudelaire considers you his brother,
and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs
as if to make sure you have not closed the book,
and now I am summoning you up again,
attentive ghost, dark silent figure standing
in the doorway of these words.

Pope welcomes you into the glow of his study,
takes down a leather-bound Ovid to show you.
Tennyson lifts the latch to a moated garden,
and with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree,
the day hooded by low clouds.

But now you are here with me,
composed in the open field of this page,
no room or manicured garden to enclose us,
no Zeitgeist marching in the background,
no heavy ethos thrown over us like a cloak.

Instead, our meeting is so brief and accidental,
unnoticed by the monocled eye of History,
you could be the man I held the door for
this morning at the bank or post office
or the one who wrapped my speckled fish.
You could be someone I passed on the street
or the face behind the wheel of an oncoming car.

The sunlight flashes off your windshield,
and when I look up into the small, posted mirror,
I watch you diminish—my echo, my twin—
and vanish around a curve in this whip
of a road we can't help traveling together.

-Billy Collins "The Art of Drowning"

With love:

I never want to become
another hole in your heart
another memory to be forgotten
another regret on your lips
another burnt-out infatuation
another ignored pain in your past.

Sincerely -

P.S. Is it possible to become the one who
brings you happiness
helps you progress
blesses your life
makes you smile always.

A Letter

Dear God:

I want you to be my only refuge
my only master
my only guide
my only comfort
my only focus
my keeper and first love.

Sincerely -

P.S. Whatever they see in me - will you let them know it is all and only you?

Breach

Daily I sink deeper thicker farther away
your soul no longer touches mine
the burn of inflicted self-consciousness
hindering the being of me
I cannot force my thoughts ambitions dreams
outside you expected criticism
it is impossible to endure
your relentless sneering dissappointment
I flinch and hold
waiting for the lashes and cuts -

So please
just take me out
swift and painless
don't let me feel
you brand that
everlasting stamp of
dissaproval
onto my heart.

(?)

-You think you are so generous and strong
to give me what is your (heart)
Do you not know I could kill you -

This is How I Disappear

Go -To unexplain the unforgivable,
Drain all the blood and give the kids a show.
By street light this dark night, a stance down below.
There's things that I have done, could never, should never know.

And without you is how I disappear, and live my life alone forever now.
And without you is how I disappear, and live my life alone forever now.

He walks among the famous living dead,
Drowns all the boys and girls inside your bed.
And if you could talk to me, tell me if it's so,
That all the good girls go to heaven.
Well, heaven knows -

Can you hear me cry out to you?
Words I thought I'd choke on figure out.
I'm really not with you any more.
I'm just a ghost, so I can't hurt you any more,
So I can't hurt you any more.

You wanna see how far down I can sink?
Let me out! Sinking, I'm sinking,
I'm so far away from you. I'm sinking.

And without you is how I disappear, and live my life alone forever now.
And without you is how I disappear, and live my life alone forever now.

-My Chemical Romance

Anonymous

While passing a trash bin
I spotted your love
crumpled and bleeding
underneath shredded bills

I pulled it out
smoothed it down
read it through

Stained a crying red
it told me the story
of how you have loved
and lost

(a familiar tune)

It had wide margins
and several tear stains
I added some notes
and pain of my own

(I hope you don't mind)

While passing a mailbox
I dropped in your love
folded and healing
on top packaged bills

The visit

Enter and immediately it smells of
feeble bald salivia jilting death
Receptionist: Yes? Oh room number 52 on left.
Walk ignore muffled screams cheap pastel wallpaper bulletin boards
glance up see him pace the halls fly unzipped hands groping rail
will anyone save his soul?
avert gaze don't stare at the helpless dying no ones
labeled door medication clipboard is all that identifies another living corpse
they were once loved
find the number it was on left breathe deeply
step inside her mechanical bed next to another
curtain partition two dressers calender clock mounted needlepoint "Jesus"
she recognized me the wide gaping mouth and raccous moans indicated
flailing her one controllable arm she envelopes me in an embrace
my face presses into the pillow that smells of
end shampoo tears plastic resignation
communication commenced of wild gestures toothless smile chuckle groan
-Yes life has been good since I saw you last sorry it's been so long to visit but
you know how life gets away from you-
Clear eyes gaze into mine in response that yes life does get away from you if you allow
the scream of humanity to drown you in its insatiable relentless
-And the family is well and sends their love youngest is now in first grade going to school
boy do they grow up fast-
Expression pitying says that yes they do grow up fast and why don't you quench
your greed of self indulgence and invest into his life loving kindness understanding
-Certainly nice to see you after so long must go now I'll sign the guestbook-
She watches as I take the small spiral bound notebook and make my mark
next to the precious few others who hell took their time to drop in these seven years
snore like a rifle shot from the sleeping dying no one in the next mechanical bed
a nurse enters with a tray of pills painkillers laxatives stimulants insulin death
another embrace clasp and desperate arm about my neck
then pull away she pours into me an appeal come back again come back again come back again
step into the hall with down cast eyes glimpsed him still pacing
determined despondant mere purposeless
where is his soul?
ignore the smell of the
end
shudder through the press of hidden minds forgotten thoughts masked lives
only function mere form
they were once loved
Receptionist: Have a nice day
Hell.
Outside strikes the full terror of abondonment
please God don't hide my heart from me
please God take me now don't let them keep me a living corpse

Exit and immediately it smells of creation.

Brighter Than Sunshine

I never understood before - I never knew what love was for.
My heart was broke, my head was sore - what a feeling.
Tied up in ancient history - I didnt believe in destiny.
I look up you're standing next to me - what a feeling.
What a feeling in my soul
Love burns brighter than sunshine
Let the rain fall, I don't care - I'm yours and suddenly you're mine
Suddenly you're mine
And it's brighter than sunshine.
I never saw it happening I'd given up and given in
I just couldn't take the hurt again
I didn't have the strength to fight - Suddenly you seemed so right
Me and you - what a feeling
Suddenly you're mine - It's brighter than the sun
It's brighter than the sun, sun, shine.
Love will remain a mystery - but give me your hand and you will see
Your heart is keeping time with me
What a feeling in my soul
Love burns brighter than sunshine
It's brighter than sunshine Let the rain fall, I don't care
I'm yours and suddenly you're mine.

-Aqualung

all which isn't singing is mere talking

all which isn't singing is mere talking and all talking's talking to oneself (whether that oneself be sought or seeking master or disciple sheep or wolf) gush to it as diety or devil -toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles name it cruel fair or blessed evil- it is you (ne i)nobody else drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing -you are deafened every mother's son- all is merely talk which isn't singing and all talking's to oneself alone but the very song of(as mountains feel and lovers)singing is silence -ee cummings