It offered stillness

To a world

That was so active

Twirling tearfully

Like numb-chucking

Buzzards overwhelming

Peripheral horizons;

Its peace prevailed

In the dim after hours:

Dish rack in disciplined order, scant suds

Loitering around the drain, counter

Clear except for an occasional dish rag

Somehow charismatic in its grunge.

A few hours earlier

Rustle and business

Blinded us like a spotlight

From the evil

That lurks within,

My internal audience

Ablaze in idleness:

Pots on lit burners in domestic gloss,

Diced celery, grated cheese, the smell of

Taunt beans consuming simmering sauce—

Diverse was the color, taste, and shape of love.

You were the conductor

Of this orchestra,

Its inception

Beyond the realm

Of my awareness.

We worked together.

I was very good

At doing what I was told:

Steaming the broccoli,

Setting the table

Lighting the candles.

The table,

The conversation,

The delicate handling

Of utensils

Ushered in a dignity

I have never

Since known.

When dinner was done

The stillness

Returned carrying

The dominion of that shadow—

That atmospheric blur—

Fuzzy, hearkening in

Hypnotic fatigue.

At this point

The relationship

Would move

Up into

The bedroom,

Into its ceaseless storm.

I was a boy in big shoes

Unable to care for you

The way I wanted to.

Years later in the fondness

Of memory

I ponder

The phylum’s

Of footsteps

I’ve left behind

Always on the run.

I steal through the kitchen.

Counters cluttered with assorted open box.

Wrappers utensils and weeks-worth of mail

Vogue in grand collage to need for Luvox

On the old kitchen tables’ disorganized jail.

Kraft macaroni and cheese,

Rests in the wok

That need only

Be paper-towel-wiped

In accordance

With instructional

Dictates

Plates and cups

Remain in

The ajar cupboard

As I select one

From out of the sink

In contraceptive effort

To avoid unwanted dishes.

I have made many

Necessary changes

To function

Alone in this world.

It has been a

Wonderful challenge

With so much

To learn about

Forgetting

The customs

Of love

The post Reflections of a Bachelor appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

You might think you know

Where he comes from

By noting the precision

Of his feet as they

Rest in sandals.

Atop the spattered glass concrete.

Looking at the charisma

Buzzing within his disposition,

You might imagine his room—

The bed sheets and blankets

Sucking on the mattress,

The ugly, throw rug

Nestling into the neatness

The slippers placed neatly,

The rubbing alcohol sink,

The meandering cockroaches

Illuminated on tile shininess—

This all may be the product of keen insight,

But you certainly wouldn’t know

Where the man comes from.

Walking the beat,

You might find him

Perched at one of the spots

That if you were to stand in,

Would bring

The world coming at you

Streaming like neon

Through the squalor

Of this dusty grime district.

You would see loving eyes

Of the curious suburban kitties

And the strawberry burns

Of co-working social service workers.

You would see

Firm handshakes

Flirtatious looks

Vibrant stage frights

You would see

The flatness of those

Who have stopped caring

For themselves

In everyone.

He will converse

With Caucazoids

Cross the street

From the court house,

Who you can see,

Savor their dainty discussions

Striding back into their day

Feeling good about themselves,

He will take

A mysterious interest

In a couple that is

In conflict

Too much near his vicinity.

His words spurt like blood

Sorting out the problem

So that the couple leaves

Feeling good about them selves.

He will speak to

The Project’s management

Sharing silent words

That cannot be seen within

The streaming of the sunlight

So that the management will walk away

Rearranged

To transmit messages

To political connections

Feeling good about itself.

Even the pimps

Walk away feeling good

About themselves;

The pimps, the small-time dealers

Think they know where the man comes from

As he is their shepherd,

And, of course, they will leave

Feeling good about themselves

Without always realizing

What might have transpired.

You imagine

That obituaries are small,

If they end up in the newspaper,

And that those lies

Almost never get read

By the residents.

When you speak to him,

He grandfathers your imagination.

He is funny,

His meaningless conversation

Is captivating

As he wallows with you

Despite his importance.

And when he asks you

To take a walk with you

You enjoy his company,

And he’s nice to you

As he angles his head

From side to side

With his opinions

And then laughs at himself,

And it’s not until later

That you realize

That he may just

Want to kill you.

And you realize

That there is nothing you can do about it.

Of course, you’ll think

You can run back

To you’re 2.4 children

And your station wagon

And your box trim hedges,

The land from which you once came,

But what you don’t realize

Is that these things

No longer

Are real for you!

Out here the only thing you can do

Is what the man wants.

The only thing to be feared

Is the very private place where the man comes from.

As time scurries by

Working down here

You will find

That it is a place

If it is even real

That scares you more than death itself.

You will come to realize

With all the good you’ve seen the man do

Since his stint in the pen

That it is a place that rests

Deep inside the recesses

Of your own heart.

One day,

You will see

Yourself in him

And you will accept this life

Without wavering.

The post Original Gangster!? appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

Humans inhabit the court room

Where right gets discerned from wrong

Investing all their damn money

Into the justice they long.

Anger bounces savagely

In tossed and yanked slinky veins

That domino amassment

Of hate in buzzing refrain.

These are the veins that disregard

Every glimpse of opposition,

Destroying truth in perspectives

That also yearn for fruition.

Such is any claim to truth

That harnesses the violence

Of obscure reaction,

Squawking with its insistence.

In court these truths are resolved

By the massive collection

Of endlessly abstracted,

Legally teased erections

Of verdicts gleaming brightly

Bearing a fiscal complexion

For conveyor and authors

Of soul-seizing infection.

Power pumps potent pulse

That occupies peaceful bones

Static crackling distraction

That tones out the doubts that drone.

Curse the evaluation

That sets inequality wild!

Curse the rules and regulations

That echo in the tiled

Order of institutional

Imprisonment! Curse the demise

Of esteem, punched contusions

By city’s violent sunrise!

People think that justice is concrete

When the whole concept is a cheat!

Profiteers are proud of their feats

Feasting on justice with deceit.

But what goddamn logic is it

That worships greed, and closets

Empathy? Here we elicit

Internal arrogant deposits

Of monetary tuition

That torques lawyer’s ambition

To create superstition

That breeds social recognition

And so I ask:

Why do legal collisions

Make right and wrong decisions

On god’s creative visions,

When they lack truth’s mission?

The post Legal Reality appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

When I profess to love you forever,

You should know, cause I already told you

That I’m lying—that my love is for never.

Now I can see that your attractive look

Diminishes as time passes on, first

Impressions of your beauty, I know I mistook

Because now your pimple skin has pus;

Now you hobble, dusting spider webs, gawking

Cause this old delinquent gave you a cus

As you smell like some rank, dirty underwear

Especially after you insisted that I bleach

Skid marks off my aged tighty whitey spare.

Then you go off to the toilet seat

While I’m smoking a bone, and I’m thinking:

“You know, farting should be discreet”

And yes we’re both from northern towns,

And yes we both support the same political party—

When chance is like this, you place your bets down!

And so here you are, paying rent to live with me

But why are you there, smiling, drinking tea

While I’m here, pitcher full of martini.

Please go fix your school girl hair some other way

I, myself, would be hip with a mohawk or krisna tail,

But I couldn’t find either in a toupee.

Oops, there goes your humpback-whaling whine

Bleeding for affirmations of my eternal love,

While I, with my Playboys, am feeling just fine.

And now I’m sending you this Hallmark card

After they’ve gone and throwd me in jail,

And I’ll be happy here mooning the guard

And bullying the skinny kid with purple hair;

At which point I realize that you’re special to me.

I, a threat to all whose commissary I share,

Am here without you, shirtless in my dominion

Cause regardless of what anybody says of my hernia gut,

I can count on you for a numb-nun-special one.

All you readers forming disgustful theory

Better learn that love at its best persists on a shelf.

You are single, or celibate, or less normal than me

And cannot admit that every restless, questing soul

Abounds outside love’s confines.  So criticize me

From the depths of your existential hole,

I know that the miracle of love is the act of not loving too.

It is a quest for stench and misery and marriage

So we ain’t alone when we take off our rancid shoe.

The post The Average, One-Lining, Love-Liable Narrator appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

My mission has become a haze

In these droning hours—

Snaking pavement,

Grass coated medians:

Another couple hundred miles,

Another tank of diesel fuel,

Another nook and cranny town

Left unexplored by my consciousness

As the gas logo sign posts,

Bat me in the eye

Like flies

Pillars and bridges are swooping down

With on and off ramps

Leading to livelihoods

That embrace all the homes

That I defy.

Would they ever acknowledge the

Sentence to freedom, the

Wandering, quivering, blues that (I)

Want to leave behind me.

The diesel echoes in and out

Of ominous, overcast

Purple anger

And I will travel onward

And I’m ignoring the reflected

Spite spat

Upon the mournful plains.

This moving truck is full.

I’ve left nothing behind

Except for friends, family and Rimma

Who is so much on my mind.

I remember the rainy night

In her apartment’s hush

When the only light in the world

Was the bulb hanging above us.

Rimma’s foreign accent

Was so far away from home.

Rimma’s beauty was so lonely

Rimma’s life was on the roam

I see Rimma on every horizon

When my heart sits frozen in fear.

And now that I am finally on the road

I have left her behind to find her here.

So I am trying to find Rimma

And no matter what happens to me

I will still see Rimma on the horizon

And be graced by her eternity.

The post Leaving My Hometown with Nothing but a Platonic Relationship appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

It’s true that a plastic rimmed hat

That cost me ten cents at a thrift store

Is sitting on my head;

And it’s true that they gave me

A free plastic trash bag

To covers some  of my

Old five and dime store clothing display;

And it’s true I might have taken the bus;

When it didn’t look like rain this morning;

And it’s true that it would have been

Ten miles home, or four miles to the mall

By the time the skies opened

And dogs and cats nailed down upon my face;

It’s true that already have an interview suit

In another state

That my father wouldn’t send to me

When we fought on the phone earlier today;

And it’s true I have an interview on Friday

And it’s true that I have the money

On my card to pay;

And it’s true that I don’t have enough money

To pay four more months’ rent stay;

And it’s true my family

Seem to say that they won’t even pray

Long as I stay

Unmedicated in this town;

And it’s true that I lost my last job

Suddenly, without explanation;

And it’s true that just a few years ago

I put myself through a Master’s program

For which I still must pay;

And it’s true I filled out

Forty-three applications for minimum wage work

Just in one week

So, I’m thinking going professional is the way;

And it’s true that my one nefarious reference

Told me that no employer bothered to call;

And it’s true that I didn’t pursue

The job down the street

He hinted at to keep me at bay

During the latest veiled threat;

And it’s true that his first direct threat

Happened just four months ago

Before I ran for the border

Before the police stopped me

Then tracked me to put me away.

And it’s true I hadn’t committed a crime

And it’s true that at least when I arrived

At the mall at ten thirty on a week day

That there were ten other derelict types

Looking just like me,

Soaking wet along the mall awnings;

And it’s true some of us once were

Drug smugglers, pimps, and other business types

And it’s true that our daily suffering

Or desperate need to run away

Got up caught up in institutions

And led us into catastrophic loss;

And it’s true that I locked my bike twice

Before I left it

And it’s true that I took a Greyhound

From another middle of nowhere stay

Just to try to get away;

And it’s true that every middle of nowhere

Ends up being the middle of everywhere

Wherever I stray!

And it’s true that after I leave the mall

My latest locked bicycle

Will be missing from its space.

And it’s true the police

Will refuse to file a report

Citing coincidence as the likely play;

And it’s true I will look strange on the bus

Shivering, back hurting too much to remove

The incriminating garb.

And it’s true that I will decide to rent a car

To drive dry to pick up the suit

And to get to the interview on Friday;

As it will also be true

That the interview will be cancelled;

As it will also be true

That you will never see me again;

As will also be true

That I will get a call the minute I get home

From my father

Informing me that my suit is now on the way.

But I am only going to tell you

The truth that really matters:

That is,

I have taken off

The plastic hat and the trash bag

And that I am asking you to size me up

Praying that you are not noticing

That my jeans are wet,

Praying,

That when you are measuring my arms

For the suit,

That you aren’t noticing

That the dye from my boots

Has bled onto my sweat socks;

And I’ll be praying that you believe me

When I tell you

That I will be spending my holiday

With my sister

Who lives down on G street,

Praying that I will be

Just another stranger

Walking through

The shadow of your day,

Praying that you will not

Take advantage of my situation

And charge me extra money

Or ensure that I get robbed

In some other way

In the end, maybe you will never know

How important it is

That I get to an interview

As soon as I can

And I mean today!

The post Another Anything for a Little Attention Man appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

To hell with the insipid emptiness

That keeps good people ineptly drowned!

Gaze into the perplexed distress and bless

The self that is so often shackle bound!

This is my pledge to the introspection

That so often is betrayed or unknown

Or left to rot in the gutter of dread

And then scavenged for the insurrection.

Together we starve and wither alone

Our thirst being a statement left unsaid.

There is numbness that grasps the bone

Which is surrounded by layer upon layer

Of prickle that persistently drones

Out experiences that do conjure

Recurrent traumas of spirits within.

Like swollen flesh, nothingness throbs

Throughout enduring routine of day

Expanding its reign under your skin

Until your inner turmoil sobs

Containing misery you cannot delay.

A person’s life will lead that fateful course

As a cog in the machine that exists

To drive humanity like a workhorse

Diligently completing endless checklists

Of technological tasks that don’t wield

The magnitude of human emotion

That lights the sky on the 4^th of July

With vibrant colors boldly revealed.

The production of utter commotion

Neglects emotion with a heavy sigh.

The psyche harnesses a full library

Of tangled needs and twisted fortunes

That become human’s greatest adversary;

And humanity dances to the tunes

Of its own self infatuation.

But oh the sadness that remains unknown

Upon faces that are totally dead.

Dead to themselves, In grand isolation.

They search for connection but remain alone

With original feelings to dread.

So long do people ponder solitude

With all its misery and emptiness.

People suffer from great ineptitude

Their heads soaking in disorganized mess,

Unable to rid themselves from worry

As they write their books of mental duress.

But they do not access their inner strength

Or ride the waves of self-discovery

That bring them the needed relief from stress

That heeds not a soliloquy of length.

People must work hard to discover

The beauty that lurks within the breeze

Which whips and whirls across mother earth—her

Treasure, which transcends mere matter, to seize

The essence of every living being

In which character thrives loving and unkempt.

And how important it is to every creature

To cherish the living element, seeing

The beauty within, that noble concept

That embellishes spiritual features.

There is something that does grow deep inside

Every human being who walks this earth

That, with all minor imperfections aside,

Is beautiful with such intrinsic worth.

This amorphous spiritual structure

Is constantly producing character

That comes out in every damn behavior

Harnessing the decisions that do occur,

The physical body, a mere factor,

An adjustable vacant thing to lure.

Every single internal perspective

Should breathe the life of spontaneity,

So any person of any respective

Background can, with presence that is witty

Be in touch with their inner creation,

Watching themselves unfold in wonder

With all their needs and desires addressed;

With greed and excess in grand succession

And the lessons of life left to blunder

Within a body that is truly blessed.

Heed not the call of the bounding lemming

As it crashes itself deep in the sea!

Listen not to the multitude’s sounding

With its tribute to the land of the free!

Shun this mad dash for material wealth

And speak out against the rich and snooty!

This is a call to the hurting soul

Who sacrifices its spiritual self,

Boldly daring to harm comforts beauty

To feel better about virtuous goals.

The post Ode to Self-Discovery appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

Come travel the depths of this lonely night

Where knotted roots grope for a morsel

Amid the pale faces of flesh undressed

Whose pathways are smitten with pools of blood

That had once been pumped by a vital heart

Now lay stagnant, solitary tear drops.

“Besides,” she says: head bowing, smile sly,

“My boyfriend would really hurt you if he

Found out I was going to leave him for you.”

And suddenly I am flushed through the vein

Into cavern where the vultures might digest

The grim reality we all might call truth.

Outside I dine in tavern with maiden,

So fair, who no longer wants my love stare?

I do not feign to flee into the night

Through thicket of veins that crunch underfoot.

But might these vine grow grapes and berries sweet

That expose my heartache, a vanity?

There is depth deep in this pit of despair

That is truly called to burrow deeper.

So why bother wet the tip of this plume

With the stain of my x generation?

The lame reader will only scoff and suck

Their precious oxygen beneath oak tree.

From the railroad tracks, cross my father’s lawn

To the dust graffiti of the ghetto

I’ve cast my eyes upon the root’s domain

Where radical cysts strangle the silk day,

With puss from the bottomless hole of greed;

As such past traumas are revisited

With the dawn of a new day eminent.

So much waste at so young an age

Cysts absorb nutrients devoid of love.

But I cast off these internal wanderings

While I stand on my pedestal of mold

In the utter recesses of the night

Dreaming of love, commitment, devotion

Lacking the structure of rhyme and reason.

Dump the rack of mint and pepper season

The sound fades to absorbed desolation.

Dump the thyme and rosemary into dust!

Heed not the reverberations of the weak!

Let us travel to a place far away

Above the walls of my dank existence

To where sun nurtures the high desire

And taunt wildflowers sway in the breeze

Fueling the bud of repressed passion;

And while no blood has bloomed I can still see

The iris of my imagination

Through the green mist of the vegetation

Where fair maiden bathes on a blanket.

Oh might I sit in that silent clearing

Might I hold that curve in her spine to mine,

And taste the pure cocktail of her lips?

If not the thunderous crack of her eyelash

That looks towards the door and speaks her firm, “no!”

I look at her from the depths of this site

Knowing that she will not care about

A scavenger of my variety,

Who starves to death with the proud aesthetic.

She has no idea that within the decay,

The corroded grime of sheer existence,

That nurtures my eternal echoing

Of spiteful spasmodic septic sink holes

That there lies a heart that is open and sincere.

The post Dining Room Discourse appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

Having spent last night

In this University town

Tooling around

With well-adjusted kids

Who have nothing

Except time

To charm each other,

I wake late

And am struck

Like a sword in the gut

With thinking about

The stress of the clock

And that ongoing need

For politeness

As I wait

For my host’s

Breakfast to be finished.

My omelet,

Had been prepared to my liking,

And I filled my pack

With free food

For the whole of this

Empty day

As if my life depended on it.

I put my tray of dirty dishes

On a conveyor belt,

And watch

As it disappears

Into a fairyland.

After I depart,

I head into town.

The sun

Spanks off the sidewalk

Highlighting the gardens

With spring tulips

That are more pristine

Than I ever seen

Because a man

Tends them well

For all to see.

I hit the strip:

A gas station

An Italian Restaurant.

The other side of Main Street

Sidewalk disappears

And grass spills like waves

Toward the dirt and gravel

That munch and crackle

Beneath my feet.

There are

Large open lawns

With woodpiles

And dandelions

And sparse houses.

When the road ends I walk

Straight into unclaimed land

That you might find in park.

I walk through

People’s yards

I can’t care anymore.

I imagine

Mustering up powers

Of negotiation,

To the barrel of a shotgun

That might suddenly

Attend to me.

I keep on going

Until I hit the river.

I admire the flow of the

Creamed coffee water

That spurts

Over the collection of stones.

Downstream through thickets,

I try to imagine

That I am deep in a wilderness.

That the flow of the river is familiar

In spite of the soot

Off the interstate

Which is visible above.

Steering myself to stay in the strip

Of woodland that shields

The river from civilization.

I feel the need to balance myself

As one could easily

Fall out of this narrow oasis

Because it is scant.

And the river has graphically

Vomited any trace

Of wood that it has consumed.

So that the banks look

Like a Civil War battlefield

Suddenly a weasel

Scuzz-bugs away from me.

And I am reminded

Of the rats in the city park

Big as rabbits, bounding

Across the sewer.

I feel dirty.

I descend the bank.

I fall to my knees

I think about the University

With its polished floors.

I want to be anointed and purified.

I want to purge

The hatred within.

I raise my eyes,

To an encampment of holes

Up on the bank

And a pair of eyes gleam

I make a dash,

To leave behind the filth.

Further along,

As time presses forward,

There is a back yard

That spills its way down

To the waterline.

Here, pesticide toxins

Battle earth scum,

Beat it back,

Far away

From the artificial perfection

Of chemical green,

Human fashion;

And the driveway is swept black.

And there is a soccer net,

And rope swing

That look strong and secure.

They remind me

Of a young couple’s trust fund

And the tradition

Of education

That I was born into.

Presently,

An embankment

Has emerged on my right.

I ascend it wildly

And find it to be strewn with garbage.

At the top sits an old church

That has been converted

To a vacant convenience store.

On the front door

An old sign reads

“Students Welcome.”

I realize that I am on the road

That exits this University Town.

I start hiking on the road,

Trying to follow the river

As far as I possibly can.

The road forks then ascends

Into a ramp that crosses the river.

I look down at the river

Which descends further toward

The Ocean,

Picking more and more human waste.

In my days at a ghetto University

There was

The library

And the men,

Who cleaned it through the years,

Whose cheesesteaks

I would pack

With meat

To show my gratitude.

There had been

The Glock under the grill

And the shotgun over

The Trashcan

To help me

So that I could pay my rent.

I could follow the river

Deeper into the heartland

Of America—

It continues on its way

Through small towns,

Through back yards

And the locals

Who live in them.

Perhaps I would

Pass my future.

If I could follow it

Further and further;

But I turn around instead

And head back

To the University.

I can’t wait to hop in my car.

When I do,

It’ll only be a few minutes

Until I am far away

From this nowhere place.

The post University Town appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

In the company of his own fellowship

A coldness impales the male persona

As he stands in a barren winter field

Where the rapidly shifting wind throws his

Chilled stiff body into nothingness.

He stands trying to conceal his shiver.

Above the infinite eye of the night

Glares down upon the stupid smallness

Of his existence, reminding him

That millions have died in war, all of whom

Have been embedded into the cold ice

Of this winter night. Masculinity

Searches through the shards of life left living

Harnessing the urges of the carnivore

That kill kill kill with the same raw hands

That make firm handshake contact wi zeal

And that tenderly touch the ladies.

From this austere and enraged body

A serene exterior world is created

That is worn hard with wounds, and that laughs off

The pathetic sentimentality

Of the human tear—never to be known

The inner yearning of the hopeful boy

Who, unlike the girl, is likely to be

Showered with the lush gush of mother’s love.

It is with the eagerness of this child,

That the man runs for shelter from himself

In the shapely form of the loved one’s sex

Its warm womb waits for a procreation

Beckoning for the inner vacancy.

The creases in his face tense with pursuit

As each encounter is entered upon

With the dream of a warmer existence.

And from his isolation he looks down

Into the wonderland of bliss and happiness

Where the beckoning of loud trumpeters

Brings him to a picaresque village

Where children parade the streets with batons

Emitting colors that enhance dimension

Joined by music that captures the air.

The energy of youth is amassed into

Vibrant expressions that spreads love

As if love alone envelops existence.

And so the man attempts to realize his dream

Pushing his lips into some unknown world,

Overpowering resistance that is faced,

And sucking the marrow into possession

As he prays his work is competent.

This tastelessness emerges from male needs

That form the foundation of any

Declaration of unpredictable love.

Which upon being uttered, bitterly wounds

The omnipotence of his apathy

That has weathered the female’s rejection.

Burning red is this bitter rejection

Which throbs with the capillaries

Containing the scarred qualities of a burn

And the whistling fervor of a kettle,

Creating rash and crazy disorder

Like the urgent removal of a sweater.

The heat of male rage flows like static

Through society’s institutions

Bearing aggression that hurts others

But purifies power, enabling

Him to exhibit the mental cleanliness

That maintains his inner captivity.

Undetectable spirits randomly

Scatter and convene like a pack of flies

Within his rotting soul, swindling him

Out of his holism, haunting him

As if they were the damn economy

Haphazardly groping in the dark night.

What would it do to the hurting male heart

To brave new worlds of vulnerability?

The male could dismiss his violent past

And improve his intimate adeptness

Involving himself in child rearing

And nurturing the household with concern,

What would it be like to embrace a love

Beyond the selfish need of sexual urge,

To feel its presence out in the night air

As an anonymous voice possessing

The intimate concern that makes it so

Beautiful, desirable, and loving?

Let the male heart absorb the full spectrum

Of the human experience! Make him

Capable of actualizing his

Internal independent uniqueness.

Let us all enter the night with love’s grace

An yearn for nothing but what lies within

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