I fell for a boy

with a hummingbird heart

and hands the same size as mine

I fell for a boy

anxious with prescriptions

meant to focus his brain

with shifty eyes and skin on fire

I fell for a boy

who made me realize

my whole life I've been flightless

who showed me my wings

even though he knew

they'd take me away from him

I'm in love with a boy

with a steady chest

whose hands are still my size

I'm in love with a boy

free from the drugs that lit the flames

with a steady gaze and softened face

I'm in love with a boy

allowing me to fly away

because he knows I feel his pain

but I just can't stay here in this place

Pulling out of the driveway

turning onto the street

greeted by sudden vision

ineffably complete

sundrenched lawn

lithe coltish girl

miracle nighthair

to the top

of her blessedly

bountiful

beautiful

bottom

I cried aloud

as Pink Floyd

poured from

the radio:

"Good G-d! Thank you!

On this day

You have curved space

in a manner most magnificent,

and I, your Atheist Prophet

praise Thee!"

Good thing I never

saw her face--

might have been struck

too blind to scribe

this Psalm.

My social-media rep is that I'm a Leftist; this couldn't be further from the truth. I am a Moderate Anarchist, which means that if all human laws were done away with tomorrow, NOTHING WOULD CHANGE about how I do business.

I would not become a thief, murderer, rapist, or liar. I wouldn't abuse my kids, start doing heavy drugs, or driving drunk out of my mind. Why would I abuse the social contract that way, and set myself up for bad karma?

Quick lesson: Left Anarchists believe that if there were no laws, people would choose to cooperate more often than compete. Right Anarchists believe they would choose to compete more often than cooperate. (For example, Ken Kesey was a Left Anarchist; the Sons of Anarchy are Right Anarchists).

I'm a Moderate Anarchist, because hey, it would probably run about 50/50 either way. A violent and confusing world might result? Could it be worse than now? Trouble is, Anarchism is for Grownups, and as a race, Humanity is currently a surly Tween...

Back then i believed i was always pissing off God. Asking forgiveness, and for what it was i did do? That self flagellation i went through each time my perpetrator unleashed his torment and words - i was a pathetic, useless, sick, evil twisted bitch. The struggle each day that saw me fall short, but then there were times he was screaming and spitting in my face shouting that "you think you are so fucking perfect" - i became so confused. Shame - draw the curtains, stay inside - so messed up now - could he be right? Each time he tortured my mind, i punished my body, do you know what it is like to feel what you cannot see, i had no visible bruises just scars that ran deep. Madness creeping in. Mixed up, messed up so terribly confused - Tell me God, how should i have dealt with the abuse?

For you God i drank down so much guilt of feeling he was right - i tried so hard for so long to serve and honour he, to improve for thee, believing that i was the blame, it was my fault - Dear God - you saved me when i finally got away i thank you today for such insight. To have believed that perhaps there really was something so terribly wrong with me, yet you ask me to forgive God, all the bad that was done to me. Was it you too punishing me for my earlier sins? After all, i had stood before that altar and made a promise to You, i vowed to always love in sickness, in health, for richer, for poorer, until death us do part - it seems i broke that promise too, did i fail in your eyes? he still tells the children of how i broke his heart. He would remind me always of that promise we had made, that i did not want to go down the path of Divorce, of what it would do to him, his children, only he knew the repercussions, only he had suffered pain. There, right there, i was always brought back with guilt. Did i piss you off God because i could no longer serve against the genocide taking place on my mind, the monster that stole time, that broke a christian family of four - oh yes, we have suffered God yet we are standing still. Today, i do not forsake you but invite the paraclete in, for i understand that when man starts to respond to the spirit and forego his ego only then can he transform the self and begin again to align & serve you. I may have pissed you off, days still where i'm not sure if i could have done more or for what it was i didn't do? but know this - to be standing today, nearly, hopefully soon to be whole, is because i always kept faith in you.

I have been woken from my deliciously deep sleep, and must be ever aware of others needs, so instead of wading into the noisemakers with both barrels on full automatic, today I shall be as a leaf shaken by the passing wind, and remain calm. Everything must pass, and that includes angst ridden young Spanish waiters who, in the height of their youth, cannot talk in hushed tones, nor move about in silence.

So I shall maintain my composure and write.

I shall find my oasis of calm in the written word and will allow the construct of my mind to lull my being back to a state were blissful reposes becomes the inevitable outcome.

Alas dear reader, but I have no subject on which to write, so shall just let the letters fall as they will and decide later whether I should post it.

I wrote yesterday of Roger the groundsman as he fought his losing battle with the elements. The poor man has today taken to have a days rest and has remained at home rather than face the Ypres that is his job. I cannot fault him in that, as I noticed when finishing my shift earlier today, his once swaying tulips have swooned completely, such was the ferocity of yesterdays wind, the wreckage of his efforts is clear to see so no gardening today.

I have to tell you that I have begun to see Prose in a slightly different hue than before and this is no bad thing. If I simply write about my day (and perhaps my night), it would take the form of a diary, albeit a dull one. If I write purely to satisfy my own pleasures, would it still be of interest to any readers out there? I doubt it, Prose is not for the deep, immersive twenty thousand word novel is it? Today's readers are as bees that flit from piece to piece in minutes, a cursory read that may result in a heart or comment to pollenate the writer before moving on and repeating the process.

And there's no fault in that is there?

I am happy to report that all has fallen to calm here, so I may have succeeded in riding out the storm. The Spanish are keen on their siesta after all and perhaps it is time for me to sleep once more.

I do so apologise for the lack of any interesting focal point in this write, but I have achieved what I set out to do. Should any bees have gotten this far I salute your patience. Goodnight.

There's no room for a funeral here

Too much to do and so little care

The kids need feeding

And the water needs heating

And that all costs some money

There's no room for a funeral here

No time to mourn loved ones, dear

The clothes need branding

Gluttony's so demanding

And all that you'll owe is your youth

There's no room for a funeral here

Pasted smiles show so much cheer

The company's still growing

And there's no pausing, no slowing

And all that it costs is your soul

I am not real.

I am walking fiction.

I am made up of people I've read about and songs I've listened to and movies I've seen.

My words are not my own.

They are fabricated lies, drifting from one person to the next.

I am hand-me-downs

I am secondhand smoke

I am the lingering of a bad dream.

I am who people need me to be.

I am the characters

within the page,

I am the characters

living on stage.

I am reading lines from a storybook and playing that role out for you, fooling you

that I am she.

Fooling you I've made this character breathe, when in reality, these lies are taking over me.

Any player who says they aren't nervous is lying. You are minutes away from stepping onto the court in front of thousands of fans and unless you are a top 4 seed the majority won't be yours. You know millions more are watching at home thanks partly to the spirit of the tourney and mostly to vegas. Since the selection friends, family, and alumni have been coming out of the woodworks to let you know they will be watching which is really to say don't let them down.

Before the game, coach gives a pregame talk but you aren't listening. You have heard it all before and none of it matters. Not now. Now it is about you and your brothers whom you have battled with since 6am conditionings in August. Through 2 a days, 3 a days, winning streaks, losing streaks, empty home games, 8 hour bus rides, and coach's bullshit. Somehow you managed to stay together, connected to a collective vision bigger than any one man. Through it all you kept climbing together and what you have to show for it is a bond that can't be bent or broken. No amount of haters, doubters, groupies, or supports can infiltrate your sanctum.

In the tunnel you stand, arms around one another's shoulders circled around an invisible pool that has collected all of the blood, sweat, tears, accomplishments, setbacks, laughs, fights, stories, and passion from the entire season. As captain you step into the pool, channel all of that energy to remind your brothers one last time what this is all about. Us. Our team, our dream, our destiny. To pour our hearts contents out onto the court for the man on either side because you damn well know he will doing the same for you.

With that you run into the bright lights. Onto the court where 15,000 Duke fans chuckle at little Lehigh. Where millions of fans turned the channel having marked this game as over before it started.

You don't blame them. They didn't know. They weren't in the circle with you. They couldn't feel the power in our pool.

When you won, you weren't surprised. You had expected to win from the moment you drew their name. Because you knew the power in your pool. Others made a big deal out of the game. Calling it the greatest upset in NCAA history. You laughed at this idea. An upset.