Such an evolution with this blog. You can see it in the content of the poems, their formatting, and the range of complexity. From a seed, an inkling of a potential hobby that I was toying with, into a seedling, something I obsess over for a good ten-fifteen minutes every day or few days.

I don’t always read my news feed, but when I do, I am impressed.  I also don’t always know how to respond to interactions like comments, but I appreciate them when they come. Even if comments/likes don’t come, just you taking the time to read my stuff is cool to me. I mean it. So, thank you all.

Coffee shop conversation with god

“You can’t win a fight, you can only lose experience. Remember that to lose is to force yourself into a need for adaptation. A man’s survival increases,” god said.

The coffee shop was buzzing with the chatter of over ten pedestrians all paired off at tables. There was a long line out the front door: placid face pedestrians all trying to look content with waiting in line for over twenty minutes. A T.V spewed the latest celebrity gossip.

 “What is survival?” I asked.

I sipped a fruit smoothie from a straw.

“…To win is to become stagnant, dumber, more renowned, targeted, and less experienced,” God said after some thought.

I wondered if he heard me. The sound of the blaring T.V and the sound of the pedestrians made it hard to focus.  

“Intimacy is the killer of innocence. Innocence is enjoying survival.”

“What is survival?” I asked once again.

I spoke a little louder than I needed to. A redhead with a ‘Rock star’ t-shirt tipped her head down at me with narrowed eyebrows.

“There is no need to survive if you aren’t enjoying it, i.e survival must be stimulating,” God said elusively. “That is to say, it makes you happy. Happiness is innocence; innocence is the acceptance of enjoying survival. Enjoying survival is the ability to be who you are which is the person that survived.

“You aren’t who you were before your last need for adaption. You lost. Therefore, adaption was needed. If you won, you would be dead by now. Death is in the spiritual and the physical. That is to say, stagnation can lead to a walking dead being, nothing but a stiff corpse creeping around waiting for its time to lay in a casket for good. Life is a waiting room then.”

“Why don’t they die right away?” I asked.

I doodled a daisy on a folded piece of paper with a pen that skipped every few inches. I had to shake the pen in hopes I could get the ink inside the pen to funnel out.

“To die is to experience something an alive person can’t comprehend. Therefore, you only understand death as an imagined version of existence…most likely an undesirable or overly simplified existence. Think of your typical understandings of the afterlife.

“hell is hot; heaven is heavenly; reincarnation leads to an insane cycle that never ends. Life after death is always either as bland or exciting as you can or want to accept. However, death is still just a concept only a conscious being can understand. So, consider the dead or the possibility to die an impossibility to comprehend only assume and mock. like the way a bird that flies can’t understand the slithering of a snake.

“Eagles eat snakes,” I said coyly.

I finished my smoothie. The crowd was droning on about bland gibberish. My ears picked up a name now and then. Someone’s cousin’s best friend committed suicide but her sister, Susan, refuses to allow her daughter to go to the funeral. Gossip is the sound of the people. Birds sing, and we harmonize our blabbermouths in elaborately breathy ways.

“Back to survival?” God said with a chuckle. “You are projecting your essence into this realm thereby creating chaos from patterned behavior. It’s a wave; it’s a particle. That means the wave is structured, constant, and redundant stagnation that goes on forever.

“This realm is one of infinite possibilities that are all existent at the same time. When you interact with this realm of infinity you bring limited possibility into existence;

“the wave turns into a particle—a single point from several possible points—so to speak. You are that point. You are the infinite appearing as a finite thing.

“You project yourself into this realm. The deeper into this realm you go the more layers you create. Think of layers like the way a boat travels through water, leaving a wake, or the way a water droplet falls into a pound, and then ripples are sent out. The many ripples of the boat’s wake are the layers of your existence. In the same way, the ripples that widen away from the entry point of the water droplet are your layers of existence.”

“Uh-huh,” I said as I was trying to pry my attention from a starlet on the flat screen. “What are these layers?”

God finished his blueberry muffin and then tapped my empty smoothie cup. A strawberry and vanilla smoothie mix filled the cup to the brim. I sipped the drink from the straw.  

“The entry point is existence. You call this consciousness. Here you are the one that knows all. You rationalize this as ‘intuition,’ or a higher sense of self that is connected to everything.

“More put, your consciousness is the essence of you that knows of infinite possibilities but demands a single finite possibility. However, it is the only layer that can change ‘you,’ or the idea of ‘you’ because it knows that ‘you’ are just a finite creation formed from the infinite.”

“It’s a wave; it’s a particle,” I repeated.

“The next is the layer that you identify with your senses. Once a possibility is made, life is created. Life is an existence of any kind.”

“Even, say, Jupiter is a form of life?” I asked sarcastically.

The redhead was drinking an iced coffee and reading a magazine lazily. The magazine had the actress Zendaya posing on the cover in a sparkling gown and blue high heels. The redhead was with a friend that looked to be stress-fully studying for a test coming up.

“You think therefore you are, but you have to assume the planet doesn’t think also,” God said. “But I ask  you: do you have habitual behavior?”

“Yes. I bet if I was seen from afar I would have a certain pattern of behavior even I wouldn’t know about,” I said.

“So does a planet, and it even has more complex processes than you. You digest and a planet can have a turning core. In fact, taking this planet, for example, its ecosystem keeps you alive while also giving you the nutrients needed to produce thoughts, which are made up of the same thing a planet naturally produces, electricity. It wouldn’t make sense for you to truly think that this plant doesn’t ‘think.’”

“So, this world is real?” I asked.

“You sense the world in a limited way based on the point the consciousness decided on. Though the decision can change because a permanent point, true definiteness, doesn’t exist in a world of indefiniteness. Life is just an expression of a single possibility taken from a pool of infinite possibilities.”

“Sure. Next level?” I asked.

“Mind: the civil thinker,” God said. “The social creature. The habitual being. The enjoyment of the senses is done on this level. If picking a point is up to the consciousness — for whatever reason — then the mind is to make sense of the definiteness it is being presented by the senses. It calls the finished outcome ‘reality.’

“What is real or not is based on what is understandable and emotionally stimulating. Our egos, the self that identifies as an individual—whatever that is that goes by a name or some type of identification that you answer to—needs both logic and emotion. Before something is accepted as “real” you must understand. Therefore, your senses must be able to pick up on the stimuli. Then you must develop some relative and largely changeable emotion to the phenomena.

“Emotions or being emotionally stimulated is the act of feeling something about whatever is sensed. You call that process ‘experiencing the world or being grounded in reality.’ However, what you feel is largely irrelevant. It is all about perspective. The wet rock feels it is cleaner than the muddy crystals in the cave, and the snow-drenched boulder feels loftier than everything below, and what about the stars? Well, the stars don’t even care about anything earthlings could imagine.”

“You are trying to say that my wants, feelings, desires, and what not essentially the essence of my personality is just drivel?” I asked.

God chuckled.

“That word is insulting. I hate to insult. The next layer is the body. The body is a layer of protection between your mind and consciousness. If consciousness can affect the infinite realm and present life; therefore, another life is just the outcome of the infinite presenting itself as a finite existence called life. Maybe it is a friend, enemy, or butterfly, etc.

“The body is a way for the conscious being to place a barrier between it and another meddlesome hand…A saint only knows what sin is because he isn’t pure. How else would he be able to preach to sinners?”

Everyone in the coffee stopped talking and with chillingly placid faces stared at me. Even the newscaster on the flat screen stopped reading the teleprompter and stared into the screen with her green eyes.

Then the coffee shop caught on fire so quickly that each person, besides me and god, and table in the building was engulfed in flames within seconds.

“The body,” God went on, “has rules that allow for distraction and complexity. Think of accessing another person’s consciousness beyond the physical like cracking encryption. The body has standards of materialism but all materialism is just appearance and is dependent on what the consciousness allows.

“Authority drills downward. Therefore, the physical is not in control of itself. The materialistic is adaptable in the same way randomizing a password is possible to prevent further cracking of encryption.”

The fire was swaying madly around us now. The people engulfed were wailing for mercy and the newscaster was on the flat screen talking about cryptocurrency with a grin.

“Lastly, the closest layer to you is the soul. It is the moral self. The one lost in the matrix. The definite acceptance of being only an definite self. Therefore, this layer is focused on bettering itself because it believes there is no other possibility other than the one it perceives. ‘You must play the cards dealt.’ However, the soul doesn’t understand how it ever started playing the game, to begin with.

“…Souls create society. Souls preach of sin and redemption. Souls are lost in the loops of time and space. Seconds, hours, days, weeks, months, and years are all counted in circles, closed loops. There is no escape from the definite acceptance of the finite because there is nothing beyond what is known as the finite for the soul…”

Paid my dues

I guess or should I say I confess that I am still hurt over how angry everyone was (years ago there was such a fuss)… but I was so obnoxiously confused… but instead of help they used that confusion against me in a malicious manner to further their bitter assault.

I don’t feel dead inside. I hate sin. I only bit the hand that fed because it was feeding me poison.

I need to take prescription medicine or my mental health spirals down into depths lower than the singularity of a black hole.

I talk recklessly, but I paid my dues and lied in bed for nights and days restlessly. This isn’t wisdom I am spewing. This is insanity with extravagant pandering.  

A little less of the world today

Flush out all of the need to know

I can’t even remember the face of that foe

Or why I feel guilty for deliberately taking the blow (Strike)

A little less fiending to stay informed

The more they know the more ignorant they act

Today I am going to forget there ever was a thing called a ‘fact’

And look for fewer things to react to or demand someone redact

When you preach you only reach those who are willing to listen

And often they only do that cause of how your words glisten

Pretty monologue but the meaning behind the words are lost in a smog-

of sorts inside their minds —a mix of irrational reason and curiosity

say the right words, they giggle or clap; say the wrong and they turn violently

so a little less indulgence in that today

its time to allow my innocence to play


It is always weird for me to address ‘you,’ ‘they’ or the ‘world’ because I never felt akin to any of those things. I constantly have a strong sense of dissociation from everything around me. One foot in this world and another foot somewhere else, so to speak. So I am learning to accept that there is no ‘other’, just me (that is, what ‘I’ sense and how ‘I’ interpret it).

If you are reading this, and you are ‘real,’ then here is a quote that may help you: ‘If you can ponder in-depth on what you counter, you are its reflection.’ That is to say, you are what you are fixated on even if you hate it.

If you are not real, then that is just a reminder to myself to not overindulge in the ‘technical’ details of this dream—a type of paradoxical illusion…whatever that means.

Photo by Diogo Brandao from Pexels

What is trauma?

Taking accountability

While bearing the burden of responsibility

Just to have your sense of tranquility

Gutted for someone’s entertainment

Enter the tainted world of likes and views to show amusement

My chaotic mental state leading to their frantic hate

A sliver of a horrendous year reduced to a viral video

Now the ‘community’ is fuming at me

But the truth of the matter always gets edited out

Cause the grayness of the situation will never get their fixation

Looking down at a jigsaw puzzle you almost finished

One last piece and that will be the end of the scrimmage

Between you and the scattered pieces

Order from chaos

But the last piece is nowhere to be found

And when you look down

the puzzle depicts

What was lost, so you can’t figure out

If you are accomplished or impoverished

A perfect event that your ego claims as it’s best amigo

Everything in its place to make life seem out of place

Disarranged, rearranged, and maybe a little deranged

In a way, it’s terrific (splendid) how horrific it was

An event worth remembering

because it was all about you

A stimulating thought whenever you want to feel blue


There are levels of how you look at emotions, memories, events, etc. Even trauma can be broken down into just an imagined thought that is centered on you being the victim. There is nothing wrong with that though. However, it is just a thought. So think of a traumatic event the same way as you think of a blissful time. It isn’t really the event, but instead, it is how you feel about it, and no matter what, the best most relived events are centered around you. You can’t escape the ego. Creativity requires a perspective that is dependent on your sense of self. In the same way, when creating reality it requires a purpose which is nothing but you picking a perspective and defining everything from that one viewpoint. That is your trauma. That is your bliss.

Pain, emotional or physical, is real. I know that too well. However, notions of pain being good or bad is not.

Photo by Vijay Sadasivuni from Pexels

If I was you

I wouldn’t like me either

Cause it ain’t you that I care about

I’m talking to myself–lost in an echo chamber

You are a concept in my silly mind

objectification goes beyond misogyny

If I don’t insult that is just a missed opportunity

But in my mind, I am enlightening you, just imprudently

But how can I educate something I don’t comprehend

You are an avatar, a tag line, and slivers of art

Merely pieces of you digitized after you fell to pieces

Maybe after you were criticized, minimized, and stigmatized

That is how you civilize–get children to believe the lies

So you aren’t even you.

Institutional indoctrination is merely someone coloring by numbers

We are the crayons.

Cheer up. You are a pretty shade of baby blue

In hopes of a breakthrough before your dreams fall through

Because even as a baby you knew the blues

And they wanted to educate that out of you before maturity

Even if mortality was certain.


Does it seem like I am talking to a person/persons in particular when you read these poems? In my mind, humanity is nothing but a imagined idea based on assumptions from what people speak/write or act out. Therefore, you emit stimuli (lets call it energy if you are spiritual) and my brain interprets it as it will. I call it reality. But I know reality is just a idea then. So it can’t be real, in the all engrossing way, because reality can be defined.

Basically I am normally stuck someplace between where the stimuli (From you, the world, etc) enters the brain just before reality is imagined based on what was sensed.

There aren’t “people” when you think like this. There are only patterns (call it Synchronicity if you must) all linking together in some sort of supernatural webbing. I speak on these patterns. So, I am talking to you, but in the same way I am not.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels

A typical morning of temptation…PT. 1


This is Part one of chapter one for the book My love…My life, a romance/slice of life novel. I wrote it a few years back, and only now revisiting it out of nostalgia. I am editing as I go. So, let me know how you feel about it.


Chapter 1

I live in a studio apartment; it’s small, but it is more space than my imagination cares to make use of. The walls are bare except for a framed photograph of a ladybug resting on a curled leaf. The living room consists of only a little dining table. That same table is the one I used to when younger drape a lacy table cloth over. I would eat grilled cheese sandwiches while sipping raspberry tea atop it. My dining mate was my supposedly “imaginary” boyfriend. I eventually broke up with because he was a grouchy lad that would consistently lock Waffles, my plump rabbit, in closets. He would also toss on the floor the contents of my dresser drawer when I left the room.

The table is across from my bed, which is a few feet from a bookshelf, stocked with nearly every book I ever read in my life. The bathroom is a little nook. The bathtub has feet instead of erupting from the tiled floor like a hillock. The kitchen is a narrow inlet where I cook like a coy chef.

I humbly keep each meal as simple as possible despite my exceptional culinary skills. I, during my early teen years, used to attend a cooking class that was taught by a mature, overwhelmingly attractive woman, whose slender eyebrows were elegantly curved like the neck of a harp. She once innocently touched me so tenderly, a simple stroke on the cheek, after I successfully baked a carrot cake. I trembled for a few seconds before silently erupting like a boy.

I have to be at work by 7:30 to meet Karina, my boss, in front of her office building, a small two-story structure with a brick front that is as white as a mime’s face.

I still feel covered in Ivy’s kisses. I take a quick shower, search my closet for something to wear, eventually deciding on a black peasant blouse and high-waist shorts, eat breakfast (blini served with sour cream and milk), and leave my apartment around 6:45.

I meet Carol on the elevator. We were both going down to the street. He owns a restaurant on Maury lane. Carol’s chin and cheeks are coated with black hairs that lay down like a silky terrier’s coat. He is a slender, pale man with bright blue eyes that look like a summer sky blotched with clouds. He always flirts with me. I suspect that he believes that every charming man possesses the ability to convince a gay woman to convert, even if only for a single night.

“Hello, Adel.” He leans against the back of the elevator and considers me. “Have I told you that you have bewitchingly gentle eyes?”

“Thank you, Carol. My girlfriend is fond of my eyes also. You both are too kind.”

“I met her, haven’t I? She is a redhead, and if I remember correctly has never been with a male in her life.”

“That’s her. Though I am not sure why she would tell you that last tidbit.”

“I believe that was my fault. She confused my banter for some flirtatious drivel and decided she had to draw a line in the sand. Anyway, she is a very beautiful woman.”

The elevator door slides open. We both head towards the front entrance. As we walk, Carol babbles on about his restaurant, which was just remodeled and received a pleasant review from a normally snobbish critic. He mentions that I should visit sometime with Ivy. I promise him I would stop by. We part ways: he walks on foot to his restaurant, and I head towards my car.

The sun just finished licking up the early morning mist. As I unlock my car door, it strikes me that early morning silence is such a treat for the ears. When I was a college student and very miserable, I used to imagine that paradise was a place of infinite white space that was unable to cradle sound. I figured that a human would eventually become drowsy and drift into a slumber. I always believed that the illusion of free choice is a misinterpretation of the need to choose. Later, I figured that I was in paradise whenever I was tenderly assailed by a young lady (whose name now evades the glare of my mind’s eye). She was adept at bullying my brittle body into trembling submission. The poor girl felt the agony of being in a relationship so intensely that we barely talked. After I met Ivy, I figured that I was in paradise whenever I had the chance to rest my temple against her inner thigh.

On my way to work, I stop at Ada’s diner. This greasy smoke-filled place serves a delightful breakfast casserole, Karina’s favorite. I afterward stop by the grocery store to pick up a grapefruit and a bottle of fruity water. I reach Bay Avenue, three blocks away from Sunny Street, where Karina’s office resides, and remember that on Mondays, I usually buy Karina a fresh carton of cigarettes. She doesn’t require me to buy cigarettes or breakfast, but I receive pleasure from being at her service. After stopping for the cigarettes, I park behind the building and walk to the front.

There is a green bench in front of the office that is stationed next to the door. Every weekday morning, I sit on the bench and wait for Karina to arrive. I place the tepid bag that is holding Karina’s food on my lap and peel my grapefruit with my nails, polished but colorless. I know it is ten minutes before 7:30, because I see turning the street corner the old man that takes a stroll routinely around this time with his granddaughter. The young girl walks with a small, almost unnoticeable swing of her hips as she is tugged along by a leashed miniature pinscher. Her adorable cheeks are swollen, and her teeth gated behind bejeweled metal braces. She is loquacious, but her companion’s lips are usually closed around a cigar as he bobs his bald head.

Karina pulls up 15 minutes after 7:30. She drives her husband’s Rolls-Royce, which is raven black with shaded windows. She parallel parks in front of the office. Her hair is sheathed underneath a white scarf that is tied elaborately to the side.

“On time, as usual, Miss Capelle,” Karina says. She has a thick accent that pleasantly tickles the ears. “I am sorry I am late,” she says as she digs into her purse for her keys, “I got into a tiff with my husband this morning. He can be such a cad at times, and when he is not swollen with hostility, he is just a bore.”

As a poet, even though foreign, she enjoys complex sentences. I hand her the food I bought. She thanks me and invites me to eat breakfast with her.

First, I check the voice mailbox at my desk. I have a picture of Ivy, wearing a short red dress and atop her head a flower Wool Skull Cap. She is petting the air with her extended tongue.  Other than that small framed picture, my desk is barren of any sentimental objects. I did once for a few months have a goldfish, a pitch-black creature with bloated eyes, but it died. Its death irritated me so much that I refused to buy a new one.

After I finish with the voice mailbox, I change the bottle atop the water cooler with some difficultly. I then get a plate from the cabinet to place my grapefruit atop and prepare a pot of coffee for Karina.

Karina sits behind her desk while I sit atop it, at her request, next to her with the plate on my lap. Her office is big enough to hold a couch, at a comfortable distance from her work area; a coffee table, situated in front of the couch; and an aquarium filled with seawater, inhabited by a lone gold band maroon clownfish. The walls are decorated with oil paintings that she acquired over the years. My favorite painting is of a ballerina on her tippy toes with one leg extended in the air partly concealed by her sprawled tutu. Her arms were extended out like the wings of a bird, and there was elegant contentment on her face.

“So as I was saying, he accuses me of being unfaithful,” Karina says. “At the height of his insanity, he digs into his pocket and pulls out two cuff links that he found in the car. I recognize them right away and try to explain to him that a man did in fact, give them to me; however, I paid that man for them and was planning on giving it to my hubby as a present. They were lost, however, before I reached home. I was simply too tired to look for them. You remember that weekend of that disastrous art show, don’t you?” 

“I do. Though I believe you did a wonderful job organizing it. The art, on the other hand, was dreadful.”

“Yes, it was,” Karina says with a sigh.

“Did he calm down after that?”

“No, he hit me: one good slap across the face.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“I was fine. The strike was halfhearted. Anyway, I swiped him with my knee. The way he squealed made me think for a few seconds that I burst one of his cherries.” She giggled and then bit her lightly painted lip. “I find this all rather humorous. If anyone is close to cheating, it is most likely him.”

“What type of girl does he prefer?”

“He likes a waitress at ‘Cho lows.’ Her blond hair is chopped and disheveled. She is built like a slim boy. I bet he would love that young thing’s snug vagina, small tits, and the childlike coos she most likely makes in bed. That would probably break his dam, which is something he can’t even do with me.”

After breakfast, I retreat to my desk and start my usual secretarial duties. Around noon Karina’s husband shows up. He has on a black and white pinstripe suit. He walks toward my desk, rubbing the back of his neck. Light melts into puddles atop his completely bald head. His ears are pierced with two tiny twinkling diamonds, a birthday present I helped Karina pick out. He is handsome, but his face bores me, in the same way, a perfectly colored in coloring book page does.

“Hello, Daymond,” I say with a smile. “Karina is—”

“I know she is here. What type of mood is she in?” he says, picking up the stack of mail that was on the edge of my desk.

“She didn’t mention anything to me, but she looks troubled about something.”

“I am going back. No calls. You can go to lunch if you like.”

He takes the mail and closes the door to Karina’s office behind him. For about 10 minutes, there was silence. Soon after that, Karina’s voice deflowered the stillness of the office. I couldn’t make out what was being said. Truthfully, I had little interest in their dispute. I find quarreling couples revolting to the senses.

“My love…my life” pt. 2 of prologue

   

Prologue pt. two

  Ivy wraps her arms around my waist and rests her chin atop my bare shoulder as we wait in line. Her affection for me always seems bashful and artless which reminds me that I am one of the very few persons she has loved. At the concession stand, she buys me a large bag of popcorn and a cherry soda. I can tell she likes the girl at the cash register. It is the cashier’s radiant smile, near-mute laughs, and the way she has a habit of sweeping chunks of milk chocolate hair out of her blushed face every few seconds.

While walking down the hallway to our seats, Ivy takes a close look at me. She kisses me on the cheek.

     “I wasn’t flirting. I swear,” she whispers to me with a childlike innocence that makes me smile

     We usually sit in the back of the theater, because Ivy has a minuscule attention span and often just when a movie climax becomes interested in making me blush and squirm. We watched a romance starring a blond, moss green-eyed actress who begrudgingly falls in love with a charming painter. It was a real bore. However, I noticed that the actor playing the painter had a certain girlish something about him—maybe it was his long eyelashes, tiny sleek coils of hair, or maybe his thin purplish lips—that made me think about Kacy Ross. 

I was fifteen when I met her. She was six years my senior. I knew her through a reading club. After a while, we began to hang out like old friends. Kacy would stroll in the front door of my aunt’s house, usually when my aunt wasn’t at home, wearing some alluring summer dress. Her calves wrapped in stockings. Eyelids painted purple. Ruby lips kissing a cigarette. Some wildflower she plucked from the soil entwined in her golden locks. Sun-kissed shoulders exposed.

She was more conventionally beautiful than the gated community we both lived in. She was a few streets away from me, but drive a Mercedes that her father gave her for her sweet sixteen birthday. One evening while the sun was bleeding out, staining the clouds orange, Kacy talked me into playing a drinking game with her. After a few losses, I was filled with a bubbly bliss, and I blurted out how much I liked her. With one of her thin rainbow arched eyebrows slightly raised in an inquisitive fashion, she asked me if I was gay. I sheepishly shrugged my shoulders. “You are. I can tell,” she said. She then took my hand and led me into my room. A pearl of girlish laughter fluttered from my lips as I felt her tongue roll over me. From then on for two straight summers, she would, whenever she had the chance.

 By our third summer together, our romance ended with me sobbing over her grave with my aunt’s gloved hand on my back. On the eve of her suicide, Kacy told me about her plans. I was lying on my side with nothing on but pink ankle-high socks watching her gaze at herself in my dresser mirror with a sullen expression.

“…..you better not tell anyone about what I told you today, or I will never forgive you…not even in the afterlife.”

I sat up and nodded. She kissed me, and I felt sadness shoot through me like a cold chill. I didn’t tell anyone. I felt like I owed her my loyalty since she so many times thumbed my soul so tenderly with her ardent touch.

     Back in the present, the movie fades to black. I am sniffling and petting my moist eyes. The lights come on. I try to hide my face from Ivy. When she leans over to ask me what is wrong, I feel her mane of hair, which is burgundy— each strand coiled like a slightly stretched slinky—, tickle the side of my cheek. Her voice is like a quick, tepid shower over the memories of Kacy that slowly washes them away. I tell her it is my allergies. Ivy is easily jealous like a woman is uncontrollably ticklish—so telling her that I was crying over a past lover, one she thought was particularly insane, would baffle and dishearten her.

     Outside, a warm breeze plays with Ivy’s hair swaying the loose coils around like wind chimes. The sun is hidden behind a thick grey curtain. I hear the sound of screeching tires behind me. A man in a pinstriped shirt absentmindedly walked in front of a car.

His coffee splattered over the windshield and his body laid limp atop the hood. Similar to the way droplets of water slid down the slick sides of a bathtub, people gathered around the scene.

A tall man in a checkered blazer holds a cell phone to his ear while nervously combing his caramel hair with his right hand. A small group of elderly women peered at the lifeless man atop the hood of the car—one of the women covered her mouth with a hand that was clutching a pink handkerchief, flapping in the breeze. The driver of the car, a young woman wearing shorts, a plaid shirt that was partly open exposing nothing but a pale flat chest, and a floral headscarf, buries her head between her husband’s shoulder and neck while weeping.

     “Oh that’s horrible,” Ivy says with a pout.

     She looks over to me. Her eyes searching me for a conceivable emotion. My silence and indifference must have pricked her because she makes a face like she is uncomfortable. I have a feeling like I should apologize after that even though I don’t know what for. Before I could get the words out my mouth, she speaks.

     “Come on let’s get out of here,” she said while stroking a chunk of hair out my face. “Before we head back, we can stop by the bakery and pick up a couple of slices of apple crumble pie.”

     The floor and counters of the bakery are stained in yellowish light. Pastries, little cream covered cakes, and chocolates are contained behind slabs of glass, like delicate specimens on display. A little girl—dressed in a polka dot dress that surrounds her little rosy knees, like an outstretched umbra—munches on a cookie sandwich. The whipped cream smears her swollen cheeks. Ivy and I wait in line. Maybe it is the grim accident that provokes the need to tell me, but she whispers in my ear that she loves me.

     Ivy buys me a whole apple pie and herself a fudge brownie. As we head for the door, something catches her eye. She dismisses the sight at first, but a second later turns for a second look.

     “That’s Esha,” she says with discreet jubilation. She ogles the morsel in pink high-waist short overalls. “God, she looks good.” A thought strikes her, and the way she winces is cute.  “….but she isn’t as beautiful as you.”

I grasp her hand and lightly press my lips to her knuckles.

“I’ll be outside, Ivy.”

“No. Please. I want you to meet her. She is as sweet as honey.”

She takes my hand and leads me toward Esha, who is standing by herself with her hands hidden in her pockets. Ivy greets Esha with a hug and introduced me as her girlfriend; by the look on Esha’s face, she didn’t know Ivy had such a thing.

When Esha brought her lips together, they formed a plump little heart since her bottom lip hung so low. She possesses two lanky legs of a cinnamon complexion. Her voice is dulcet even though a little husky. Her eyes were like two bottomless rabbit holes that I felt like I stumbled into every time I peered at her face.

However, I know what Ivy likes about her: her modest bosom that probably makes two perfect handfuls, petite but noticeable butt, and the tiny beauty mark under her right eye.

Ivy and Esha begin chatting about a new lesbian club that opened a month ago. Ivy loves the club scene; she adores the girls that gyrate their hips tactlessly to the beat exploding out the club speakers, faces sparkling like the Milky Way, noses caked with cocaine. Her admiration for those silly girls sours quickly though, usually after a single night with them or right there on the dance floor.

I know this because on two occasions a vindictive female has contacted me, probably finding my number in Ivy’s cell phone as “love of my life”, sparing me no detail about their brief affair with Ivy that ultimately ended in heartbreak.

“A group of my friends is heading down there Wednesday. You should come. You can bring…..” my name eludes Esha’s memory.

“Adel,” Ivy says. “She doesn’t really like clubs though. Can’t blame her; they can be a bore.”

“Oh don’t be like that. You will have fun; I promise.”

Ivy eventually agrees, trying her best to dilute her apparent enthusiasm with artificial skepticism for my sake. The thunder I hear outside reminds me of the grumble furniture makes when it is moved around atop hardwood floors. The first few rain droplets begin to fall from grace plummeting towards the earth. Ivy tells Esha that we should be leaving because we walked. We move towards the door; Ivy stops on the door mate.

“I forgot her phone number. I must get it,” she says almost in a whisper. “I’ll be right out.”

Her lust must have been prickling her horribly. I could tell that her modest lie embarrassed her. Esha’s agreement to a tryst would be a soothing remedy.

I turn to observe the street. Some people already have umbrellas in hand. Lightning streaks the sky. The clouds then grumble. Ivy embraces me from behind and speaks softly into my ear. She wants us to rush home and spend the rest of the afternoon in the bedroom. I agree in that innocently obedient way that excites her.

Just as we reach the stairs of her apartment complex, the sky begins wailing intensely. From the hallway, Ivy looks at the parking lot being battered by thousands of tiny silver crystals. While ascending the stairs to Ivy’s apartment we run into Ashley.

Ashley took a liking to me. After observing Ivy kissing a girl goodnight in my absence, she asked me why I tolerated Ivy’s “foolishness.”

I told her that love was all about possession and that sometimes your captor never losses their interest for other mates. This she didn’t understand, but still made it clear that if I ever broke up with Ivy that she would want to be with me.

Today Ashley is wearing a sheer blouse and on her legs nylon leggings. Ivy bent down to pet her bulldog, a usually mute drowsy looking pup. We exchanged greetings. She stays on the landing while Ivy and I continue up the stairs. I look back and see that she is looking up at me. Her naked lips smooth out into a smile that Ivy notices. We reach Ivy’s floor.

“She likes you,” Ivy whispers while we stand in front of her door.

“Maybe,” I say softly. “Does it matter?”

She shrugs, but her indifference is a thin paper screen covering her displeasure. In the apartment by the closed door, Ivy pins me against the wall and kisses me while unfastening my belt. Her lips part from mine long enough for her to peel off her baby blue sleeveless dress. The sight of her beauty infects me like a poison that skips through the veins making every touchable part of my body ache to be caressed by her. We make it to the bedroom. The curtains are buoyant atop the chilly breeze that is slithering through the open window. Georgia is atop the crumpled sheets, curled into a ball. Ivy picks Georgia up and holds the feline against her bosom.

“Time to give mommy some privacy,” she says in a childlike voice

While being assailed atop Ivy’s bed, I wonder if I am just a favorite watering hole she frequents to temporally satisfy her unquenchable lust. I may very much be just that, but that doesn’t explain why she is so attached to me. She holds onto me ill rationally like a young girl dragging around a tattered rag doll that she tells her secrets to, wipes her tears on, hugs when scared, and grinds against when aroused. Now all that is fine with me because I like to feel like I am someone’s girl. However, I at times speculate why I don’t have a monopoly over my lover’s sexual side. She eagerly gives me everything else to keep. In fact, she makes love to me like I am the only girl in the world, but she just as easily makes it obvious that I am not merely a day later—if that long.

Anyway, this evening I am hers completely and tomorrow she will probably be back on the prowl. She can make my heartache, but nothing she can do will ever break it.

So we walked down Paper Street and crossed over to Cherry Lane. A bakery there is owned by an old lady with bleached hair. The museum for the arts is across from the bakery. At the cleaners, besides the bakery, there works a blue-eyed, dark-haired girl with two thin laugh lines flanking her pink lips. Ivy has had sex with her now and then behind my back. Between a pizzeria and a sub shop, there is the movie theater.

     Ivy wraps her arms around my waist and rests her chin atop my bare shoulder as we wait in line. Her affection for me always seems bashful and artless which reminds me that I am one of the very few persons she has loved. At the concession stand, she buys me a large bag of popcorn and a cherry soda. I can tell she likes the girl at the cash register. It is the cashier’s radiant smile, near-mute laughs, and the way she has a habit of sweeping chunks of milk chocolate hair out of her blushed face every few seconds.

While walking down the hallway to our seats, Ivy takes a close look at me. She kisses me on the cheek.

     “I wasn’t flirting. I swear,” she whispers to me with a childlike innocence that makes me smile

     We usually sit in the back of the theater, because Ivy has a minuscule attention span and often just when a movie climax becomes interested in making me blush and squirm. We watched a romance starring a blond, moss green-eyed actress who begrudgingly falls in love with a charming painter. It was a real bore. However, I noticed that the actor playing the painter had a certain girlish something about him—maybe it was his long eyelashes, tiny sleek coils of hair, or maybe his thin purplish lips—that made me think about Kacy Ross. 

I was fifteen when I met her. She was six years my senior. I knew her through a reading club. After a while, we began to hang out like old friends. Kacy would stroll in the front door of my aunt’s house, usually when my aunt wasn’t at home, wearing some alluring summer dress. Her calves wrapped in stockings. Eyelids painted purple. Ruby lips kissing a cigarette. Some wildflower she plucked from the soil entwined in her golden locks. Sun-kissed shoulders exposed.

She was more conventionally beautiful than the gated community we both lived in. She was a few streets away from me, but drive a Mercedes that her father gave her for her sweet sixteen birthday. One evening while the sun was bleeding out, staining the clouds orange, Kacy talked me into playing a drinking game with her. After a few losses, I was filled with a bubbly bliss, and I blurted out how much I liked her. With one of her thin rainbow arched eyebrows slightly raised in an inquisitive fashion, she asked me if I was gay. I sheepishly shrugged my shoulders. “You are. I can tell,” she said. She then took my hand and led me into my room. A pearl of girlish laughter fluttered from my lips as I felt her tongue roll over me. From then on for two straight summers, she would, whenever she had the chance.

 By our third summer together, our romance ended with me sobbing over her grave with my aunt’s gloved hand on my back. On the eve of her suicide, Kacy told me about her plans. I was lying on my side with nothing on but pink ankle-high socks watching her gaze at herself in my dresser mirror with a sullen expression.

“…..you better not tell anyone about what I told you today, or I will never forgive you…not even in the afterlife.”

I sat up and nodded. She kissed me, and I felt sadness shoot through me like a cold chill. I didn’t tell anyone. I felt like I owed her my loyalty, since she so many times thumbed my soul so tenderly with her ardent touch.

     Back in the present, the movie fades to black. I am sniffling and petting my moist eyes. The lights come on. I try to hide my face from Ivy. When she leans over to ask me what is wrong, I feel her mane of hair, which is burgundy— each strand coiled like a slightly stretched slinky—, tickle the side of my cheek. Her voice is like a quick, tepid shower over the memories of Kacy that slowly washes them away. I tell her it is my allergies. Ivy is easily jealous like a woman is uncontrollably ticklish—so telling her that I was crying over a past lover, one she thought was particularly insane, would baffle and dishearten her.

     Outside, a warm breeze plays with Ivy’s hair swaying the loose coils around like wind chimes. The sun is hidden behind a thick grey curtain. I hear the sound of screeching tires behind me. A man in a pinstriped shirt absentmindedly walked in front of a car.

His coffee splattered over the windshield and his body laid limp atop the hood. Similar to the way droplets of water slid down the slick sides of a bathtub, people gathered around the scene.

A tall man in a checkered blazer holds a cell phone to his ear while nervously combing his caramel hair with his right hand. A small group of elderly women peered at the lifeless man atop the hood of the car—one of the women covered her mouth with a hand that was clutching a pink handkerchief, flapping in the breeze. The driver of the car, a young woman wearing shorts, a plaid shirt that was partly open exposing nothing but a pale flat chest, and a floral headscarf, buries her head between her husband’s shoulder and neck while weeping.

     “Oh that’s horrible,” Ivy says with a pout.

     She looks over to me. Her eyes searching me for a conceivable emotion. My silence and indifference must have pricked her because she makes a face like she is uncomfortable. I have a feeling like I should apologize after that even though I don’t know what for. Before I could get the words out my mouth, she speaks.

     “Come on let’s get out of here,” she said while stroking a chunk of hair out my face. “Before we head back, we can stop by the bakery and pick up a couple of slices of apple crumble pie.”

     The floor and counters of the bakery are stained in yellowish light. Pastries, little cream covered cakes, and chocolates are contained behind slabs of glass, like delicate specimens on display. A little girl—dressed in a polka dot dress that surrounds her little rosy knees, like an outstretched umbra—munches on a cookie sandwich. The whipped cream smears her swollen cheeks. Ivy and I wait in line. Maybe it is the grim accident that provokes the need to tell me, but she whispers in my ear that she loves me.

     Ivy buys me a whole apple pie and herself a fudge brownie. As we head for the door, something catches her eye. She dismisses the sight at first, but a second later turns for a second look.

     “That’s Esha,” she says with discreet jubilation. She ogles the morsel in pink high-waist short overalls. “God, she looks good.” A thought strikes her, and the way she winces is cute.  “….but she isn’t as beautiful as you.”

I grasp her hand and lightly press my lips to her knuckles.

“I’ll be outside, Ivy.”

“No. Please. I want you to meet her. She is as sweet as honey.”

She takes my hand and leads me toward Esha, who is standing by herself with her hands hidden in her pockets. Ivy greets Esha with a hug and introduced me as her girlfriend; by the look on Esha’s face, she didn’t know Ivy had such a thing.

When Esha brought her lips together, they formed a plump little heart since her bottom lip hung so low. She possesses two lanky legs of a cinnamon complexion. Her voice is dulcet even though a little husky. Her eyes were like two bottomless rabbit holes that I felt like I stumbled into every time I peered at her face.

However, I know what Ivy likes about her: her modest bosom that probably makes two perfect handfuls, petite but noticeable butt, and the tiny beauty mark under her right eye.

Ivy and Esha begin chatting about a new lesbian club that opened a month ago. Ivy loves the club scene; she adores the girls that gyrate their hips tactlessly to the beat exploding out the club speakers, faces sparkling like the Milky Way, noses caked with cocaine. Her admiration for those silly girls sours quickly though, usually after a single night with them or right there on the dance floor.

I know this because on two occasions a vindictive female has contacted me, probably finding my number in Ivy’s cell phone as “love of my life”, sparing me no detail about their brief affair with Ivy that ultimately ended in heartbreak.

“A group of my friends is heading down there Wednesday. You should come. You can bring…..” my name eludes Esha’s memory.

“Adel,” Ivy says. “She doesn’t really like clubs though. Can’t blame her; they can be a bore.”

“Oh don’t be like that. You will have fun; I promise.”

Ivy eventually agrees, trying her best to dilute her apparent enthusiasm with artificial skepticism for my sake. The thunder I hear outside reminds me of the grumble furniture makes when it is moved around atop hardwood floors. The first few rain droplets begin to fall from grace plummeting towards the earth. Ivy tells Esha that we should be leaving because we walked. We move towards the door; Ivy stops on the door mate.

“I forgot her phone number. I must get it,” she says almost in a whisper. “I’ll be right out.”

Her lust must have been prickling her horribly. I could tell that her modest lie embarrassed her. Esha’s agreement to a tryst would be a soothing remedy.

I turn to observe the street. Some people already have umbrellas in hand. Lightning streaks the sky. The clouds then grumble. Ivy embraces me from behind and speaks softly into my ear. She wants us to rush home and spend the rest of the afternoon in the bedroom. I agree in that innocently obedient way that excites her.

Just as we reach the stairs of her apartment complex, the sky begins wailing intensely. From the hallway, Ivy looks at the parking lot being battered by thousands of tiny silver crystals. While ascending the stairs to Ivy’s apartment we run into Ashley.

Ashley took a liking to me. After observing Ivy kissing a girl goodnight in my absence, she asked me why I tolerated Ivy’s “foolishness.”

I told her that love was all about possession and that sometimes your captor never losses their interest for other mates. This she didn’t understand, but still made it clear that if I ever broke up with Ivy that she would want to be with me.

Today Ashley is wearing a sheer blouse and on her legs nylon leggings. Ivy bent down to pet her bulldog, a usually mute drowsy looking pup. We exchanged greetings. She stays on the landing while Ivy and I continue up the stairs. I look back and see that she is looking up at me. Her naked lips smooth out into a smile that Ivy notices. We reach Ivy’s floor.

“She likes you,” Ivy whispers while we stand in front of her door.

“Maybe,” I say softly. “Does it matter?”

She shrugs, but her indifference is a thin paper screen covering her displeasure. In the apartment by the closed door, Ivy pins me against the wall and kisses me while unfastening my belt. Her lips part from mine long enough for her to peel off her baby blue sleeveless dress. The sight of her beauty infects me like a poison that skips through the veins making every touchable part of my body ache to be caressed by her. We make it to the bedroom. The curtains are buoyant atop the chilly breeze that is slithering through the open window. Georgia is atop the crumpled sheets, curled into a ball. Ivy picks Georgia up and holds the feline against her bosom.

“Time to give mommy some privacy,” she says in a childlike voice

While being assailed atop Ivy’s bed, I wonder if I am just a favorite watering hole she frequents to temporally satisfy her unquenchable lust. I may very much be just that, but that doesn’t explain why she is so attached to me. She holds onto me ill rationally like a young girl dragging around a tattered rag doll that she tells her secrets to, wipes her tears on, hugs when scared, and grinds against when aroused. Now all that is fine with me because I like to feel like I am someone’s girl. However, I at times speculate why I don’t have a monopoly over my lover’s sexual side. She eagerly gives me everything else to keep. In fact, she makes love to me like I am the only girl in the world, but she just as easily makes it obvious that I am not merely a day later—if that long.

Anyway, this evening I am hers completely and tomorrow she will probably be back on the prowl. She can make my heartache, but nothing she can do will ever break it.

“My love…my life” pt. 1 of prologue

This novel will be presented in parts. This is section one of the Prologue. A quick blurb is that the story follows two lovers, who happen to be gay, as they try to fight temptation, lost love, and life’s cold realities.

The writing style is a bit wordy. At the time of writing this, several years back, I was heavily into Vladimir Nabokov who if you don’t know can go on and on about the most mundane but beautiful details. Hope you enjoy.

Prologue pt. One


I roll over and see that Ivy is asleep. Her light brown skin is lit up softly like a paper lantern. I still feel the tepid dew of her kisses atop my neck. I lean over to kiss her, and while I linger to whisper to her that I love her, I breathe in her scent, a mixture of sweat and the fragrance I bought her for Christmas.

Outside I hear the noise of chatty automobiles and gossiping birds. The air is damp. Droplets of water are stuck to the windowpane. Storm clouds must have crept across the sky last night, but this morning, the sun shines brightly.

     I walk over to the window and look below. A chilly breeze embraces my bare thighs. I bite the tip of my thumb, a recurring habit of mine, while looking down onto a street inhabited by soundless pedestrians passively haunting the sidewalks. Across the street is a bus stop. I like watching the huddled people under the glass canopy all with anxious faces watching the horizon for that sugary sight of a slow-moving bus huffing and puffing as it eases it hefty load down the road.

The scent of an oven warming something savory fills the air. On his hands and knees a young boy with dusky skin and curly black hair fondles a wade of pink chalk as he rubs it against the pavement, staining the sidewalk with his rowdy imagination. I then watch a group of slap happy boys and snickering girls march down the street loudly infecting the air with their purposeless youthful enthusiasm. 

Georgia, Ivy’s butterscotch and whip cream white cat brushes herself against my ankle. She looks up at me with her condense green puddles for eyes begging me with her silence for attention.  I pick her up and rub my nose to her velvety button nose.

The living room separates Ivy’s bedroom from the kitchen. As the sun hits the curtains, a royal blue bleeds onto everything in the living room.  A swift pawed mouse flees from out the kitchen just as I stumble over the glass coffee table, a lucid phantom occupying the space between the couch and loveseat.

Georgia leaps from my clutches, agilely lands on the floor, and quickly goes in pursuit of the vermin. She dives headfirst into the bluish-black veil of darkness suckling the walls of the hallway to the den. I step into the kitchen and snap goes a mousetrap that I accidentally nudged with my big toe under the cabinet.

Ivy’s favorite is pancakes smothered with blueberries. On our first date she took me to a waffle house she frequents every Friday evening. I remembered the dry scent of cigarettes nipping at my nose, the way a halo of smoke hovered over Ivy’s head just above her blue bow, the way she licked the syrup from off her shimmering pink lips after every bite of her stacked pancakes, and the way her portly nose would wrinkle at the stem when she laughed.

I searched the cabinets for the box of pancake batter. The water flows from the faucet onto a graveyard of dirty dishes. The sizzle of pancake batter in the skillet attracts Georgia’s attention. I pour her a bowl of food. She zestily eats her breakfast at the cusp of the kitchen.

     In the bedroom, I hear the click of a lighter. A silver nimbus slips pass the half-open bedroom door. A dainty cough echoes from the room. Ivy’s morning routine consists of a few lustful puffs of a cigarette while watching the lively street, then a slip under the leaky shower head for fifteen minutes, which is then followed by breakfast.

The stereo is turned on. The sound of soft classical music fills the apartment. Ivy walks out the bedroom, legs wrapped in pink silk pajama bottoms that hang low on her hips way under her bellybutton. She bends to stroke Georgia’s chin, which is offered to her eagerly.

“I love mornings after a good rain storm,” she says before swiping my bottom with her hand. She then kisses my nape and whispers a sweet obscenity.

     After more than a few tender kisses and soft pets while under silver droplets spilling from the shower head, we eat breakfast at the dining table, a small round disk standing on scarred, wobbly legs. Ivy sits with her knees pulled to her chest.

     “So, a movie then,” she says after licking her fork clean. She places the utensil on top of the syrup streaked plate.

     I nod. Ivy cups her hand to protect the fickle flame protruding from her cheap orange lighter as she lights the cigarette dangling from her puckered lips. When she smokes she reminds me of a young child imitating a flamboyant harlot with the way she flings the limp cigarette about between her index and middle finger like she is drawing a picture in the air with the smoldering end; or the way she forcefully pushes the smoke out the side off her mouth in such a way it makes you wonder if exhaling was as pleasurable for her as inhaling the toxins, even the way she suckles the stick of tobacco so affectionately the act could make a grown man shiver.

Ivy has two caramel ocean waves for an upper lip that are a short distance from her nose. When she powders her face, her complexion takes the color of rich brown-reddish clay with a pinch of light stealing silver dust. Her neckline and plump earlobes usually are decked with bold silver or gold jewelry. I try not to stare at her, but I find that it is a hard habit to kick.


Each word entices the flames // Poetry, lyrics, songs, and prose

Let me know your opinion for the good or bad.

Listen, they don’t talk down there

“So, it is silent?”

No, they don’t talk to each other

but all they do is talk to each other.

“I don’t get it.”
Neither do they.

So noise pollution is high, but civil dilution is higher.