I saw your mom today, it was normal because I see her all the time. She waved at my car and I waved back, and pretended it didn’t hurt.

It made me think of you,

of nights spent on the living room floor on a blow up mattress;

of midnight drives to get ice cream because the movie made us cry.

I still think about the nights I slept on your bedroom floor because my mom and I were fighting. You were my safe space. I don’t want to admit it because it makes me feel weak, but: I miss you, I guess.

It doesn’t seem fair, that you cut me out without an explanation. Why was I the piece of your life that got tossed aside? It was hard to hear that you felt that we couldn’t be friends anymore. I suppose eighteen years doesn’t much these days.

I’m not angry anymore, but I still feel like I am missing a piece of myself. I miss you, I guess.

Remember when you came to my wedding, but instead of standing next to me where you belonged, you were in the back row in a black dress.

I hugged you, but I was angry.

Remember when you came to my graduation, not for me but you were there.

I hugged you, I cried into your hair.

Remember your grandfather’s funeral, when we drank tequila and talked about the past. It felt like old times, that was weird.

I hugged you, and that time the tears weren’t over you.

Remember the family reunion, we played soccer with Danny and Sam. We talked about tattoos and jobs. I laughed, but I was hurting.

Its hard to say goodbye to people you still see but know they aren’t thinking about you anymore. You could call me tonight and I’d drive to Ohio, but I know I’m still blocked on your phone.

I miss you, I guess.

did they sell you paradise

did they sell you fairies with butter knives

no no no no

they sold us happiness

giggles in central park

hand in hand

walked john and thomas

thomas licked and licked

they sold us easiness

numb tranquility

passive abundance

this is all that.......this is all that

i still think of honey in paradise

liquor without hangovers

there is also a door to hell

what happens there

inside they burn and burn

but i hear

they bribed the gasguy

so they burn when He sees

otherwise its a deal there too

this what you said is equal to sin

what sin do you talk about

i walked barefoot in dusty towns

i walked finding my shoes

and still and still and still

i burn

so a deal was all i did

a deal was all i got

and and and

you know whatttt

theres a system there too

there too

there too

where stuff happens

leverages happen

and to satisfy myself

i have termed them divine leverages

alright alright alright

did you see your neighbours pus

did you see their elbows flying in the sky

yes i saw all of that

and they too saw all of that

we were passengers of fire

and nothing

and nothing more

so fuck off with your intellect

and go to Peru tracing mayans

ask them what fire means to them

laugh it off laugh it off laugh it off

because now

you can only laugh it off

I am going to make a confession, which you will find difficult to believe, but humor me.

I have never kept a Journal.

Incidentally, I just learned that a crankpin is also known as a journal? Fascinating! that is the load bearing part in the crankshaft of an axle. In mechanical complexity, briefly, it has something to do with distribution of Stress. Fatigue causing breakdown, and I know from my Civic DX that you can drive with a broken axle, but not for very long, and should it give out, it would be potentially a fatal crash. That a lesson from years ago. Mercifully everything held up on prayers well enough to trade-in. (Incidentally, my DX was named Kocioł, idiomatically meaning "Chaos.")

Of course, I do carry a notebook. For as long as I can remember it is, aside from my calculator watch, my only accessory. But I have been adamant about not-writing.

My father kept a journal. In the most traditional sense, and it was locked. A thing of beauty, though on the outset nothing more than that everyday spiral ring single or multi-subject schoolthing. When I say it was locked, I mean no one could read it. His handwriting, so distinctive, was in a sort of cursive all caps, and in Polish. And whatever was in there, was by that barrier, safe. Not that I would dream of prying!! I did not. And he felt no need to hide. So, it sat on the table, open, an artifact of Intellect, his Pride.

What I am getting at is that a journal or diary is intensely private.

My sister kept a diary. She wrote practically under the bedsheets her thoughts and feelings about her tumultuous relationships. She fretted over who was mad at who, and with good reason. There was a lot of apologizing, retracting and redacting. Torn pages. Life must have been tough. Internally. I only can say so, again most definitely I would Not dare to pry, because she told me. I asked yes. And even when I didn't. She was so proud of her writing, an accomplishment applauded by elders like a learned trick, that she would occasionally read something aloud and watch for full effect. Adjectives. Flowers. Feelings and colors. Certainly, I listened, and it confirmed for me. I would Never keep a diary.

I would blush in private in horror.

So, what the devil would be in my non journal? well, I compromised. I kept a list.

Occasionally, I encrypted something in the corner, if the date were significant for it. But having capsuled some wording, within a few years, it was a code accessible only as a hieroglyph. If I could not decipher by surrounding doodle, date or to do list, I too could no longer read it. I could read my drawings, though in detail. I could recall for a considerable while after the intense emotion and surroundings that went into those marks. Drawing helped me figure out what I was trying to say... with that said, I have not drawn in years. I have, mostly, lost track of what I was trying to communicate.

I cast no judgement on Silence, nor empty space of margins.

Speaking has been difficult. When I was little, and growing up, I was periodically told that whatever I said sounded like poetry, and that to me sounded so foreign and complicated, and pompous that I'd rather bite my tongue. But I've grown to enjoy the words in my mind, and when I mention now that I write "all the time," it is simply that I script in my thinking, in invisibly personal conversations, parts that sometimes find their way to paper, but mostly, which grow wings and fly South without commitment for coming back.

They do from time to time. Like today, they are here again-- in afternoon shadow.

Getting here, I'd say everyone misrepresents it— cinematically, I mean.

Stale air and concrete walls closed in on me earlier during processing. My autonomy was violated as they clicked cameras at me. I'm unsmiling, naked as the day I was born, and handed scratchy clothes— my identity erased and replaced with a number. The clanging keys and buzzing doors disorient, and I'm led to a sparse mini studio with lifeless grey walls. An uneven, thin cot and metal toilet welcome me. The closest thing I have to a window is the cell-bar door to the corridor, where a guard roams back and forth.

I conceded that I'd be greeted with painful shrieks and howling shouts of others echoing down the cell block, and the newbies would be seated alone, head in hands, mind racing to establish how they got there. I don't think everyone is an irrational murderer like they tell us... some people are probably feeling self-resentfully accountable for their non-violent burglary offense, tax evasions (ironic), immigration mistakes, or their ceaseless drug habits that they've tried to stop a couple of times leading up to now.

Though, I'm sure there are still plenty of inmates who are unbothered, thinking, what's a few years a pause before going back to what got me here in the first place? I would say that life before already feels so distant to the former, whenever they arrived. Friends, family, freedom, namesake— gone. For the latter, I don't think they're thinking about it, just living out this nice little vacation from the exhaustive nature of committing unlawful acts.

At the scream of a whistle, we shuffled to the dining hall, tense and silent. I stared down at whatever the 'making-school-cafeteria-lunches-look-like-a-Michelin-Star-meal' of the day was. I think guilt or indifference would come back into play here again. The inmates who knew they fucked up— though still less culpable than others, look down to avoid the glare of anyone who might see them as weak, while those who firmly and aggressively deserved their sentence had defensive eyes darting around the room, watching over their tough hides especially closely. Then, we were herded back to our cages, heads counted like preschool children after recess. This was surely emasculating for the hardened criminals.

It's difficult not to want to ask what happened to the person sharing my cell or those passing by, but I preferred not to speak if it wasn't necessary. I figured I'd get to that in a few days once I'd processed the new situation. I'm not exactly a guiltless type who fears nothing.

After hours of tedium, a bell rings for yard time and I fast blinked as I stepped into the sunlight, blinded temporarily. It was shocking and the air felt different, almost foreign, even through the chain link fences and watchtowers. Some inmates would be pacing the far end, struck by a heated argument. Others tossed a basketball around or played cards. Mostly, though, faces would be blank with boredom.

At this point, I found an empty patch of dirt to sit down in, staring at the sky, trying to reminisce about the freedom of open spaces and the warmth of a loved one’s touch. But it was a bit like recalling a dream upon waking. Too soon, the bell clanged lazily again, and everyone was lined up and counted. We trudged back inside. I had some time to myself— as myself as I could get. I wrote a bit before lights out. I didn't sleep that first night and long, dark hours stretched endlessly ahead while my cell-mate slept seemingly peacefully. He must have been here a while.

Tomorrow will be the same routine, the next day too. If Hollywood wants to show this cinematically, they'd be better off using a movie like Groundhog Day. After some monotonous days, I knew I'd simply be going through the same motions, now I'd join up with the thousand-yard starers wandering aimlessly within the walls, biding my time until release.

His skin was green. Green with yellow undertones and a strange slime that secreted from glands in his thick neck. He smelled of a dirty sock that had been stuffed to the brim with fermented garlic cloves and onions. But he was my slimy, smelly ogre. He was my Shrek.

At least, he was supposed to be. In my head, that's how it played out. He would confess his love to me and we'd retreat to his swamp to live together. I would spend my days picking his earwax and making crayons out of it for our six children that all took after him. I'd pick the crusts from between his sweaty sausage toes and feed it to the creatures in our swamp. In short, I'd be the perfect housewife. I'd wake up every day just to see his yellowed smile and smell his rancid breath. But nothing ever works out that way, does it?

Instead, she had to come alone. Peppa.

I didn't trust her from the start.

...

"Shrek!" I called, riding my horse into his swamp. Well, actually, it wasn't a horse. It was a rabid villager. Steering was difficult, but he was surprisingly fast. As long as you don't mind being in the splash zone of mouth foam and the occasional biting, it's quite convenient transportation.

"What did I tell you about coming into me swamp! Stay! Away!" my precious ogre barked from inside his shack. I blushed at his sleepy voice, I had clearly woken him up. But, nonetheless, this is important and I can't let his dominant alpha side scare me off.

"It's important, Shrekky-Boo-Boo! Please, uwu!" I cried, tugging on the matted hair of my villager to keep him from running into the mud.

"I told you not to call me that!" he roared. I could hear Shrek fumbling to get dressed from outside. My cheeks flushed even further at that thought.

He stumbled out of the shack and I had to remind myself to keep my composure. He hadn't bothered to put a shirt on. His green potbelly glistened in the early morning sun and I noticed a new zit on his upper chest. He might need someone to pop it for him... No! I won't let myself get distracted by those seductive thoughts. This is important, gosh darn it!

"Now what is it, woman?!" Shrekky-Boo-Boo demanded.

"Master Jar Jar has another mission for us," I didn't trust myself to look into his bulging eyes with swooning. Master Jar Jar Binks hired Shrek and I to do some jobs for him. This time, we were to investigate a suspicious character who was new to our lands. A girl by the name of Peppa Pig.

Shrek's eyes widened. "How big of a mission is it?"

"It'll take us at least a week, I'd say?" I'm so excited to spend a whole week with Shrek!

"I see. Well, you stay here, I've got to go grab some things. Unless... you'd like to come in?" he grinned, yellow, chipped teeth flashing and a rancid odor emitting from his wide mouth.

"O-of course!" I cursed myself silently for answering so eagerly. Play it cool!

I tied my villager, Horsie, to one of the dying trees in Shrek's swamp and prepared to follow him inside.

"Ohh, well too bad! You can't!" Shrek laughed. Awkwardly, I joined in. I should've known. His shack is like a palace, why would someone like me be invited in?

As he walked away, the putrid smell that surrounded him faded. I clung to the remnants of it, sniffing the air for just a whiff of that irresistible ogre. Today, he smelled of an old milk jug that had expired and been rubbed with greasy shrimp. Gosh, could he get any better? It's as if the world just wants to rub in my face how much I want him and how much I can never have him.

...

"Peppa Pig, you say? Where have I heard that name before?" Shrek pondered as we walked to her village. I left Horsie in Shrek's swamp with enough chicken skin and cartilage to last him a week. It's all he'll eat. He reminds me of myself in that way.

"She used to run that fairy dust cartel, the one Jar Jar got us to shut down a couple months ago," I tell him, picking at the petals of a flower I found.

"Oh! That Peppa. Remind me, human, has she seen us before?" Shrek scratched at his steamy butt crack. It took all my strength to resist taking a whiff of his finger when he stopped.

"No, she ran off with her boyfriend, Harry Styles, as soon as things started to get bad. She knows that Jar Jar ordered the strike, though." As I was talking, Shrek dug around in his ear, moaning as he scratched.

"Oh," Shrek said, munching on something that could only be either a booger or some of his ear crust.Why it made a disturbing crunching noise, however, is not a question I know how to answer. Maybe it was a tooth.

The rest of the trek to the village was an uncomfortable silence filled with Shrek's burps and farts. I yearned to make some sort of conversation with him, but I no idea how to find topics that could engage such a powerful being as him.

...

Finally, after hours of walking, we decided to take a rest. It was getting dark and we still could not see the village ahead in the horizon. Currently, we were in one of the many meadows in this land. Shrek had found some usable firewood and I had scrounged some colorful berries.

As we sat across the crackling fire, I watched him eat. Red berry dribbled down the side of his mouth, but he didn't bother to wipe it.

It was then that I decided to make my move. I walked over to Shrek and plopped down next to him. He was considerably taller than me, which made this slightly difficult, but I'd make it work.

"Hm?" he hummed in confusion, still gobbling down the berries I had found. I finished my share already.

Finally, after hours of walking, we decided to take a rest. It was getting dark and we still could not see the village ahead in the horizon. Currently, we were in one of the many meadows in this land. Shrek had found some usable firewood and I had scrounged some colorful berries. Flies buzzing around him formed a song just for us.

I moved closer and licked the berry juice from the side of his mouth. His face tasted salty and his skin was as rough as sandpaper, but that doesn't matter to me. Shrek moved to put a giant hand on my lower back. I pulled away after a moment.

"Are you... okay with that?" I asked him shyly.

"Well we need some way to pass the time, right? And we might as well be romantic before the diarrhea kicks in, eh?" Shrek grins. My eyes widen.

"The... what?"

"The diarrhea! You know, don'tcha? These are poisonous berries! They really burn when ya pass em!" He barked a laugh.

"Oh..." I trail off. Why did he eat so many?! Why would he eat any if he knew they were poisonous?! However... him being so mysterious... I find it very attractive.

That night, Shrek and I grew a lot closer. By that, I mean that he held my hand as we screamed together from the explosive diarrhea the berries caused. Luckily, I had enough time to pull my pants down, as did Shrek.

...

The next morning, Shrek and I woke up yards away from the remains of the fire. It makes sense, we had our little accidents over there. I smile, remembering how he held my hand during it all. Not many men would do that, let alone ogres.

But then I remember. He didn't say that he enjoyed what I did. When I licked his face, he said that we needed a way to pass time. Is that all I am? Just a fun little distraction? I really can't tell where I stand with him. One moment he's telling me I'm a distraction, the next he's having explosive diarrhea with me. Pick a lane!

He yawned as he rose from the dewy grass, a foul, obscene smell emanating from his gaping mouth.

I said nothing to him as we continued our journey, afraid of what he would say back. He said nothing to me as well.

We were almost at the village when disaster struck. From behind giant rocks, Peppa Pig and Harry Styles jumped out!

"So, ol' Jar Jar thought he could screw me over twice, eh?" Peppa growled. Harry put a hand on her shoulder and softly whispered "Daddy chill!" Despite the fact that she was two and half feet shorter than him.

"Back off Peppa. You don't want this to get violent," Shrek warned, his voice a dangerous rasp.

"Oh I don't? Well, tell that to my army!" Peppa laughed. At that moment, a myriad of minions, all led by Vector and Gru popped out of the ground!

"What do you want, Peppa?" I begged.

"I want him. I want your little boyfriend. Shrek," Peppa stared me down.

"Why? What did I ever do to you?" I cried.

"You took down my cartel! Dozens of the children that worked there are now out of jobs and can't afford their vapes anymore! Kids are just dropping like flies!" Peppa screamed. Harry looked sad. Very sad.

"You can't! We'll fight you! We'll fight you and we'll win!" I readied my flimsy weapons.

"Fine. I'll do it." Shrek said and took a step away from me. My heart shattered.

This leads me to where I am now.

...

Shrek had ignored my cries and walked away with Peppa and Harry. I was left there, standing all alone, hoping desperately that he would turn around and run back to me.

But I can't just wait for that to happen. I have to save my green skinned, golden-hearted man myself!

...

It was nighttime when I reached the village. I could spy Peppa's mansion from the entrance. It was dookie brown and had an enormous statue of her and Harry. I could see construction for a Shrek statue had begun as well. Not on my watch!

I climbed the walls and peered into the windows. I could see Shrek feeding Peppa grapes. He looked... happy. Am I doing the wrong thing? Maybe he really does like Peppa. Maybe he's happier here... without me.

No! I can't leave him behind just because I'm scared! Peppa is the enemy and that is that!

From the window, I tossed berries from my pocket into the grape bowl. Colorful berries.

The berries worked incredibly quickly. Dia began spewing from Peppa's butt like water from a hose.

Now that they were distracted, I had to find Harry. Quickly.

I let myself into the mansion from the unlocked front door and sprinted through. I wasn't sure where to look, but I heard a sobbing noise and followed it upstairs. I turned left and found the source of the crying. Harry was flopped on his bed, gasping for breath through tears. I noticed that his walls were covered in posters of pigs and boy bands.

"Harry?"

"How could she?" he sniffled, looking at me. "How could she replace me with... with him?!" he sobbed.

"Listen, buddy, lil' guy, I need you to help me. You'll get Peppa back if you do," I stroked his hair.

"I-I'll get Peppa back?" he asked in a nasal voice.

"Mhm. But I need you to tell me what she did to Shrek. And how I can reverse it. Can you do it, lil' guy?"

"It's a curse! It can only be broken with true love's-" Harry cut off.

In the doorway stood him, seething. Shrek.

He through a candle holder at Harry's head, which knocked him out. I winced. That's going to leave a bump.

"Shrekky-Boo-Boo, this isn't you!" I pleaded. He grunted and knocked Harry's stuff out the way as he stomped toward me.

True love's what? True love's what? What breaks the curse?

Shrek picked me up by the neck. His eyes were foggy.

I knew what I had to do. I don't know how I knew, but I knew I had to do it.

At that moment, I let out the loudest, wettiest, juiciest, bubbliest, crusty, musty, dusty, rusty fart there ever was. The whole mansion was blown away and a ringing echoed in my ear as we stood in the rubble of it. Villagers wondered if it was a hurricane or an earthquake. No. It was love.

The fog in his eyes cleared and he pulled me close and kissed me. His lips were sloppy and surprisingly frog-like.

"I love you, Shrekky-Boo-Boo!" I confessed.

"I love you too."

The bitter taste of things I’ve said

The callous face of who I’ve been

The only things for which I reach

A gentler touch

—and kinder speech

The anger never leaving my body

Like a constant burn in the pit of my stomach

On the outside everything is calm and controlled

But on the inside there is only out of control kaos

The rage has filled me to the top

My thoughts are dark and full of fury

The control once there is no more

My wrath has won and what is left

Is the dark rage of a life not lived

Rise, welcome to Earth.

I am your guide son, Father.

Follow and grow up.

Your growth is stable.

Soon, puberty comes my son.

Walk, talk and explore.

Knowing defiance.

Almost to manhood my son.

Speaking of life lessons.

Learned experienced.

You are a good man my son.

Family wife kids.

They are blessings.

I'm no longer there my son.

An elder will pass.

Regrets are a byproduct of self-reflection.

To feel regret, we have to look at our past and go, "I wish I was better."

The problem is that some of us fail to realize we're only better now because of those experiences. It's as though we appreciate the lesson, but loathe the process it took to teach it.

To be honest, I have many regrets.

I regret my most embarrassing moments.

I regret my biggest failures.

I regret my shortcomings.

I regret that time and time again, I didn't try hard enough.

In life and love, in work and in play.

It's human to have regrets.

Regrets are scars on the soul.

They're the one sign that we're actually evolving.

My biggest regret of all is worrying about having regrets.

Instead of realizing it's human to regret.

Buses, Birds, Cars, Trains

The city life can be noisy, to the point I can't hear the thoughts in my head

But the snow cancels it all

The fluffier the better

I love it all, as I watch the flakes decorate the sky

The white over taking the gray concrete

The bugs hide away, the birds fly away

As I lay on this pillow covering the grass

The frost penetrates my bones

But I can't fight the pleasure I feel

The Stillness the snow gives, As if everything stopped to welcome the snow in

No noise, no bugs, no animals, and every year it comes swifter

How I love the snow.....

How I love you winter.