Born.
       Grew.
Died.
      What?

A baby born is stubborn.
That's what I am.
A writer filled with bluster and wind.
To some, I am confusing, to others, a fool.
But a baby born is stubborn.
Can I begin again?

Of course the answer is no, there only remains the end.
So growing, learning, crying, I guess I'll just pretend.

Sliding hands together, preparing for this day.
Realizing I've found my true place, as I have seen societies reflection.
I like it here, snug and warm, rejected by my peers.
It really truly is lovely to be rejected.
No tears, no expectations, nothing but a cyber desert.
Take heart you high school children of rejection, dressed in black with spikes in your ears.
Take heart, take pride in your rejection, hell even light a smoke, there is no one to judge or disrespect you.
We can sit and laugh with our acne scars, looking out, seeing their perfection.
So come on and join the club as you and I are the next generation.

Mr. Lotus, I loved your bit, filled with pictures and wit. Humor sounds touching on truth, yet in everyone of your pictures I can see a different 'it.'

It is funny, yes, and true.
It explains the matching of mind.
It fills one with reason for a metaphor, it that part of what you're trying for?
It is sad to those who think they are trying while others are laughing at their attempt.
It is good that you post a link.
It is black and white without any real color, unlike the true joy of life.
It brings attention.
It brings attraction.
It is good to see you smile.
It is something one could write for awhile while beginning the sentence with 'it.'

Today, Fred was buried, or at least what remained of him.
Never to see him jump or chase again, only a memory which fades with age.
The poor old dog met his bear.
Hopefully the pain was short, by the looks of it, it was.
It is sad to see the bear tried to get the best of him, and even though he's dead,
Fred won.

His new bed is a meadow, his shade a large spruce tree, music by the grey jays will sing to him replaced with stars to cover his sleep.

Fred is dead, yet the story is still alive including you.

How will you act when you face your bear?
Will you kill yourself?
Will you try and run away, or
shout,
debate,
cry,
bargain,
maybe get yourself to a hospital?

Fred walked the path as he was free.
Sniffing the ground, unafraid, while many of you think you'll escape.
The bear, he knows this, as many others do too.

The bear was killed today, I heard the neighbor shout after the fading sound of his rifle let the world know man also has his part.
Is it justice?
Am I glad"
Fred was my friend, yet so too is the bear.
Two parts of me are torn as all that has happened the past years were needed so to learn.

Fred has changed, he has changed my heart.
I will always see him now, as he will be the fireweed flower growing, swaying in the wind, while in the distance I will hear the growling of the bear as he too comes for me.

You and I can not escape it, no matter how hard we try.
Sure, live in denial, yet death knows our actions well.
Death comes in many forms, one of which will find you.
Death can come at any moment, even dressed as a bear.

When the bear comes for you, will you be like Fred and be happy until the end?
Or will you live a life for nothing, dreading, unprepared.
       

Times, they are a changing.

Red necked political suicide by those who embrace a way tied to guns, whiskey, women and country attitude.
Religious groups clammering on who's God is what
Tight assed latte slurping yuppies clinging to technology like they still suck on their mother and fathers tit.
And that's just a start.
How about those isolated psycho pathetic losers planning to blow up their plan?
And the sexually confused folks talking if sheep or dogs are better than gerbils.
Are you starting to understand?

Even pygmy folk in New Guinea love the idea of spandex and spoons.
Why, I even heard of people paying hard earned money on e-Bay for Britney Spears gum.
Are we insane?
Well I know I am.

But now for the subject which burns.
Poems, poetry, poet's, changing too.
"Whilst falling ever deeper, mocking soul my demon weeps." Now what kind of crap is that? To some it brings joy, while others cringe.

Ergo not my path,
       ever searching truth,
                 finding crimson

Oh. My. Gosh. Said by some while other relate with what they read

Poetry changes as does attitude. You can talk about puppies. You can talk about cats. You can talk about what kind of morning crap you had.  It does not matter what the poem is about, with the exception it matters to YOU.

Now, getting back on track.
Times, they are a changing, for me and for you.
Rule books are torn in half.
We really are a primitive species when you think about it. Men wearing beaver hats in the past? While women wore girdles? Yet today we laugh when we see people with high-water pants.

That's the great thing about poetry, it speaks what's currently in your heart. It does not matter how, what, or why you say what you say as it is your truth.

As for Shakespear and others in our past, what respect do you use? In only a few years, the attitude will change.
For example, if  "Brutus, thou art noble, yet I see thy..." was alive and going to school, some people would kick his ass.
For me, I love it all as that is what freedom can bring.
     

.

Dax, the second part of me really likes it.

Welcome party.

Foreskin hiding his little dick from his future of lusting.
Only minutes old, already he is pissing to prove he is a man, especially with his fussing.
For most men, this foreskin hides dirty little secrets.
With safety of a sheep's skin, the  hole in his fathers condom is his reason.
Yet this newborn did not know his secret was out as in mere weeks they cut it off.
Circumcised to reveal societies opinion.
Exposing all, his future holds an excuse for bad sex.

Fat lady nearly sinking the boat,
hauling in her cod,
trying to tell a joke.

"Give a man a fish, he'll feed his family for a day. Teach the man to fish, he'll drink beer all day."

With a laugh, we all agreed.
Especially when she was splashed by a wave.

.

hated wives,
relation seen badly at the bottom of a cheap glass of Irish scotch.
that woman singing stole my husbands cheating heart.

Waterloo of a marriage with you,
i'd rather die trying than want of salvation,
still

ME: A poem by me, about me, and for me.
"Who are you?"

Hello.
"Hello?"

Yes, it's me.
"Who?"

You know,
"Oh my God, it's you!"

Yes.
"Go away."

Yep, banished again.
Is it because of being a sinner?
No, it's because of the word police.

Communication one sided,
is it you, or is it me?

Anyway, if you're reading this Tom, I like your western poem.

Now, as for what I've written, where is that button delete?

The remove button is at the bottom of each post.

                                                                                       Word Up

____Transversal meaning,____
Love: To be pure in intent, maybe hatred spread,
or sex.____
Written on a chalk board with fingers screeching,
another line of word,
fuck.
____Line leading to intersect____, the teacher asking, "Sally, what are you doing writing that word?"


                                                    That was yesterday, a day of confusion for those youth growing
                                                                                                           through society's illusion.

____a new line forming to cross, to spread,____there was sex.____
       ____"Will you be my wife?" Sally's future husband asked.____
               _____With a smile they both fucked._____


_____Multiple times now, the lines_____spread____
         _____Children were born____
                 ____Bills became overbearing____
                        ____Troubles of youth creating new lines.____
                               _____Sally broken down, cried,____
                                        ____telling her husband, "We're fucked."____


That was today, a day of a young couple living life.


____Forever the line, spreading quicker __ __ __ __ with time.____
       ____Sally growing older, ugly, fat____
              ____her husband bolder sought youths temporal flesh,_____
                       ____Sally exclaimed, "You Fuck!"____




So many lines now, it all blurs.
So many words expressed, so much abuse.
Is it the fucking end?
It is up to you as there still tomorrow to view.




                                                       You see no more lines now, except on Sally and her husband's face.
                                                       For all their troubles,
                                                       two remained twined,
                                                       all lines have intersected,
                                                       there remained no more words needed to express,
                                                       as now their eyes towards
                                                       each other did it best,
                                                       a choice of forgiveness...



                                     When questioned by youth as to what they thought of life,
                                                               they replied,
                                                          "It was fucking great."

                                              That my friend is the true meaning of love,
                                                              or is it fucked?

                                                    Evening nap.

Went to sleep, talked to Dax, deeply in thought, when sheep started jumping around.
So with a start, I wanted to try, only what the hell was this crazy polack thinking.
To take a nap?
Before sleeping?
Thank Zeus, Poseidon's trident poked my ass, causing a mermaid to weep, drenching the nap away.
With the sound of the sea beckoning me, or maybe it is the wife yelling to turn out the light,
it's time to call it a night and go thinking.

                                                               Damn car

Sitting there, silent.
In her garage waiting patiently like a panther, waiting for the pain to start.

With trepidation, I crept up with cold key in my hand.
Stalking, padding softly, as if she had never before seen my plan, I continued walking.

Fooling her for the moment by a diversion of tripping over the rake,
I grasped and opened her wide door.

With gravity grasping my fat ass, I fell in.
She was mine, I thought, victory shining on me as the automatic garage door opened.

Plunging in a symbol of power, I thrust the shiny key.
With a turn of confidence, it failed.

Oh shit, why me?
With constant attention, I cranked, yet at every turn she fought me.

Realizing failure and seeing the time I'll be late to work,
it was going to be another day,
of using my feet.

                                                     Would you like to see the menu?

Feedlot to the north,
fattening them with barley,
their last meal.
The cattle hustled up the ramp,
boxcars rumbling down the track,
you could hear the wheels squeal.
Soon, they were hanging from a rack,
cooling in a room filled with marbled fat,
preparing for some shiny steel.
With knives trimming while saw blades were spinning,
their silent mooing was made tidy,
and packed.
Off now to a Piggly Wiggly store,
or some other place of need,
these cooling  bovines traveled.
Sitting in his chair staring at the page,
the lady came to take his order.

Would you like our two year Angus?
You know it's very special.
Tender cuts, almost like veal.

With a momentary pause,
sighing tilting back his head,
he said,

Do you have any fish?

.

Enjoying these, Robin.

milner

Some trimming suggested below, Robin. You offer great details, with unneeded connective tissue. I think it's better to let the reader do more of the thinking. Tom

                                                     Would you like to see the menu?

Feedlot to the north,
fattening them with barley,
their last meal.
The cattle hustled up the ramp,
boxcars rumbling down the track,
you could hear the wheels squeal.
Soon, they were hanging from a rack,
cooling in a room filled with marbled fat,
preparing for some shiny steel,
With knives trimming,  while saw blades were spinning,
their silent mooing was made tidy,
and packed.
Off now to a Piggly Wiggly store.
or some other place of need,
these cooling  bovines traveled.
Sitting in his chair staring at the page,
the lady came to take his order.

Would you like our two year Angus?
You know it's very special.
Tender cuts, almost like veal.

With a momentary pause,
sighing tilting back his head,
he said,

Do you have any fish?

Tom, your response: "You offer great details, with unneeded connective tissue" tickled me.

Milner, with thanks, alas there's more.

Liking these fruits picked green,
tasty apples hanging from a tree,
something new after waiting,
eating one, than another...

It's too late,
stomach rumbling,
I cannot escape my fate.

Tom, I like the trimming of the fat you did for me. It truly is not the fat that's tasty, rather just the meat. Thank you.

Lavonne, I agree. It is amazing how life, emotions, a poem, even writing, is all like beef.

Randy; Prince of Earl. Your roots reach out and cross.
                                                                                                          Corporate fixation on profit,
                                                                                                          Wal-mart, K-mart, Sacs, Sears...
                                                                                                           Land of the free, the indebted,
                                                                                                           me...
Sigh, said by many.
It is still better than Iran.

                                                                    B.S.

                                      Bull breaking china,
                                                               falling to pieces,
                                                                                    broken shards revealing,
                                      Sparkling,                                                                    marble floor bleeding.
                                                  sharp,
                                                         leading to chaos,
                                                                               loss of life.

                                      Sweeping,                           
                                            cleaning,
                                              hundreds crying,
                                           pleading,

                                      over now for my wife,

                                      all that remains,
                                      a bloody knife.
                                       

                                                                 

.

                                                                Hello Earl, the little squirrel pushing his winter supply of nuts into my mind.
                                                                They read your mind, with their plastic signs acts of congress with every
                                                                clinger wanting a piece of the pie.
                                                                                   Hopeful masses expressing a molded view bought and paid for by
                                                                                   tv, never mind the consequences when the power goes out.
                                                                                                         Their answer is simple, "vote for me," or wipe.

                                                                                         ***

Now for the morning tripe. (goes good with eggs.)


                                                                 Swimming sounds flowing past the drum,
                                                                 beating a rhythm,
                                                                 carrying sounds of water splashing on all sides.

                                                                 Falling rain announcing Autumn,
                                                                 masking the water falling inside,
                                                                 steam covered windows hiding what should be revealed.

                                                                 Wheel chair bound,
                                                                 prisoner in another world,
                                                                 tears fell from my eyes.

                                                                 Listening to the young lady splashing,
                                                                 waving goodbye,
                                                                 sinking,
                                                                 drowning.

                                                                 

                                                              Age of Questions

                                   

                                                Old Horror,
                                                     clinging to the fruit,
                                                     the Knowledge,
                                                     trying newness,
                                                     making them part of the tree.

                                                 New children,
                                                     knowing me as
                                                                 wrath,
                                                                 nakedness,
                                                                 pain.

                                                 Once,
                                                      you were blind,
                                                      innocent to what must be.

                                                  Newness in ability.
                                                      Growth.
                                                      Direction.
                                                  New question,
                                                      who can this be?

                                                  In the garden,
                                                      pool of reflection,
                                                      look deep and see.

No Earl, to you I insist, neural synapses snapping because not of turtles,
those slow moving armored shells of safety wrapping dull wit, rather tasting what you writ.
Concubine of word leaving me hallow, shallow,'wal-to-mart Big lot sale' now that's a mistress I can fit in.
Word advice given freely, don't chew gum under the table, you could choke on it.
So here it is, randy said with a big smile then it's off to s..

                                                   Gum disease, the dentist said brush.
                                                   Brush what?
                                                   Brush the crumbs under the table,
                                                                             brush the failure of work off worn sleeve?
                                                                             brush the lipstick off my neck, so the wife won't see?
                                                                             brush the bitter taste of disgust from the lips after spoken?
                                                                             what did this dentist mean.

                                                    I'm the skull on his table,
                                                    leering at the chair where the next patient is sitting.
                                                    seeing them stare at my teeth.

(that was four you earl, thanks, I needed that.)

Torrent of words...andcatchasedbearhidingrockspatteredmudree kingkikllingthembehindburntemberstrikingmood...ne ver really being.

How would one with no arms, legs, sound, express a poem?

By blinking.

You see? A tear fell to that.

with ash from an unlit cigarette

milner

 yes, along with the aroma of an unopened bottle of fine brandy. good point.

blinking cursor:
waiting,
wanting,
whispering to me a need.

wallowing,
wishing,
what will it be.

will you like it?
will I?
will it mean anything?
why worry.

women swoon,
wishful,
wanton,
wasting time better spent.
weapons wound warriors with war.
will it ever stop?

worldly advice wanted,
windows wide open to receive,
would you care to notice if there were silence?

what you need to exist, is
words.

                                                                            No
                                                                   
                                                       Yes you look good in that green dress,
                                                        it really hides your weight.
                                                       

d'is green dress
— for Randy

long dark years, in
a forest
stood the home, of
slash, and
tear
victory, and
defeat
deaf, and
dumb

words
went up in smoke, as
they slept
bloated, on
hope, and
a neverending spring
beauty, was
misunderstood, clad

in tatters, yet
it did no good, ashen
things hollow
spite, and
forlorn
blend, nevertheless
consumed by silly, and
mores of milk and honey  







.

Duke of earl, you stimulate the duchess, allowance please.

                                                         Stuka did not stutter in 1941,
                                                        spittle sputtering from the devil,
                                                  wings of a uniform soon speaking of smoke.

                                                no questions asked, screaming reply was enough
                                             ripping new fabric, knitting a yarn no one could believe.
                                             
                                                     so, yes, correctness you're right, the Devil made the pull,
                                                     flushing moral respectable broken man under the swirling porcelain
                                                     command of his troops, seeing folly through,
                                                                                                         the end.

BROTHER


walking across sodded lawn,
they carried me.

feet groaning with complaint,
their silence above was deafening.

sunny day before the dawn,
now complete with misery and fog,
even the birds of joy have left me.

heading in the direction they always told me to go,
they carried me.

trumpet sounding for all to hear,
Arlington,
they buried me.

(thank you for the inspiration M)

                                                                 Capture the Moment                                                        (Alpha)


Fleeting.......................................sp eeding...........................running....in... .a way.............................................. ............


                                                              Trying to capture a view,
                                                                                                \
                                                                                                 an idea,
                                                                                                           \
                                                                                                            a need.....................................



humanity having dialogue with greeting,
scolding rebuke pinning,
learning by design,
are you ready?                                                                                                                        yet........
                                                                                                                                                        /
                                                                                                                                                       /
                                                                                                                                                      /
                                                                                                                                                     /
                                                                                                                                                    /
                                                                                                                                                    still....





                                                                               in a circle
                                                                               s          p
                                                                               i           n
                                                                               n          i
                                                                               ....ng....
                                                                              /           \
                                                                             /             \
                                                                            /               \
                                                                           /                 \
                                                      a moment it will be             \
                                                                                               \
                                                                                                \
                                                                                                 \
                                                                              a moment it will be gone




you seek answers unable to answer,
questions yet unknown,
still...







                                                                                                                           stumbling in choice of ignorance,
                                                                                                                           momentary happiness,
                                                                                                                           fixated on constant pain,
                                                                                                                                                       sustenance,
                                                                                                                                                       sex,
                                                                                                                                                       (    )
                                                                                                                                                         /
                                                                                                                                                        /
                                                                                                                                                    --/--
                                                                                                                                                     /
                                                                                                                                                      simple
                                                                                                                                                    pleasures...


are you now ready for me?
If not, maybe one day you'll see the moment,

                                                                               Peace




(Omega)
                                                                                                                                                   

Exciting to see you playing with layout/form like this, escaping the formal box more than ever. Tom

everything in everything is getting so- shall we say-cliche so instead of saying, "Thanks Tom," I'll write you a poem in thanks.

                                                                   

                                                                                                                                    Cliche

eggs over easy, or I'll have another cup of Joe.
or how about Freddy Kruger making me queasy?

                                                                                                     no pain, no gain, shit man, that's no shit,
                                                                                                     come on there boy, don't quit, you can do it!
                                                                                                     like hell I can.

different strokes for different folks,
oh-my-god, will it ever stop?

                                                                                                      think mink, would you like a piece of pie?
                                                                                                      or it takes two to tango, jiffy-pop goes pop.

what are you thinking when seeing
these ink blots?

                                                                                                       Join the mile high club, or we shall never
                                                                                                       feel defeat. Maybe there is a calm before
                                                                                                       the storm?

OK, OK, whatever dude,
or is it some carrot on the end of the stick?

                                                                                                        No my good man, it's a game called life...

I'll drink to that.




                                                                     

                                                      A grasshopper has no Toenails

Clinging to the stalk of the frosty morning before the heat, she hung there full of eggs,
waiting,
waiting for my fingers to pluck her before she can realize she can't move.

Into an old washed peanut butter jar, she rolled from my fingers joining her friends,
maybe even her future lover?

Some have doubt if the holes in the lid are enough air to give them,
though with a shake, I can see they still doubt their dead.

Off now to the creek, filled with cold blooded trout,
I can hardly wait to feed them.

It is warmer now, the sun has returned to view the show,
inside there was motion,
they were clinging again.

The hook is ready, I am ready, as are the trout,
but what about them?
Sunlight reflecting from the glass, inside there was squirming, tobacco juice, and clinging.

With a laugh, I opened it as if I was already fishing with them,
waiting,
waiting for my fingers to pluck her before she can fly.

One, and then another, soon there were none left,
leaving me to wonder how it could be.

Leaving the trout hungry,
leaving me to doubt,
leaving them to wander, breed, and cling for another night.

                                             Just,
                                                   another day

                                                                            "Coming this Christmas,
                                                                                       A Robot that cares."


                                                               Seen through the myopic lens of
                                                                                   I

                                                               "My KeepOn appears underwhelming,"
                                                                it should at only ten inches high.

                                                                Autistic children need it,
                                                                            even Richard Barry at Toys "R" us
                                                                loves it...
                                                                            why?

                             children talk to robots like
                                            I
                                                         talk to God,
                                                         yet the child in you no longer tries.

                                                         boyhood dreams have died,
                                                         secrets hiding behind your
                                                         dark nights, your passion of sighs.

                                                                                                                        "This crap is not a poem!"
 said my the other
            I,
now two in conflict... 
        why?

                                                                     Coming this Christmas is a Robot that cares.



                                                                             Is that Robot you or
                                                                                       I?
                                                                                                                                             Who cares,
                                                                                                                                              gotta go
                                                                                                                                                 text,
                                                                                                                                                tweet,
                                                                                                                                                   eat,
                                                                                                                                                   die...

<sub>[descend stairs singing]  tis a fine day to swoon
                                  'bout the botox on the moon
                                  swinging from the scars 
                                  cause by frat fries and freaks.

[sits at kitchen table]     sure I do, yeah, yeah, yeah.
                                  I'll miss you too, honey.
[pause, screamer]          take the Buick. Please!</sub>








.

                                                                                                                      a vivid picture earl, though the Volvo is
                                                                                                                                           already warm.

                                                            looking at the clock upon mantle of my own bearing
                                                            weight so heavy I don't know how but i'll try
                                                            two only now this hour descending, (momentary pause for the power went out)
                                                            it's back to thirty or forty or who the hell knows but i'll try
                                                            (reloading the gun)

                                                            sad fact of the matter is it matters how you think not what you say
                                                            what you believe matters not as matter is better
                                                            than what do you, by you I mean that time you told me all
                         (a momentary cough)
                                                            thank you for obvious concern however

                                                                                                                        (pouring a glass of water, sipping)

                                                             i'd rather ride a bike.

<sub>smoke & mirrors

one would be cursed
for being in a gang
that wanted you dead
&
in the good old days
thugs would willingly
give a hug but today
times are harder still
&
all is pissing wells
standoffs and setting
clocks marrying riots
pols and nonage nouns</sub>




.

)penguins, now that's another story
i'd rather not say..(



                                                                    Condensed Humanity

Let's talk about war,
that you know,
however,
not the reason why.

beginning with rocks,
sporting engorged cocks,
they played in caves.

Tribal reason you could say,
but why?
Maybe they could have chosen law,
                                           barter,
                                           or peace,
                                           or did they try?

Religion, now there was a good reason,
kill for a belief,
texts even showing they were right,
if so,
what gives God the right?
So we still don't know why.

Look at those breasts,
those thighs,
now THAT must be a reason,
sex is always in season
ever since monkey's tried.

No?

It must be color,
"I'm black you're white, lets band together and kill yellow."

No?

political aspirations,
                       royal rights,
                                     broken treaties,
                                                         you spit in my eye,
                                                                                 crossed the line,
                                                                                                      treason,
                                                                                                hate,
                                                                                    conflict,
                                                                           greed,
                                            ego flamed passions,
                                                                    ignorance,
                                                                                 lies,
                                                                                    revenge,
                                                                                              loyalty,
                                                                                                    allied...
                                                           
All those many reasons for war,
you'll find in a dictionary,
              yet,
              still,
it must be the reason.

No?

There is a reason for war.                 
Simple in logic,
a word above all others,
one that sets humanity apart.\                                                                            /
                                          \                                                                          /
                                           \                                                                        /
                                            \                                                                      /
                                             \                                                                    /
                                              \                                                                  /
                                               \                                                                /
                                                \                                                              /
                                                 \                                                            /
                                                  \                                                          /
                                                   \                                                        /
                                                    \                                                      /
                                                     \                                                    /
                                                      \                                                  /
                                                       \                                                /
                                                        \                                              /
                                                         \                                            /
                                                          \                                          /
                                                           \                                        /
                                                            \                                      /
                                                             \                                    /
                                                              \                                  /
                                                               \                                /
                                                                \                              /
                                                                 \                            /
                                                                  \                          /
                                                                   \                        /
                                                                    \                      /
                                                                     \                    /
                                                                      \                  /
                                                                       \                /
                                                                        \              /
                                                                         \            /
                                                                          \          /
                                                                           \        /
                                                                            \      /
                                                                             \    /
                                                                              \  /
                                                                            choice


"robin, you're an idiot.
War is caused by (fill in your choice of reason.)"

                                                                                               When in a situation
                                                                                         you feel the need to choose offense
                                                                                         or defense, with victory in sight as the finish line,
                                                                                                     do you fight?


Maybe not with an M-16, knife or bomb,
but with words?



                                                                          I know I do,
                                                                          as I am humanity,
                                                                          I as in me,
                                                                          I as in you, they, them,
                                                                                               in the end,
it is how we choose to live,
that shows the world,
we tried.

can you feel it?                                                                                                                                     what?
the power from the shift.                                                                                                                       where?
they know.                                                                                                                                           who?
soon...                                                                                                                                                  when?




                                                               Flashing with power,' live naked girls inside.'
                                                               neon lust lurking inside one who only knows the street.
                                                               when darkness falls, the fallen seek.
                                                                close your eyes now to what you want to see,
                                                                        close your eyes now as the red light throbs with your heart,
                                                                                  close your eyes as her body robs you blind,
                                                                                          and when you're through,
                                                                                                turn off the light.

<sub>sightseeing
with a sweetheart

I am in a dark place
even dog piss cannot escape, the

river no longer floods, the
only light is from the house

birth is via the nose
and, the rest
down to gravity</sub>






.

                                                                                                                         Looking over the vast ocean,
                                                                                                                  covering perceived objects dark and deep,
                                                                                                                  we fear the unknown.
                                                                                                                                     Turning our back in failure,
                                                                                                                    shuffling back up the shore to the light,
                                                                                                                    the home of our mind is security.
                                                                                                                                     Meanwhile, what we can't
                                                                                                                     sea, is the moon of gravity pulling back
                                                                                                                     that ocean, revealing it was only inches
                                                                                                                                        deep...

                                                                                           

                                                                a moving rhyme

                                             did you feel the quake?
                                             the earth it moved,
                                                                       ,it shake'd.
                                             people ran,
                                                            ,people freaked!

                                            was it a 7, 8, or, dare I say it, 9?

                                                      Nah, it was not Alaskan,
                                                                                      , it was an east coast 5.8

HaaHaa
HooHoo
HeeHee

                                                               ***

Now onto serious matters,

                                                                   Battle with the Beer

                                                     "Would you like a beer?" asked of I,
                                                             an innocent bystander.

                                                      Of course, "Yes," was the answer.
                                                   Thirsty now, thinking of barley and hops.

                                                       "Is it a twist off?"
                                                                             There was no answer as the bastard had already left.

                                                        Antiquity had reared it's ugly head.
                                                         This could be a disaster.

                                                         Younger days, with a firm hold and a pop,
                                                                                        it would fizz.

                                                         These older fingers could barely grasp as it is.

                                                          Inside the sweating brown bottle,
                                                                   the cold fluid hid.

                                                           "O bottle opener, where art thou,"
                                                                as if by magic, one would appear.

                                                            Thoughts of breakage as did a pirate,
                                                                 breaking its neck...
                                                                                           No, too much of a mess.

                                                             Fuming and panting on this hot day,
                                                             I surrendered to the bottle,
                                                             leaving it to another fate.

<sub>vigilance society of rhyme

might wish to prosecute
history or the Canadian team
a stray dog of an editor
offloading on my leg sans
deference to pain or grudge
He wore pink and became lost
all He ever told me was I am
going to die, I had nothing
whatsoever to do with Dunkirk
or the spirit of desertion
fukit, cheap, cheap, rubbish
over and over, more, again
earthmoving, son of a gun
cliche say, repeat, repeat</sub>




.

amen earl, amen,
you know it brother, or is it mother?
ah hell, just watch out for her eye and don't sip on sand.

and now, turning the dog over and watching them beg, a poem for you earl.

                                                         ''''''P'''''

                                               What does a human need?
                                               Eliminate the obvious,
                                                                            air,
                                                                            food,
                                                                            water,
                                                                            coolness or heat.


"""breeze gentle to me now,
   falling sweet upon my lips,
   tasting womanly nectar.
   Your heat of desire struggles,
   against my heart of coolness,
   it will never melt in love to you."""

                                                                                                 Without the obvious we have:
                                                                                                                               Physical,
                                                                                                                               Physiology,
                                                                                                                               Psychology,
                                                                                                                               Philosophy,
                                                                                                             (or in other words, a lot of pee)

"""Perchance people peer perilously,
    phishing phore passion pleasing?
    Putting, puzzled, properly perplexed,
    public privy preterit; prattle?"""

                                                              So what does a human need?

                                                                    A poet,
                                                                       poetry,
                                                                       
                                                                         yes,
                                                                       a lot of p...

Another Moment,
   

                       Looking up towards the clock,
                           the shopkeeper knew,
                           as he truly knows them.

                      All lined up in their proper places,
                                    ticking,
                             tocking,
                                    ringing,
                             dinging...

                       Meticulous in making,
                       He had spent his entire life
                                creating.

                        Crafting small pieces
                      polishing metal and glass
             forever seeking chronological perfection.

                             The day,
                              this day,
                   he had finally succeeded.

                           Looking upwards towards The Clock,
                                          was the exact moment,
                                                  his heart stopped.

(a little dark meat now, maestro, if you please)

Maggot infestation,
pictured while standing next to her crib,
picture-perfect, as shown in the old antique photo from 1926.

Parents gone after she was taken,
after the photo of the three,
why did God foresake them?

Postal note revealed why,
where she was buried,
written laughter mocking,
he could you know, it was his life.

His life he used to take,
to squander innocence,
to silence an angelic giggle,
the black-and-white does no justice to her smile,
yet lurking behind them, was his face.

<sub>— good job, Randy.

  .  .  .  touch of the old one two trailer park wampum with the maggots going on in there Randy. Which all kind of sucks when your nuts get stuck over a starlit Caribbean that soon resembles the blond convertible you lust after and lie about to the joyful pokerface in the pancakes.

I did the long walk Randy. Then some. What a waste. I live with a tiny dog called Fannie Scratch on account Fannie Flagg was took by some gay outfit that flogs fried green tomatoes, how absurd is that for someone always on the go.

I got to tell you Randy, I read more like a balance sheet every day, least in the eyes of the world. All I see is compensation. Maybe it was the way I got neglected and summed up stuff as a no good thief. Maybe it was the misfortunes of family values and the big white sink.

I seemed to drown down the noise of the bright Friday Legion of British Hopefuls — I got rather partial to a slice of soft-sun soap as I recall. I was a baby killer too, even before the spell in the red-brick special school for special skills kicked in.

I was blessed at birth. I guess.</sub>  







.

'red brick special' nice.
         ***


                                                                   Baby killer

                              drafted away from a young education of life,
                                         hauled past others living their protest, their dream.

                             sent to a far off police action, a conflict, some even said, "a war."
                                   whatever man, I was young, naive.

                              it was no picnic in Central Park,
                                                    no high school dance,
                                                 no special moment I would do again.

                                VC reminded one of DC who threw us away for, what?
                                                     for honor?
                                                           reaction?
                                                             country?
                                                       Founding fathers cried.

                                    In short, it was a long fight, six months in-country trying to stay alive.
                                        artillery battery answering,
                                                                     puff was even there,
                                                                                 yet it was in their eyes I saw true passion,
                                                                                              those sappers got up close.

                                           Whiskey, Alpha, Romeo...one day was the worst,
                                                                                            I lost my leg to ignorance with no arm left to wipe tears.
                                                                                   around my world lay death.
                                                                                   young, old, never again to live.

                                                             Carted like luggage, back to the real world I went,
                                                             past the pot, free love, and chanting, wishing it was 'I' that was dead.
                                                             "baby killer!" they spit.

                                                                                       those two words still ring today in my shattered head,
                                                                                   with one word holding on for survival,
                                                                                                         Peace

(am i asleep? i'll answer and see.)




                                                                                              Bad Dream

                                          Hefting ax of war,
                                                    sinewed muscle rippled,
                                          beading sweat falling from his brow,
                                                    leaving enemy pleading.

                                          Red the sky,
                                                    firelit night expressing horror.
                                          she, the young girl, knew it well,
                                                    hidden in loose soil below it all.

                                          The air was dry,
                                                    lightning flashing in the distance,
                                           her soil wet with fear,
                                                                   violation,
                                                                   death.

                                           Innocence never surrendered,
                                                     taken by force,
                                                     tempo of violence increased.

                                            Falling timbers, spreading sparks,
                                                     embers burning this scene
                                            forever in her mind...
     
                                            She would remember.

                                                                   autumn trail

                                                 going past as if
                                                 on a mission,
                                                 they never knew I exist.

                                                 leaves falling,
                                                          geese honking,
                                                                   summer fading away.

                                                 soon, snow falling,
                                                           Northern Lights to show where I lay.

                                                 sounds filling the air,
                                                            yet to me,
                                                                   silent.

                                                 in repose,
                                                            after a long day hiking,
                                                                     only a couple feet from the path,

                                                 i lay.

                                                                                                  TV evangelist's again are shouting,
                                                                                                  probably pouting it is not yet the end.

For every disaster,
they say we're the matter,
causing God to tremble and sway.

                                                                              All the doom, the gloom, holding the Bible,
                                                                               even as New York has had a bad week,
                                                                                      they say it is Him who has something to say.

The poet inside has something to say,
el crappola s'il vous plait.

                                                                          Jesus, Mohammad, down the list to Martin Luther King,
                                                                                         all listened to something, or to what some people believe,
                                                                                          and that's nice as they too, had something good to say.
However, returning to earth,
low pressure system hurricanes,
shifting Teutonic plates,
to that rabid rat biting off a persons face,
all facts of life called living,
all results of choice,
as for God speaking,
He already has had his say.

                                                         So batten down the hatches east coast folks,
                                                         keep dry and your family safe,
                                                         and when you see that TV preacher talk as if they know better,
                                                         just smile and remember, they're just like you and me.


                                                                                   

<sub>I hear a pedicure is in order, nothing like a good old scrape to rid the hood of its constipation. The last place you need to be right now is a checkout staring down at food stamps and a long walk west with a kid and nowhere inside for the pioneer spirit to do the right thing — or listen to an apache thank the great white face for a transit system and gifts of snake-oil and nice clean bunny blankets from God. We already did that one once before.

This is a time to swallow your horse and hate, Randy. Florida needs sidewalks to run for a bus on and a job worth more than the minimum wage to go to, be proud of — and in Canada an alien is an alien. Amen.

We need to campaign for decent carparks for our kids, not promises of ownership, opportunity, and fame. We need a Chinese immigrant from Hanoi that can trail-mix a nation to victory with a bow and arrow and run all the way to Washington on an empty rice bag. So let's hear no more about evacuation, least call a spade a spade. Irene, goodnight.

Thank you kindly— good job, Randy</sub>





.

talking about hygiene earl, did you hear the news?

                                                   " Marines banned from farting in Afghanistan"

                                          in their world filled with bombs and sand,
                                                   the US Marine is banned.
           
                                            not in conflict with the Taliban, but with something,
                                       well, a little more digestic.

                                              when in the presence of those they came to kill or protect,
                                          just cross you toes and hold it.
                                                  then, when the time is right, just let it rip and blow it.

                                            failure to adhere, will have you standing tall,
                                                and when the Commander is chewing you out,
                                                    with a smile, let them smell it.

(news is perfect fodder for a poet to digest, a person can't make this crap up if they wanted too, oops, better light a match.)

                                                           Rich Man's Disease

Opulent surroundings, filled with truffles, stuffed geese, other delicacies fit for a king.
Wine flowed, staining chin and garments.
Laughter as women frolicked, swaying hips to music, teasing those who noticed.
Ripping lobster in half to suck sweet meat followed by oysters on the half with smoked salmon.

Feasting through a night, the week, months of years he was fed, pleased at the spread,
growing rotund, or if you prefer, pleasantly plump,
never lacking in feed, friend ,or family, of course by now his hair had fallen.

It was now time for the comeuppance, piper was to be paid as the court jesters laugh fades.
Awaking in his chambers screaming from the pain, a throbbing sensation rooted in his feet.
Shiny red and bulging, the joints were coated in uric acid.

While he lay in pain, surrounded by his wealth, outside was a common beggar,
a man of the street,
tending a cardboard fire to chill his lean stature,
wondering why a man of fortune should cry out.

Outside the world showed hunger,
those striving to exist,
never to know the rich man's inside pleasure,
of gout.

<sub>good
and goodlier

want Santa stuck on a wall
so Canada might recall never-never
snow white & pixie dust
forever fever during storms
and cure the blind next door
world Canada is that curious cabin
— virgin surrounds, a place where
vice is nice and victims get sappy
where team ape can cull the clan of man
desire of honey, any price, any school
as far as they tell, likes of Beckett
Bacon as well, remain unread and uncool
— effortlessly made bigger, well, yeah.
where turds come from on hire-purchase
totally. 


— good job, Randy
I often think about money, sleepless hunters
more pricks than kicks
where writers come from, go to care less and less
I love the soft sun and the ugly fucker
knocking, more and more with a hammer
say yes, say no, am I going
to be
too late, always</sub>





.

In other words earl, "Stick it to the man," a most opportune moment, i understand.

Is this a cliche' or did someone else already say it? I thought of it today while having lunch.

No matter how you slice it,
     cheese and more cheese,
              is the best food,
                      no doubt
                         about
                             it.

.

yes Earl, it is truly yours. No words needed from me other than to say, "nice."

                                                              Waking to the sun rising over the red sands of war,
                                                              looking off in the distance, there was peace,
                                                                                    walking lovers, hand in hand,
                                                                                          while last nights city lights still flickered,
                                                                                                casting shadows over still waters.

                                                               Caught in turmoil,
                                                               like a fish gasping for life,
                                                               it was to be another day like all others,
                                                               trapped here on Mars.

.

yes, more than yes, to yes.
ben flew it because he knew it,
paul rode because he believed,
settlers moved because of (royal decree),
and youth standing like deer in the headlights, waiting to catch the disease.

***


and now onto the forecast.

                                                           Morning yawn turning frosty at the breakfast table,
                                                           partial clearing of small talk,
                                                           turning to parting chatter.

                                                           Full sun of witty banter with the single secretary,
                                                           with the afternoon blowing full gale at the board meeting,
                                                           evening thunderstorm when she learns...
                                                         
                                                            Yes folks, it is 100% chance for a torrent of words.

                                                                         she sat in the Wal-Mart electric chair,
                                                                                  reaching for candy.
                                                                          a product for her production of fat,
                                                                                  which is why she sat there.
                                                                          last i saw, she was standing in Subway,
                                                                                   saying I'll have provolone

.

respectability

I neither expect nor want
a bird sings its wanderings
poesy over my wicked cracks
into something soft and dim
adventure
what
fine ladies, have these
eyes no equal
you see them dressed to kill
I on the other hand
pretend, deception
alone I play with my heart
as strings, taught, unread
yes ladies, you need a pattern
shapes, I see the smile takes
your head, not Boccherini
I your heart

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dmWAve3Pvk

.

Earl, with class, nice. Did I mention nice? yes, nice indeed.
                                                               
                                                                       ***

                                                         Oh to see them twirl,
                                                          round and round sipping wine, sipping ale.
                                                         Country muse to music boys, it's off to war soon.

                                                         Lancaster farms with a lovely lass to caress the wounded,
                                                         hearts held captive with the dance.
                                                         Country muse to music boys, our youth is gone, strings to drums,
                                                             summer idyllic to love, all gone.
                                       
                                                         Listen, close now, crescendo of sound, nary a word spoken,
                                                         ladies in waiting as the laughs have left now,
                                                         the music of war has spoken.

                                                                   forgotten

It came from the earth to be used as lead,
                                       a h
                                          e
                                           a
                                             v
                                              y
                                                 burden for such a simple element,
                                                      to be used in so much construction.

X-ray labs to fall-out shelters,
              gasoline to paint,
                   it became common place, a household word, a common element.

Everyone knows of it,
               some even show it lying in a grave with it in their teeth,
                    and we cannot forget about bullets unless we have been exposed
                                        long term,
                                            to it.

Dictators come and they go,
               as do kingdoms and government,
                        even countries fade into the past.

Take Libya as an example,
                a user of lead, lead by a man who is mad,
                         taken from power by lead.

In celebration they shot up into the air,
               the victory element,
                          to soar high one more time before finding it's home,
                                           the earth.

                                                                                                                                          went to bed angry...
                                                                                                                                          didn't wake up,
                                                                                                                                there was still one in the chamber

This one is for Leo, you were a good friend and will be missed.

                                                                  Running.
                                                                  Around the world spinning in direction guided by what, a feeling?
                                                                  Experimentation spinning out of control guided by what, a feeling?
                                                                  So, just how are you feeling?
                                                                  Are you in control?

                                                                  Running,
                                                                  away from a feeling towards a feeling, feeling alone yet feeling something.
                                                                  Leo felt it as he always had been running.
                                                                  He felt it stop.

                                                                  And while you sleep now,
                                                                  the wheel that killed you will never stop.

<sub>so it goes

I write this in eurostile with the letter y on the end in lowcase. Which drives me mad. I never put a comma following lowcase (at the end of the first sentence) and accounts for me not writing that instead of which. I prefer to use a period whenever possible, not for the purist you understand. I know of no such traveller, not least any that would rather die of thirst over the difference — tyranny is tyranny.

A lady got in her little car and drove south down the interstate — editing her speech in her head. She did everything right according to the book: mirror, signal, moved. Then drove into the side of a tractor-trailer on her right. She died at the scene. At least 50 eyewitnesses swear they heard nothing and 350 in a westbound Cobb County choir saw nothing but heard everything. The world continues to spin nevertheless. I lie.

I lie because I cannot and never will understand everything. I do my best. I fail. I err and irk in the mash of toldyousos. I makeup patterns, patterns that have no beginning, only middles and milestones and even these are distorted. I write in straight lines about the sky and get nowhere. I write because I do, because I can. The payoff and what others make of it is up to them— no excuses.</sub>




.

true, up to them. Or false, depending on the period.

***

                                                                Lye caustic not, too,
                                                                          the soul.

                                                                Flung with blatant,
                                                                           arrogant thoughts towards what,
                                                   sky?
                                                   ground?
                                                   reason?
                                                   Or was your flight pleasant coasting over slaving shippers of Chinese goods,
                                                                            safe in your cocoon of oxygen, would you like chicken
                                                                            or beef, pleasant?

Landing to lie,
to lay with false love bought and paid for with words,
never tasting the reality everyone else has gorged to obese parameters,
and then, just when it was safe, to come to where you belong,
yes, you're correct,
no excuses.

.

                                                                                                                                                     Earl, i talk dirty
                                                                                                                                                      when i'm in love.


                             You have a point when you write your name on the snow,
                                      if only for a moment until frozen, you put it away.
                              Yet in that brief moment of beer ridden bliss, you ponder on what you read, said, and agree.

                           The form of formal is so, so, so what?
                                                          Boring?

                                                    Yes, it bore a hole straight to the brain of creative expression while the shifting
                                snow covers your name,
                                                              replaced with egotistical, testicular, estrogen laced, blind-faced, blank stares of
                                                                                                hate...

                                          Ya, for sure, but commercial is the easy way out, just look at Stephen King.
                                    maybe there are other farmers out there planting new seeds, to feed a hungry city a better way.
                                                In the meantime, maybe we should sip tea and discuss smiley clowns carrying
                                                     bloody hatchets, or ban on rags on the head in France?

black dominoes,
falling poetic to a sound,
almost like rain.

placed by a hand,
fallen as the smoke cleared,
until silence.

There was no one left,
nothing to fall,
room filled with,
    alone.

p--u--l--l--i--n--g...slowly on the thread,
                                                    *
                                                       *
                                                           *
                                                                *cat--a--log--ging life.


morning is always best,
free from a prison of sleep.

                                                                                 A time for sex?

No, you're already dressed,
and for this thread you must be naked to read it.

Like this! I couple cutting a couple lines maybe makes it stronger:

p--u--l--l--i--n--g...slowly on the thread,
                                                    *
                                                       *
                                                           *
                                                                *cat--a--log--ging life.


morning is always best.

                                                                                 a time for sex?

no, you're already dressed.

Thanks Tom, sometimes less is better, such as government, and sometimes more is better, such as cheese. Both versions have their place as both have an entirely different feel for me, both of which I can relate.

***

Already Written.

Yep,
uh huh,
okay,

Did you...
How about...
Maybe...

You already saw it before I hit delete.

What did you think?
Did you follow the advice?
Why didn't I print it?

Oh well,
such is life.

***

                                                                                                                        stropping edge
                                                                                                                        for a strapping lad
                                                                                                                        trying for a look
                                                                                                                       
                                                                                                                        first and last
                                                                                                                        mirror laughing
                                                                                                                        soles showing
                                                                                                                        hair still growing
                                                                                                                        and this is called
                                                                                                                               life?

<sup>bitch illusions for kids: nursery witchcraft

"Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn,
    Apple seed and apple thorn,
        Wire, briar, limber lock
            Three geese in a flock
                One flew East
                    One flew West
                       And one flew over the cuckoo's nest"


(Michele Bachmann of Minnesota said carbon dioxide was nothing to fear because it is a “natural byproduct of nature” and complained of “manufactured science.” — nyt, op-eds/tlf., 9.8.2011.)</sup>








.

Enjoying.

milner

thanks Earl, i needed that. so this one's for you

***

broken window,
dead trees sighing,
sweeping,
floor of my mind gone.

punk ass kids laughing,
pluck the strings of reality
to ring out the classroom bell.

do you fear what's out there?
your devastated land,
circus clowns wave good bye.

where have they all gone?
shattered windows,
shattered mind.

<sub>the end game

think missionary position when it comes to gossip
up and down, in and out, smoke and blow a few holes, done
there is no world save the world of a 20c tabloid
say: I am not from Texas, nOr might I add, am I on fire

two things about fame

remind yourself that the wee thing between your legs is the only plaything you get tied to for the duration and is as ugly as you feel about your ennui — no matter how fanciful

be sure to give and take but take more than you give, more workshop less rejection, less rejection, more power, more power less workshop, less workshop more honey, more honey more knowing, till bulimic — a fab LP that never stops till you jump

being born again is a lifeline to the nuts you lack and the guts to demand such things as a no strings government and a feeling of wellbeing about cripples and the hungry

notes on rejection

first: welcome (benvenuto, familia)
       introduce yourself: where, what, why
       thank you

place: use the workshop
plan: honesty
theme: ghetto sounds

the slow screamer: words are cheap and shallow, O really
write idea: more for deaf & dumb less for sight & sound
worst thing: sound better than me

— a good illusion, is a good job first.
ciao, ciao

Dax</sub>








.

yes,  rejection is but an illusion, i see it when naked and looking into a mirror. and speaking of a rejected illusion.

***

Hail To the Chief!

Ivory pillars of power,
over shadowed by the blackness of night,
holding the weight of the world in their hands.

Puppets with no master,
still,
puppets who can make you bleed with their sharp splinters of stupidity only mindless dolts of wood possess.

Look at them smile,
taxpayer bought and paid teeth,
chewing on the cud of comfort while others swelter in the late summer heat.

Tired and haggard,
so much time walking the job beat,
cut off at the ankles,
then the knees,
gutted belly,
slit throat,
until only the finger remains.

This is for you in Washington,
you who call yourself the Countries Federal Family Friends,
as an American worker drowning in your mess,
my middle finger sticks out,
 until the end.

lost poem
found:



Ivory pillars
blackness
the weight hands.

no master
still,
puppets bleed
dolts of wood

Look at them smile,
chewing the heat.

so much time.

cut off the ankles,
then the knees,
gutted belly,

until only the finger remains.


please forgive my intrusion;
i like the color of your mask.

tiko

<sub>To Whom It May Concern,

I live next door.

Sincerely,

The Current Householder.</sub>






.

Tiko, there is no intrusion as all is an illusion and a secret decoder ring in the cereal.

and for xaD, please adjust my strap, or should i say, Mr. T?

***

                                                                        Jaded jade

Trying the t's to treasure.
growing up grasping what was said, in our cranium squeezed cervix pressured path, pointy top to trouble the world.

Trying what?
to tempt those that terrorize young minds already old at glimpsing Saturday cartoons while eating cereal.

Too much information,
already lost by the age of two, than those terrible thirties, and then what? To think thoughts of evolutionary theory?

Honor...Pride...Love...Respect...Compassion...Tru st...all lies to those that choose not believing it.

garbled speech,
spun dry,
silent,
touching a vibe of something inside,
written so to teach,
they are already dead.

*
*
*
*
*
   pissing on the boundaries>>>                                                                                                                          *
                                                                                                                                                                     *
                                                                                                                                                                     *
                                                                                                                                     <<<like a bitch in heat*
*
*
*
looking for that hook-up in word>>>                                                                                                                  *
                                                                                                                                                                     *
                                                                                                                                                                     *
                                                                                                                   <<<knotted until the fire hose blew*
*
*
*
i found it yet>>>                                                                                                                                             *
                                                                                                                                                                     *
                                                                                                                                <<<soaking stink of human*
*
*
*
still human.
                                                                                                                                                                           
                                 

.

                                                                                                    chopped words,
                                                                                                    minced emotions,
                                                                                                    saute made of art,
                                                                                                    to play a greater part,
                                                                                                    a taste of a bitter heart.

sknaht xaD, rof eht noitaripsni.

.

nice xaD, busy busy busy, it is a job just to be.

***
                                                               New York Sept 11

                                                Seeds of hate always,
                                                                    always waiting to grow,
                                                                    always stuck as a seed,
                                                                                                    never knowing conviction of love,
                                                                                                    never tasting the water of truth,
                                                                                                    never reaching the moment of bearing fruit.
                                                                            it is eternal in trial,
                                                                             is is easy to plant,
                             it is easy to digest even though it is not truly edible,
                                                                                                    mankind stores it,
                                                                                                    mankind adores it,
                                                                                                    mankind is you and I,
                                                                        blinded by true love,
                                                                     blinded by compassion,
                                                                     blinded by forgiveness,
                                                                           blinded, you and I.
                                                                                                    Eternal Son,
                                                                                                                     shining eternal high,
                                                                                                         one day,
                                                                                                                    hate and we shall see,
                                                                                                           Peace.
                                                               
                               
                                                     

.

yes                                                                                                                                                                 yes,
true                                                                                                                                                               true,
still...

***

                                                                                       roadkill

                                                    highway of life,
                                                    painted lines of choice,
                                                    rough or smooth,
                                                   
                                                    they want to fill your pothole,
                                                           or put 'road closed.'
                                                    they are an old road.

                                                    my road is not of earth,
                                                    it is the dream of sky,
                                                    to soar,
                                                    live, laugh,
                                                    forgive.

<sub>pygmalion ritual

the little dog got up early to beat the commute
and imagined what it must be like to be a fox
— everyone out to kill a shadow before church
ever thought of becoming who you really are
the credo went, which got writ once by lightning
before insects got blueprinted and programmed
the little dog got up early to beat the commute
and came to terms with the croc and a quick spin</sub>





.

'imagined what it must be like to be a fox' so much so to imagine, ok lets spin.

***

drip your laces,
frilly and erect nipples
showing the boys to be boys,
being sold to her way.

barker announcing flesh for sale,
cheap labor bringing dollars to soil her pride as she twirled the pole,
erect sitting chairs looking her way,
old Chinese woman waving her fan,
cooling no passion as she ate noodles.

never in youth did she wonder,
to dance or marry into slavery,
no choice except once in school,
'imagined what it must be like to be a fox.' (line stolen like she stole my heart, tanks fer da line xaD)

                                                                        investing                                                                   



                                                                                                                                            talked to the broker,
                                                                                                                                            he said, "Run!"
                                                                                                                                            leaving me to wonder.
                                                                                   buy gold young man,
                                                                                   going to $5000,
                                                                                    he said chewing on old gum,
                                                                                   forming a bubble waiting to pop.

                                         real estate is real,
                                         you can pee in the back yard,
                                         feeling the soil beneath,
                                         plus it's cheap.

got any money?
spend it on drink.

Earl, more news from Canada, one can't make this shit up.

"mother kills newborn, throws body over neighbors fence" no jail time spent.

***

No goo-goo,
gaa-gaa.
gurgle,
burp,
sigh.

It's just a piece of meat,
so why cry?

She claimed she was a virgin,
doctors doubted she was sane,
simply put, she was a new mother,
in a new age.

rock yourself to sleep baby,
while you sit in jail for stealing a car.

<sub>hI rAnDy

10/4
— good job

I got to stop lookin
at the wall man, that dead mans's blur
speed
I hate this graveyard shift, flowers
fresh reminders, there in black
her charcoal all ashen & last wintered
demanding her turn
scaling up, buckled
so
comely

I get so snotty</sub>







.

work'in late,
some say fate,
scream'in,
bang'in,
wonder'in if i could be great.

wait'in for the band,
to really understand,
how music can change the world.

stale birthday cake,
 boss in a hateful state,
morn'ins come'in,
there's coffee to make,
and more news of 'in hate.

<sub>listen, for the record

my cleaner said all at once & just because the sign out front read purlieu
not everyone understood what the fuck it means to be insame and tense uptight

I know the American people are some of the warmest folk on the planet, it's just that they happen to get stuck with a load of dead beat pols whose mission in life makes my blood crawl

life is full of poets but not every poet is filled with life. the two are a different species. there is life and there is life, and there is life — I, you, them — and not every slave has the lux of endorphins in their daily bread sister

so, yeah

I just ain't worth it and what there is is pretty much decay — all whored out for the duration. which makes all the difference to athletes like you, I guess

 — did I mention
all creatures great and small
hell, tuff. right

what about it
give me that sexy shirt




.</sub>    



.

buck up buckeroo, you have your second wind, and 3x long, will it fit?

***

Wound up record of vinyl, spinning vibes no one will hear, or are they faking it?
ok,
let's spin.

polls show pols are numerical idiots, grinning to get their name in the news,
striving for what, to be president of a local tea club playing chest with interns?
God save the Queen, now that is one corgi loving lady who...oh, excuse the Irish in me,
save the last drop for me.
(
 )
look at her wishful stare,
healthy,
tasty,
no plump thighs of chicken has passed her lips,
only sweet water cress and endless desire of what could be,
washed down with that first kiss,
the coming moment when love first agrees.

***

TV news:

turned on the telly; news to tell of the day,
turned off the volume, watching mime comedy,
opened a window to life,
listened to a bird in a tree,
then went to sleep.

<sub>blinded
by the light

we're not civilised either
I was
till asked, no, conditioned
to kill</sub>






.

evening earl, mopped up the day and so...

***

Greed, yes, g-r-e-e-d.
A powerful greedy word, this greed.
Filled and full yet still in need, to suck the soul,
not clean.

                                                            Everyday, of every time, everywhere you look,
                                                            looking back at you,
                                                                  is greed.

Whacked me a good one today,
that's for sure.

                                                            Did I learn?

Hell no,
tomorrow it's  back to greed,
I know.

<sub>black lace at work 

now my world may, aye
exhibit its indifference
dirty and snotty
                 replete
a word the cat throws
long with a host of bones
          and short falls
once seen
          is all to often
announce dinner
          dare you
          stare, to me
          its real crystal
cruel   
and smells institutional
    becomes that labyrinth
    — of culpabilization
I forget
    — a thing you never do</sub> 



.

Thanks for this pleasure.

g/m

_{bueno, g, ciao}

.

broken crystal,
tinted by light,
sparkled dulled by red.

Party is over,
now she is gone,
love dulled by dread.

Alone to the floor,
my new world of rot,
till they carry what's left to melt with the crystal,
in smoke.

<sub>For Álvaro Pombo
                            —  by Juan Antonio Masoliver Ródenas
We are accomplices
and accomplices have no
reason to embrace or kiss
or mourn their own dead
or ours.  We live
in endless complicity
with shameful times
that have become scars and ashes
in our memory.  Dark days
that today are luminous mist
in Neuchâtel
or in brothels on Las Ramblas
whose ceremonies
we don’t attend but which we’re familiar with
because we’ve lived in brothels
and in dungeons
and in the incense
of basilicas.
Accomplices don’t even
need to love themselves.
They love, they walk
blindly, they don’t want to return to school
or home
or world literature.
It’s enough just to be accomplices
without knowing
or despite knowing.
And now I say or whisper:
Álvaro, do you understand the words
I will never utter?  Do you understand
the tears we cried
and will never cry again?
I, drowned,
in the bathroom
when you open the door
and I am there instead of the mirror
where you expected to find yourself


Read more: http://wordswithoutborders.org/article/for-alvaro-pombo/#ixzz1YBhYIVr2</sub>





.

no faking that Earl, tiss a reflection of many tomorrow, ah sweet sorrow.

***

cunt, fuck, shit, twat, jizz...
oh please,
you can say better than that.

                                                                   wamby, namby, gosh, darn...
                                                                   now what do you suppose those words mean.

poetic armor shielding self in expression,
free from moral objection,
unless,

                                                                    one seeks purely shock value
                                                                    as if sticking their finger into the light socket
                                                                    while quoting what they read.

so remember and quote this,

                                                                   emotion not wound,
                                                                   bound to mammary influence,
                                                                   suckled and dried growth showing what?
                                                                   to seek 'nothing' or cock,
                                                                   crowing prowess seeking to spoil the cherry throbbing
                                                                   on an ice-cream sunday
                                                                   while reflecting what it is to be a man
                                                                    hole penetrating success depending
                                                                   on social lubrication of pretending.

can you pretend?
if you're a poet, you can.

                                                                 but what is poetry? feeling or words?
                                                                 some would say, 'fuck that,' while others
                                                                 would rhyme and discuss their doctorate
                                                                 while giving others the first degree of self-pontificating
                                                                 pretense of knowledge based on logic of sanity.

now, golly gee shucks, that is pretend.

<sub>— shucks, rAndY
I best get to dance a mass
on that, later

ciao</sub>




.

                                                                                                                 read a poem about a daughter killing her
 mom

                                                                                                                 read a menu about fish to an aquarium
in a moment
                                                                                                                     
                                                                                                                       read a lot about the world without
love

                                                                                                          read between the lines of life, so here it

comes.

.

                                                                                                                                                                   Ssshhh...
quiet.

(whispering)

I'm alone now,
safe in a padded world of comfort,
fed by the tit of your hard work.
Warm,
watered,
and lost in thought.
Constrained by only what they think will stop me.
Their straps attempting to cut the circulation to the gods.
This writing is done in my mind free...Oh no,
the lights are flashing,
the Demon's dressed in white,
they come!


                                                                                                                                                                     

                                                                                     licking...
                                                                                     licking...
                                                                               (pause for effect)
                                                                                         I
                                                                              like this word licking,
                                                                                 (contemplating)
                                                                         it goes so well with breast.

_{suds
&
wattle of chitterlings}



.

                                                                                                                         thanks for the sensation,
                                                                                                                            i m h u n g r e e

                                                                                 ***

                                                     Last Meal

Big Mac and fries,
 with a smile to match,
well, until I shot him dead,
that big red-nosed clown with that stupid large head.

                                                             Sentenced to time, heck, sentenced to death,
                                                                  and for what, for killing a clown?

Days passed with newspaper lines,
saying that maybe I was possessed,
when the truth of the matter,
is,
for me,
it's clowns that are possessed.

                                                                          Still,
                                                                 none of that matters,
                                                             the laughing bastard is dead,
                                                                 and for my last meal.
                                                                  I don't want beef,
                                                                       I want fish.
               
                                                                 

<sub>tis Friday
&
tuna got toxic
&
engendered
&
gothic
done nosebag'd
&
tis Good
4
irenic
casterway
days
with  deadbeats
&
crew
on
minimum wage




.</sub>

<sub>Someone said do a snapshot of those not on any list — peace and health.

I became acquainted with justice the morning after an awful night when many of my friends had been blown to bits in Birmingham (UK) by the IRA — whose countrymen were then flung from local buses and strung to poles on the way to work at the Longbridge car factory.

Then someone said study the Kings & Queens by rote to pass the exams.

The IRA raised millions of dollars in the United States to fund what they called The Troubles and The British Army shot and killed unarmed civilians in what it called pulse-loving Terrorism.

Then someone shoved Oxford in my face and said get the fuck out of Dodge.

Ireland was a mess and Britain grew to a standstill either glorifying the past or excusing the squalid present. So we have it, eugenics not. The text of the human race: The Man. The State. His Faith. Might. Right. The Rich. The beggar. The Art of Changing Not.

Then someone said the only real choice is always: hard or bad. That's it Mr. Forbes. Which is exactly what sells tickets at the movies and why men like Paul McCartney never bothered to read music.</sub>





.
  

Yes Earl, evil smiles in many places.

                                                                            ***

"Evil sons-a-bitches,
tax me to death,
 someone needs to bleed them!">>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>"Say what you want bout gays being loved by God,
                                                                                                           I hate them.
                                                                                                 Lets bow our heads and pray."
                                                                                                (
                                                                                                 )
                                                                                                (
"I'm good, filled with virtue and love<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<)
sorry to hear you lost your job,
now where is the rent you owe me?"\
                                                     \
                                                      \
                                                       >>>>>The list of evil never ends,
                                                                   while people play it and pretend.

                                                                            In places near and far,
                                                                             jungles, deserts, hell,
                                                                                  even on Mars,
                                                                                He smiles with the grin of the beast,
                                                                                   pulling satanic fingers across holy scars,
                                                                                        not to scare or even take pleasure in deceiving us,
But to watch and wait,
knowing humanities hearts hungers,
it thirsts,
in gluttony waiting for him to feed us.

                                                                        For in this way,
                                                                          He knows the fat will weigh heavy,
                                                                              making it too heavy for Peace to befriend us.

 

<sub>drop
by drop

wether
weren spose

to
beso
bad

worl
weren spose

to
beso
good

till, boy
till
    till
still, boy

the
good boys
sez 
        stop</sub>




.

                                                                                                                            smokin,
                                                                                                                           hot ashes,
                                                                                                                  mating outside with the rain,
                                                                                                                      spiraling up the vent.
                                                                                                                     
                                                                                                                          a life filled with ambition,
                                                                                                                            all up in smoke,
                                                                                                                              last thing I heard,
                                                                                                                           was a doctors joke.

                                                                                                                                can you imagine?
                                                                                                                                 cremation, me,
                                                                                                                                 and I never even smoked.

                                                                                   Yepper, das da way it be.


               sorrowful glances melted nothing,
               only misted the pane.

               revealing what was once alive,
               playing,
               writing his message for a snowman to see.

               eating cake in his remembrance,
               wake,
               no more,
               will he.


(ah, too bad for him. that's a shitty poem, or shite for those whose vocabulary is particular.)

                                                                  Smoking gun held high,
                                                                   shells littering the floor,
                                                                    yet one more chance for the teller.

                                                                     Writing a quick poem in the spirit of the moment,
                                                                         showing her the reason why,
                                                                       'put the fucking money in the bag now,
                                                                          honey.
                                                                         or die!'

(yeah, that's better, now go wrangle some demons)
                                                                     

yes, the computer hacker.
but what else is there to do?
there are no secrets anywhere, not even in your heart.

***

                                                            20,000 missing  Libyan missiles
oh my, missing pieces,
scattered to the wind,
maybe they will end badly carried by terrorists hands?

so much to fear
so much to understand
well my stance is different.

here one day,
gone the next,
everyone can relate,
but how do you choose to hate?

by this I mean, are you human?

                                                                                                                            racial, sexual, political,
                                                                                                                                 social, medical, territorial,
                                                                                                                                       environmental...
                                                                                                                                      'al' is short for 'all.'

ALL prefer to hate, to stand, to say they know,
yet standing is so much work.

it is not a missile, bullet, bomb, or book.
nor is it even a poem,
it is how you stand that shows yourself,
how foolish it is.

                                                              there are no secrets,
                                                                            none,
                                                                        we know it all.

so while others choose to stand and show,
in my mind and others,
we choose to kneel,
or if you prefer,
submit.

 

                                                                             

written in regards to Pastor Youcef Nadarkhani, an example of modern day prosecution of belief.

***

                                                                   Another Day

                                            Adam and Eve, a story told to help those who choose; believe.
                                Forest Fairies, flittering in an evening sun, story told to help those who choose; believe.
                                          Verbal tales passed through centuries, with little more power than darkness,
                                                                   or dying camp fire memories.

                                                       Words written, however, therein lays the power.
                                                             Bible, Koran, or even the 'Terrorist Guide' handbook,
                                                                    proof of belief for those that believe.

                                                              Yet, what are words?
                                                                 Who cares if they are written or spoken?
                                                                     They prove to the Universe, there is a human belief.
                                                                            Yet the Universe says, "So what."

                                                                   In a forum, there are rules as set by stories and words.
                                                                       Decorum as ruling powers decree.
                                                                    A world, a day, ruled by power and those who believe.
                                                                      Purity of Evil, Purity of Truth,
                                                                                                              to a Universe it appears the same.

Yet, for all the words, for all the power, the Universe is wrong.

                 There is truth,
                                  love,
                                      Peace.

No words are needed,
no need for speech,
actions speak loudest when they attempt to hide you in words.

                                                                               At the end of the day,
                                                                                  after you're gone
                                                                              there will be many more,
                                                                                     that believe.

                                                       

written in response to the new Egyptian Nazi Party

***

                                                                        Holocaust

Simmering embers after they died still smolder,
years past the newly planted flowers.

New is a relative term, new today, old tomorrow.
So is hate,
             love,
                    progress,
                                fate...

Religion spun like a web where those spiders feed,
to trap a mind tight,
only to suck it dry while angels cry and God is the only One,
who knows why.

You burn your finger in fire when young, vowing never to repeat,
then those young come along, never learning from history,
never listening to wisdom,
only to their own heartbeat.

New or old, it remains the same
and there will always remains those that say,
"Follow me, we're right!"

So when you read these words,
try something hard,
give up hate as your birthright,
then the spider will have no feed.

Met an illegal alien today...




                                                                                 told me to get back into my UFO...



                                                 and fly away...

                                                                      CAUTION!

                                               "Beware of the dog," read the common sign,
                                                         showing the world intent.

                                                           Glancing through the window,
                                                             he was bound and gagged,
                                                                rubber ball in his mouth.

                                                              To his side stood a dog,
                                                                   and his mistress,
                                                                   aka, Dominatrix.

So much to choose...Plane hits ferris wheel, Moore thinks Jesus is gay, and military court clears Marine from charges of posing in uniform while filming porn. Gotta be a poem in there somewhere.

***

                                                                Wheel of Fun

                                                         Flesh screaming, bouncing up-and-down,
                                                                         penetrating,
                                                                  those holes filled with sound.

                                                        Shield your children's eyes from harm,
                                                                  while happy uniformed men sound their own alarm,
                                                                            and Hollywood actors smile.

                                                               Last Rites administered to common sense,
                                                                     spun in circles as they hit beneath the pants,
                                                                           broken metal,
                                                                              broken minds,
                                                                                  broken hearts.

                                                                     But there is one who knows it all,
                                                                                He's not smiling.

                                                                                                                                                                     a little,
                                                                                                                                        thanks though, why do you
                                                                                                                                                     ask?

Pshaw! ignorance is no excuse, you knew better than ask.

ok, no, but, (sigh) you win.

                                                       ***

Vision or not, you're blind as you have never died.

not in the sense of want or need,

rather,

you're alive.

                                                                                  I died, am dead, will die,
                                                                                        again
                                                                                              again
                                                                                         again
                                                                                              again...

                                             I come to visit myself when I was alive,
                                                        this is one of those moments.

                                                                                                                                                                     a little,
                                                                                                                                        thanks though, why do you
                                                                                                                                                     ask?

Pshaw! ignorance is no excuse, you knew better than ask.

ok, no, but, (sigh) you win.

                                                       ***

Vision or not, you're blind as you have never died.

not in the sense of want or need,

rather,

you're alive.

                                                                                  I died, am dead, will die,
                                                                                        again
                                                                                              again
                                                                                         again
                                                                                              again...

                                             I come to visit myself when I was alive,
                                                        this is one of those moments.

Ha! Proof of duality exists! Elemental transgressions streaming consciousness and try to combine them.
I'm on to you Robin, you thought you would not be punished?

                                               Punished by the Wind Tunnel.

                                                          twice
                                                           two
                                                         double
                                                         repeat
                                            swirling vortex of sound yet silent
                                               standing ground around the grave they were
                                                    calling the man great yet thinking he was no saint,
                                                         but they've not seen the last of him.

pushing hard, in labor,
"OK, on the count of three...one, two, three, Ugghh!"
You can do it.
Harder.

"It was you that got me into this mess, you bastard!"
That's what she said.

Turning deaf is one of man's greatest pleasures,
while giving order, he said,
"Oh yeah? It was you that turned the wheel and hit the snow drift."

water flowing                   flowing slowly                   slowly by               by my friend.

                      when                               does                           it                           ever
                                               end                        ?
                                                                             (
                                                                               )
                                                                              (
                                                                               dialogue tonight       tonight with a friend,
                                                                                                  dammed in thought though filled with holes,
                                                                                                   the water flowed            flowing.

"Put young children in a social vacuum, they choose self, evil..."
                                                                                     (
                                                                                       )
                                                                                      (
                                                                                       no, they choose                    choose choice,
                                                                                 our                          dialogue
                                                                                           frozen.
*            *              *          *
                water flowing     flowing slowly           slowly I realize,
                                  was                     it
                                               I
                                              who
                                              made the wrong
                                              choice?

this one is for Mark, sorry to hear about your situation.

***
                                                blinded by body, by a surgeon,
                                                           a progress of hope only to end badly,
                                                                      not even able to cry.

   but that's just the start,
   as the bills never stop,
   and the street beckons for you and your wife.

                                                                  a hope?
                                                                  a prayer?
                                                                  where is God in my life?
                                                                               you ask age old questions never really understanding why.

yes Mark, it sounds bad,
your darkness blurs,
yet you still have life and your other eye,
and friends who will support you,
if only YOU try.

Listen to Tracy Chapman's, "Talking about a revolution."

***

                                                                           growing pains
                                                     
                                                    generational, irrational lines of wondering why,
                                                                 irritating those who already tried,
                                                                        making waves in a pond turning small ripples into crashing lines.

                                                 young man,
                                                                 young woman,
                                                       causes of concern as you see your world turn,
                                                  carrying a sign,
                                                              looking for a sign,
                                                       whispers turning into cries,
                                                                               revolution.

                                                                   our generation had their time,
                                                     quiet in age,
                                                                   looking forward to sleep,
                                                                           while the wheel still turns.

                                                                                                                 painted faces,
                                                                                                                 hiding thoughts,
                                                                                                                 walking towards seduction,
                                                                                                                 hands down winning,
                                                                                                                 knowing though,
                                                                                                                 it still is fun.

or is it?
night demons played me like a fiddle,
acid dreams dripping torment on what could be,
showing visions of what it is to want,
inspiring,
bringing meaning,
choice,
getting into the sweat of learning,
tying it together with a knot of confidence,
and then...
there came the light,
knowing though,
it still is fun.

Might you try 'it's' in the last line, Robin? Informality might serve there.

milner

thanks place of Milner, I see what you mean. 'it' is another name for a demon of mine, though it is good to share 'it'.

***

basking in the sun,
young and carefree,
tasting life with both hands, both feet,
never turning back until your mission was complete.

tasting another moment,
bitter,
wet,
foul,
you spit it out,
wiping your hands of mud.

this is how we learn -experiencing our moments-
and even now,
older and hopefully wiser,
yet still tasting mud.

to remember one such time,
look in the pile for your first poem or written poetic moment,
and smile as you did when young.

                                                                "We iz afeer of de cross"

                                               Can't formulate a meaningful solution, never mind a coherent thought,
                                                         though possessing a college education or in other words,
                                                                                  brain-washed.

                                                     Conjugate the verb, express the proper noun...
                                                                  Bullshit! Yes, it sounds proper now.
                                                                       "What are you protesting California?"
                                                                               asked by one amused,
                                                     "Uh, I'm communist, socialist, or maybe high, I'll know more tomorrow."

                                                                                         *    *     *
                                                 
                                            "Get that damn cross off the tower, it's offensive. It's insults me while I suck..."
                                                      Dick Van Dyke, now there was a comedian, knowing not to cross...
                                                Legs of TV news ladies on preview to those with a fetish, cannot show...
                                                   Union thugs beating those scabs who cross the line.

                                                                                         ***  *   ***
A world gone mad, crossing the point of no return, yet cross at whatever situation, and, "No", I've not yet lost my mind.
I just crossed it with an XXX.

It's OK to talk about who had sex with what,
or lie,
cheat,
steal,
even talk of alien probes up the alimentary canal, or is that topic crossed off your list?

Crossing situations of madness, giving credit to pond scum, while ignoring a cure for cancer,
is humanity becoming undone?

                                          "Separation of Church and State."
                                                           
                                                              I
                                                   the man in power
                                                  say you can't disagree,
                                                 yet if you do, I'll sue.
                                                  Or better yet, I'll write a book...

                                                                ENOUGH!
                                                                  STOP!
(silence now as the wind blows the fall leaves)

Only mankind gets upset and cross over so many trivial things,
wound up like a spring waiting for release,
passion of hate or love.

Power, power in all forms, is worse than any disease,
even nicotine or other drugs pale,
when you cross the line with it.

Each and everyone has their own particular beliefs,
this is the way it should be.
And when opposing nerves cross, and tempers start to flare,
maybe it is best to sit back and smile,
to think about it first.

For some, a time for prayer, for others, a time for silence.
To be respective is better,
than to cross fists.

                 whatta feast Viola, steak so tender and tasty,
                            Alaskan potatoes and spinach salad...Mmmm, what a delight!
                         
                         And conversation John, at 87 you're still going strong,
                          sign me up to help you when the part of the greenhouse comes.
     
                     Radar and Tinker, you're part of the plan, though beaver or shredder suit you best.
                               
                                Margareta, you're still pretty swell too,
                                       this Friday night is the best!

(yes folks, this is what is called life. simple, hard, make it your best.)

whatcha doing man?                                                                                                             Protesting man!

why you protesting man?                                                                                                      Because I can!

what you protesting man?                                                                                              I'm protesting against the man!

what did the man do to you?                                                                                  Everything man. Can't get no job!

what do you do?                                                                                                    Got a degree in social studies, a
                                                                                                                                 student loan; no job!

can you wash dishes?                                                                                              Are you whacked man, that's a
                                                                                                                                  shitty job!

what should be done?                                                                                              Tax the rich, tax the man, give
                                                                                                                               me money, it's a quick fix!

do you pay taxes man?                                                                                              Hell no, ain't got a job!

so what is it in life you truly do?                                                                                  Nothing man, nothing but protest
                                                                                                                                               man!

do you know who I am?                                                                                            Fuck'n A man, you're the man I'm
                                                                                                                                       gunning for!

no, you're wrong. I wash dishes. I got a life, wife, a shitty job.
i'm working hard to support my life.
i'm trying to better this world.
watching corporate greed and people like you,
              spread like a disease.
it is folks like you waving those signs,
railing against the man,
when instead you should look in a mirror,
put away your sign,
take responsible actions,
maybe even wash those damn dishes or windows or streets.
cause you're the man, man.
just like me.                                                                                                                ...Fuck you man, you're nothing
                                                                                                                                    like me. I'm young, I'm free.
                                                                                                                                    The world owes me man,
                                                                                                                                     OWES me!

                                                   (push the repeat button and the results are still the same)

                                                                            peace

                                                                                                                                            do it for the children,
                                                                                                                                             they have no food
                                                                                                                                                   no shoes
                                                                                                                                                no education
                                                                                                                                                no hope,
                                                                                                                                                     love,
                                                                                                                                                     joy...

                                                                                                                                    "So what is your solution?"

                                                                                                                                        to change the world,
                                                                                                                                         set it free!
                                                                                                                                        getting rid of pollution,
                                                                                                                                          global warming,
                                                                                                                                           corporate greed,
                                                                                                                                             getting rid of meat...

                                                                                                                            "How will this help the children?"

                                                                                                                                      uh...

                              "Are you pro-abortion, for free love, a vegetarian, atheist, agnostic, against God, and US government?"

                                                                                                                                    yes!

                         "So how will you help the poor children of a Mormon cattle farming community who pay taxes?"

                                                                                                                             say what?

                                                                                                               "And how do you get paid?"

                                                                                                 i get social security and free government cheese.

                                                                       "Cheese comes from cows and nothing from  the government is free."

                                                                                                                 do it for the children.
                                                                                                                      they have no food
                                                                                                                           no shoes
                                                                                                                           no education
                                                                                                                           no hope,
                                                                                                                                love,
                                                                                                                                joy...

                                                          "Have you given them food, shoes, education, hope, love joy?"

                                                                                                       (silence)

                                                                      "Yet you have money for a computer, marijuana, expensive clothes."

                                                                                                       fuck you!

                                                                             "Where is your love, your joy?"

                                                                                                      (angry silence)

                                                                                                    who are you to ask such questions?

                                                                                          "The poor child you speak of, the one with no shoes.
                                                                                            The one with no love, hope or joy.
                                                                                              In this current depression, that child is me."

                                                                           bicycle ride

                                                   rode my bike in montana, got gravel in my eye.
                                                   rode my bike in seattle, it rained.
                                                   rode my bike in california, hit by an orange.
                                                               starting to think it was strange.

                                                   rode in boston, got hit with a beer bottle.
                                                           in nova scotia, it was dark, hit a tree.
                                                                starting to think that maybe it was me.

                                                      so one more chance, in africa,
                                                           antelope buck knocked the shit out of me.

                                                       next time you see me, it won't be on a bike,
                                                           rather, it will be on a train.
 

she reached out an touched hard this morning,
her icy finger.

warm and dreaming,
i slept.

waking to see the moon surrender,
 looking outside,
we wept.

the kiss of winter is here,
her frosty white dress  drapes over the memories of fireweed and fun.

adieu summer,
till next year.

                                                                                          Yup.
                                                                  Watched little green men last night on the tv.
                                                                        Thought I'd recognized one of them.

                                                                                      Grandpaw?
                                                                            Is it time to go home again?

                                                                          errand of my own making,
                                                                               a friend named Mark.
 
                                                                           challenge to be challenged,
                                                                               both an undertaking.

                                                                          the rules of the game are there are none,
                                                                               though there must be sense in the making.

                                                                        for example: Temptation

                                                                           Young man I knew.
                                                                           It was at the end as I grew.
                                                                           That moment of bliss,
                                                                                               of pleasure,
                                                                                                when?

                                                                           Six, seven, eight, nine,
                                                                           turning thirteen and soon?

                                                                            At a young age of being a young man,
                                                                                       she would come.
                                                                             Dressed in sultry clothes and a smile.
                                                                                  A young lady-of-the-night,
                                                                                      whom I would bed.

                                                                                  I'm fourteen now,
                                                                                   hoping for soon.
                                                           

                                                                 Semper Paratus

                   Boston:

                                                                   Walking the street,
                                                                            she hurried to her job,
                                                                                     while unruly mobs cried in protest.

                                                                   Never knowing it would happen,
                                                                            until the spittle and water bottle hit her.

                                                                   Trained for the sea.
                                                                    To command over open water, this is a real lady
                                                                          who takes pride in her job.

                                                                     Yet times have changed for the US Coast Guard,
                                                                       they now have to learn to navigate the streets.

furrows forming deep,
strafing runs of Gomorrah,
running for their lives.

laser lights beating shaft and spear,
splitting open their heads like gourds,
to end defiance.

yet hidden in the belly,
her new life,
showing them humanity can fight back.

***

                                                                                                                 sharpened mind of nefarious thoughts,
                                                                                                                      dwelling on what they know to be true.
                                                                                                                 taking admission to the party of insanity,
                                                                                                                      though, tell me, what is truth?
                                                                                                                         is it waking to live? to breath?
                                                                                                                                 dream...pictured plight portray
                                                                                                                                      individual perfection.
                                                                                                     "sleep little child, sleep your troubles away."
                                                                                                             blackness of sanity sweeping a vision to dust,
                                                                                                                                                             to swirl,
                                                                                                                                                                  rise,
                                                                                                                                                                  flee.
                                                                                                                          tell the sand man, reality is only
                                                                                                                                     a dream away.

***

                        watching him sleep,
                         his legs twitch as if chasing the bear,
                          long was his life living in a prison of comfort.
                            never tasting the chase only the kennel bowl of food and water.
                              this now, will change.
                                    Radar, welcome to the family.
                                         your life will now change.

nice! give me a new read of Rilke.




                a dream away.

***
                        watching him sleep,
                         his legs twitch as if chasing the bear,
                          long was his life living in a prison of comfort.
                            never tasting the chase only the kennel bowl of food and water.
                              this now, will change.
                                    Radar, welcome to the family.
                                         your life will now change.



Archaic Torso of Apollo
            
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

Very enjoyable read Tom. Especially, "to that dark center where procreation flared."

***

                                                                       It 'ain't' Georgia

                                                                               *
                                                       He went down all right,
                                                                                       looking
                                                                                   for
                                                                                       a
                                                                                   deal.

                                                        Down, around, around, and down,
                                                                          he
                                                                      spun like a spider,
                                                                                      spreading his nightly web,
                                                                                                                        to snare,
                                                                                                                                capture,
                                                                                                                                     devour.

                                                                                     Finding one willing to deal, he starts.

                                                                                               fought that bastard bitch Satan last night in a dream,
                                                                                                              felt I kicked her ass and then his,
                                                                                                                     now tell me,
                                                                                                                       am I awake?
                                                                                                                         did I win?
                                                                                                                       

                                                              rising to reality like a trout to fly,
                                                                  free as the water splashes,
                                                caressing  the moment when both the past and present merge.
                                                         future of what is desired yet knowledge is a curse.
                                                                                    (
                                                                                     )
                                                                                 it has been taken from me,
                                                                                   shaved smooth to fit society who only is a mockery of truth,
                                                                                       only a snapshot of your choice as there is no choice for me.
                                                                                       (
                                                                                        )
                                                                                       the sweet smelling lotion only covers the pain,
                                                                                          masking what should be,
                                                                                                                   could be,
                                                                                                                         will be,
                                                                                                                           (
                                                                                                                             )
                                                                                                                          tomorrow.

                                                                 Hall of ween

dank genital arena of sorrow,
washed in dark belief,
following only the lust of a decrepit organ;
a blood sucking heart.

                                hollowed halls of nothing,
                                bereft of happy souls,
                                only refuse from a current generation.

                                                                         get high to get lost,
                                                                          only to find even that rebellion is only in the mind.

                                                                                                          yet everyone tries.
                                                                                                          a test of passage,
                                                                                                           a trial of time,
                                                                                                             a costume we wear to show there really,
                                                                                                             really, really,
                                                                                                                 is nothing of virtue inside.

Enjoyed this, Robin! Tom

thanks Tom.

***

                                                        home fires

                                      sparkling stars..."what?"
                                              "stars don't sparkle, they shine."

                                               in the clear, cold, night sky, causing me to shiver..."you don't have a jacket, you dolt."
                                                      and ponder the meaning of life.

                                                             watching everything I have worked for, die.
                                                                     "that's because you didn't close the door on the fireplace, moron."
                                             

                                                                    liberal brevity

                                                   man knows best, know why?
                                                   because they told their parents so,
                                                                                                   so who do you blame?
                                                   man knows best, know why?
                                                   because they walk erect with swollen breasts and swollen dicks,
                                                                                                   so who do you blame?
                                                                          technology,
                                                                          science,
                                                                          math,
                                                                          language,
                                                                          academics,
                                                                          philosophy,
                                                                          all this and more when really it is opposing,
                                                                                                                                    opposing thumb,
                                                                                                                   so who do you blame?

yes, this poem is about you,
                                      you with your words, your brains, it's all about you you know,
                                                                                                                   so who do you blame?

                                                                             is your world round and rosy,
                                                                             your health supreme while you gorge on your tofu and organically
                                                                                                 grown beans?
                                                                                                   saving the world for yourself,
                                                                                                     saving not the children for that would mean you
                                                                                                       were not mean.
                                                                                                        "Peace Man!" bunch of lying shit as you don't
                                                                                                           even know what the word, 'peace' means.

                                     (listen to the snow fall, pure, white and clean...silence and peaceful dreams)

                                back to reality, back to the world, back to you, or is it really all about me?

                                                                                            what shall we talk about?
                                                                                                 sex?
                                                                                                     politics?
                                                                                                        it's not fair?

                                                          sorry to hear about your student loans while you call others a prick.
                                                          sorry to see you didn't get your way,
                                                                                                           yet for all these words written, you still must
                                                                                                                     explain...
                                                                                                                so who do you blame?

you could write and talk for hours and all would remain the same.
man knows best because man always knows who to blame.
fault, always fault, always leading to 'change'.

                                                               (looking out the clear window to view clear life, as the eagle soars by,
                                                                        oblivious to me.)

                                                                      in your words and mine, something is missing, something some people
                                                                                           blame.

                                                                      of course you don't really believe in Him, why?
                                                                                because He is to blame.