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ConnectHook Oct 2022
Bad Gateway means:

Write a coherent message with structure and flow.
ConnectHook Jul 2020
Marxist Lesbian Lives Matter!
Go read their mission statement:

We build a space that affirms Black women
and is free from sexism, misogyny,
and environments in which men are centered.

We practice empathy.
We engage comrades
with the intent to learn about and connect
with their contexts.

We make our spaces family-friendly
and enable parents to fully participate
with their children.
We dismantle the patriarchal practice
that requires mothers to work “double shifts” so that they can mother in private
even as they participate in public justice work.

We disrupt
the Western-prescribed nuclear family structure requirement
by supporting each other as extended families
and “villages” that collectively care for one another, especially our children, to the degree that mothers, parents, and children are comfortable.

We foster a queer‐affirming network. When we gather, we do so with the intention of freeing ourselves from the tight grip of heteronormative thinking, or rather, the belief that all in the world are heterosexual (unless s/he or they disclose otherwise).
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Presenting spin in HD hues,
bankrolled by conglomerates,
the vapid visual dominates
The Lip-Glossed ***** Network News.

Eschewing all the old taboos:
a mouthpiece for the metro-queer.
The Antichrist will soon appear
on lip-glossed ***** network news.

Regardless of what next ensues
they cover every breaking story
(better when it’s really gory).
Attacks and tragedies amuse
They never miss their prime-time cues,
those pert disinformation crews:
the lip-glossed ***** network news.

Wherever a teapot tempest brews
they’re on the feed – it’s Live at 10;
they edit out the Truth and then
homogenize conflicting views.
Sedated viewers now can choose
what semi-informed tele-snooze
they wish to see or heed or use.

Water – water everywhere…
a thousand channels on the air
but precious little left to lose.
It’s fair and balanced – on the brink
between PC and global-think.
It’s news for nimrods: PRAVDA-lite
the babel of descending night
now veils the flat-screen universe
MSNBC gets worse
unable to reverse the curse
of lip-glossed ***** network news.

A bare and phalanxed fascist fox!
Liberals thus depict their foe;
(she’s barely right of center, though…
yet still they’re having hissy fits
while staring at her cleavage.) It’s
enough to make them blow their fuse –
forget diversity of views !
The offer no one can refuse
is lip-glossed ***** network news.
http://tinyurl.com/p2zmtju

ConnectHook Aug 2018
HEY EVERYBODY !
If you like Haiku verse form:
bad haiku dot com
http://www.badhaiku.com/index.php

I laughed so hard at some of them,
but Starkitten is a bit too much
so scroll past his/her/its stuff
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Bonobos and Seahorses mate
in a very peculiar state.
First they raise up a flag—
then they dress up in drag
to attack and accuse and berate.

A murderous misfit, well-armed,
was concerned that her kind might be harmed;
so he shot the place up,
this confused buttercup…
and the media minions were charmed.

Let the rainbow resume its old role
Or we’ll have to call damage control;
It’s a sign from above;
Yes, it’s true God is love,
but He may not forgive your lost soul.
My preferred pronoun is POETRY
NaPoWriMo 2023 underway
ConnectHook Jul 2017
Do tell us
your rare experiences.
Make it all about you.
The colors you beheld,
the love you lost,
the torment you possess...
tell us all about it.
Hallow
your shallow
suffering
(and ours as well).
free-verse vomitings for your erudite perusal
ConnectHook Apr 2016
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫

I:  Lyric Line of Flight

Cavern Club / black leather / German rockers /  proto-youth culture groped its way from Liverpool / TV slowly sped up / modernity invented / flown in planes / swallowed in pills / I watch the second Kennedy funeral on the screen in shades of gray rain / warming to mid-60’s hues / into the stratosphere / a lysergic surge / retinal after-images / intensities of nostalgic color / that British courtesy in understatement / Paul’s voice a bassline / George a guru of six-armed confusion / tasteful: now a meaningless word / it was Apollonian-Dionysiac /  my childhood’s soundtrack

II:  Poem

They grooved—as our world became another

up from caverns to psychedelic flight.

They look so young in melancholic light

harmonizing black and white to color.

So distant—yet within our life’s short span

they grow apart as the hair grows longer

(The West’s resolve to expire grew stronger.)

Quadruplex visage:  young god sold to man.

I crack up beholding the mid-Sixties

lost in late-night YouTubes, I start to break.

time past: removed from the complexities

Recalling every song, the beat, the shake…

They sang the primrose path to confusion

nostalgia replacing resolution.
a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Once I hoped to write like Ginsberg –
but Allen Ginsberg went to hell.
His bolder Buddhist poetry glitters,
then opens like an empty shell.

In vain one searches for the pearl
within the lyric art he showed us.
Open wide his rotten oyster –
seek the center of the lotus.

Perverted lost Semitic soul –
lyrical ranter,  mind unhinged…
He celebrated sin and shame
while crew-cut culture cringed.

His beatnik aircraft took off fast,
flew into bardos of the ******
promising enlightenment –
but the cockpit was unmanned.
I heard Ginsberg read his writ live (CO Springs 1985).
ConnectHook Mar 2016
So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)

Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.

Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.

Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.

****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.

Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.
Part of a previously posted plea for Social Justice...
ConnectHook Feb 2016
Your muse: a frumpy feminist who doesn't even like you or your poetry; a clipped-face mean-hair nag of a PC hag, a harridan of the nanny-state who inspires boring identity politics-driven free verse. Your muse smells nasty and has bad teeth. She voted for Hillary and loves Maya Angelou. Your muse barely tolerates your tepid unpoetic soul but she smiles a fake smile and lies to your face. Yours coerced you into publishing that e-book no one ever downloads. Your muse is unamusing, unmusical and moos like a cow. Mine mews and purrs like a sleek feline friend while sinuously scribing heroic rhymed couplets in the air with her tail. Yours grunts superficial Haiku through her snout then heads for her feed-trough in the mire. Your muse is a  dumpy data-driven bureaucrat who recites in a monotone to 3 medicated listeners at the yearly event. Your muse hired a social media specialist to market her product that no one wanted. My muse has no Facebook page because she want no Facebook page..

My muse is ergonomically sustainable in exquisite ******* epiphany. My muse laughs eternal rivers of lyrical light over the fact that your muse made you recite that silly stuff at the poetry slam. My muse loves me almost as deeply as I love her. Her ethereal body embodies all philosophy. One tiny point of light refracted from a single facet of her diadem will vaporize your merely mediocre muse. My muse is beloved of all true poets, for she stepped forth from the riven crown of the lyrical Father himself to bathe in the wellsprings of holy inspiration. You are utterly unworthy to even fantasize about kissing my muse's beatific, shining and holy ***. You wouldn't recognize MY MUSE if she knocked your post-modern skull with an Alexandrine sonnet. My muse gazes upon you for a millisecond and you writhe like an academic insect pinned to a collection board. My muse sneezes on you— and you get published in Atlantic and people yawn. Your muse makes entire English Departments nod off and then wake up and leave work early. My muse gets me high, drives me home AND pays my bail. In cash. My muse is an orthodox blood-washed Christian saint, elect of God and alive forevermore, shining wisdom personified, mother and sister and daughter of lyrical love. Yours is a lying crypto-Marxist troll who had to pay an ogre to artificially inseminate her and even then she could only conceive misshapen dull-witted free-verse freaks who whine about micro-aggression while they limp to the nearest safe space where they curl up in fetal position and scrawl confessional existential incoherent dullness.

My muse rocks. I love her more ever since she kicked your muse's unpoetic ***. I choose my muse so you lose.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Why the hell would you want to change
if God thus made you (like Genesis)?
A notion so bizarre, so strange,
it begs some armchair analysis.
Such madness, yours. To rearrange . . .
thus we all learn what hubris is.
But on you babble, obscuring gender
(quite the conversation-ender).
Father means a man
and Mother means a woman
(there’s no other plan)
ConnectHook Apr 1
Lost that dull plot so many years ago,
Some guy named Heathcliff, a prim, proper room;
Something dark on the moors portending doom—
(No, wait—that was “Baskervilles”, different show).

A wuthering woman, her savage beau—
A conflict with tradition, hearts in thrall;
Romantic English swoons. Forgot them all
While seeking the plot beneath a willow.

Catherine? Constance? The heroine’s name
Escapes me evermore, and I don’t care.
A Brontë sister here receives the blame

For boring me with chick-lit and hot air.
That’s all I can recall. The novel’s fame
Would indicate there must be something there . . .
PROMPT #1:
write a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you haven’t read in a long time.

A poem a day for APRIL !
ConnectHook Sep 2015
“Humankind: be kind – be One!
I am appalled at what’s been done.
Benign intentions must restrain us.
Hate should never entertain us.”

The toad comedian Ban Ki-Moon
croaked a pitiful One-World tune
while gunmen paused, reloaded, armed
checked that they had no comrades harmed –
and then prepared for further battle
against the clueless kuffar cattle.

Ban stood upright to intervene;
surveyed the terrorific scene…
muezzins chanted, mullahs chuckled
swords were sharpened, bomb-vests buckled.
Dhimmi dim-wits went on shopping.
(Are heads in sand less prone to chopping ?)

Hesitating, he cleared his throat,
raised his pitch by a quarter note:
“These acts are most undemocratic
We are saddened; yet emphatic – “

(no one heard his discourse further
drowned by the sound of massive ******…)

So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)

Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.

Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.

Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.

****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.

Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.
A poetic response to Charlie Hebdo massacre
http://www.un.org/apps/news/story.asp?NewsID=49741#.VfDO0RFVikq
ConnectHook May 2020
Head in the deer-lights.
Light in the deer-heads.
Deer in the light-heads.

(something like that)
That guy with antlers.

I mean MANTLERS, sorry.

https://youtu.be/6YK1CXA2TEE
ConnectHook Feb 2017
☭ ⛧ Ⓐ

Violent dimwits, who riot en masse
remain dimwits, no matter what pass.
Whether paid agitators
or mere perpetrators,
they need a swift kick in the ***.
☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧☭ ⛧ Ⓐ
Free speech movement HA HA HA HA
Go to hell, useful idiot anarchists.
(...or maybe they were extreme right provocateurs?)
in any case, Mario Savio must be very pleased.
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Weapons have been developed
to create the damaging effects
of high-energy EMP. These are typically divided into nuclear and non-nuclear devices. Such weapons, both real and fictional, have become known to the public by means of popular culture.


                                                      ­                               Wikipedia


One E.M.P. could bring this whole thing down;
finale to steal the technocrats’ crown.
Did God intend for us to live this way
like hell on credit with heaven to pay?
One burst of apocalyptic clarity:
all it would take to reverse the polarity…
one massive electro-magnetic pulse
the data-driven ******* to convulse.

You were dumbed down so they could set you up
to drink from the Nanny-State’s golden cup…
This Babylonian One-World vintage
exacerbates thirst: accursed beverage,
enhancing global madness as it’s drunk;
imbibers cannot gauge how low they’ve sunk.
The dregs are drained, only to be refilled;
the elixir of doom is thusly swilled.

When the chips go down as the system ends
and there’s no cash paid for your dividends,
assurance (like health insurance) falters
as your inhuman condition alters.
By then you’ll be ready to wonder why
(although you appear unready to die)
whether Man without God is worth a ****
in the Sovereign Redeemer’s master-plan.
NaPoWriMo #25

Globalism *****.
The Bible warned us about
such godless nonsense
ConnectHook Sep 2017
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
And leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
It's time to settle ethnic scores.

No more ragtime Minstrel Show.
Our Moorish Science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
Now move your pale face out of town . . .
But first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.

Cultural pride is ours alone:
Kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
Bedazzle in a darkened blur
(Clear to Africa's descendants—
Puzzling to you white dependents).

Blackness lent your world its light,
Taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
Under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
Helped those Norsemen shake their *****.

The Seven Wonders of the world:
We built them all. No vain conjecture
Dims our banner, black, unfurled,
Above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
Are what we threaten to discuss.

We invented math and science
Which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
Caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
Testifies: your days are numbered.

Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
For Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.

Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
Choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
Heed your call to fight the power.

Crackers need to check your race—
Stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
Racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
Your light goes dark (you know it must).

So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
But here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Truth is stranger than:
http://tinyurl.com/yc9va3pl

Candace Owens understands .
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Sixty-six chapters and sixty-six books
(please, Catholic brothers – no ***** looks)
were needed for God to make known His plan:
the gift of salvation and future of Man.

Yet sometimes it seems rather cryptically stated;
poor Israel must wait and will wait (as they’ve waited).

Isaiah took sixty-six chapters to tell it;
for two-thousand years has the Church tried to sell it –
must Christ and his teaching thus languish in mystery,
waiting offstage in the wings of His history?
(Wings of the cherubim, angels, and vultures
now beat down upon us, uniting our cultures
while tech surges up in a dizzy parabola
micro in management, global in formula…)

Sixty-six chapters to say it in Greek
(Aramaic – or Latin;  whatever they speak)
while the somnolent audience scrolls on their screens
in apocalypse trance over zombie machines.
The scrolls are unopened, the parchment still sealed
the slot-machine handle refuses to yield;
as the sixes line up towards the threshold of seven
the virgins sleep late in the Kingdom of Heaven.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Our Left Coast sighs in a stupor of red
from evergreen coasts to the casting bed.
Hollywood’s big leagues deal their fatal blow;
vapid perspectives from stars in the know.
Glamour holds court: socialite solutions
when celebrities talk revolutions.
But red alone would bring our nation harm
cut loose from white and blue—and should alarm
the audience, who pay to see their plays
while questioning their wanton West-coast ways:
Designer-reds, a stain upon our land
where red with white and blue ought take a stand.
Such fluff from the stage set who roll in dough
is Hollyweird yeast—rising now to show
beautiful and swelling irrelevance
unaware of its insignificance:
Hypocrite pretenders all paid to act
in films where decent values are attacked.

Let us turn then from Thespis‘ leering smile
to lace up cleats and run the gridiron mile
where other plays get tossed in endless zones
as commentators rave in heightened tones
while fools raise fists—then take the well-payed knee,
their pigskin antics sold to you and me.
****** a fat mike before their muscled face.
Note well the dull reaction, low as base.
These tattooed thugs make vain attempt, through speech
multitudes of more thuggish fans to reach.
The sad attempt to use their words in vain
lacks clear interpretation. Yall nome sain ?
The musclebound elect, who toss a ball
(as if their silly game was all in all)
should stick to sports; decline to state their views
lest fans their spectacle no longer choose.
Thus stars of field and screen steal every show,
and cause our dying culture worlds of woe.
Contemplate the ****:
Boring nature imagery
Abrupt line-endings
ConnectHook Jul 2018
Boys have penises.
Girls have vaginas.

Any questions?
God gave you your biological plumbing so wake up and smell the identity politics. If you want to change the way the Lord made you, good luck but don't expect me to approve OR pay for it ☺
ConnectHook Jan 2017
Brother and Sister Citizens:
Our fatherland consolidates. Let us salute, as One, our terrible destiny, lately manifest as the gathering force of an orange sun now glowing, after eight years of lightless gloom. Now we shine, now we merge our individuality in one to discover our collective future in Trump. As one wave of Greatness we now stride over the ruins of Hope & Change, into the American Restoration. Let us, each one, offer a straight stick of noble hardwood for the mass.

Donald our axehead is now tightly bound with us in a shared sacred duty, projecting his keen edge from the national bundle. Let us, together, grow tired of winning until all worthless cancerous cells are neutralized and disposed of. All that is not full of the Will to Greatness must perish before us. Clad in the shining raiment of victory let us serve with American fervor our new leader.

Women, mothers and nurturers of the mystic rebirth
are welcome in our new nation.

Sweep away the cobwebs of the old weakness, hail the conquering hero, he who fearlessly bears the Roman fasces into the courtroom as judge, jury, and executioner. Let the cities and nations of unbelief tremble and plead for mercy.

Poems shall be composed as bridges are built to span the years.
Stanzas shall spontaneously fall into place and march with military precision.
Every capital line shall converge upon our captain.

Hail the crown of Donald T.
Hail the mighty orange flame
Hail the age's consummation
(Voters have themselves to blame)

TRUMP shall smash the global Hydra
TRUMP shall avenge our national shame.
TRUMP shall restore our families' honor;
CONQUER (in his deplorable name) !

Captain TRUMP, the cord that binds
TRUMP the axe-head and the judge.
Leader DONALD, light that blinds.
Our final King: let none begrudge.

LOVE UNDER WILL ☻ !
(was that fascistic enough 4 U ?)
☻☻☻☻☻☻

Since you people love to throw the word around
so loosely and so predictably...

Fasces (/ˈfæsiːz/), (Italian: Fasci, Latin pronunciation: [ˈfa.skeːs], from the Latin word fascis, meaning "bundle") is a bound bundle of wooden rods, sometimes including an axe with its blade emerging. The fasces had its origin in the Etruscan civilization, and was passed on to ancient Rome, where it symbolized a magistrate's power and jurisdiction. The image has survived in the modern world as a representation of magisterial or collective power.
ConnectHook Jul 2020
Opiates are the religion of the masses.
An aphorism for your erudite perusal.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♥☠♥

Lightweight free-verse exploration,
withered ghosts and wisps of phrase,
breezy unamusing musings
barely raise

a titter, tear or lyric warning –
fail to reach a middling height;
then subside to shallow murmurs
(not quite).

Teenage existentialism
cryptic, dull confessional mush;
suitable for a poker-faced
unroyal flush.

Must you set this stuff in motion
fizzling through our universe:
half-bright comets leaving trails
of boring verse?

Incoherent thoughts meander
through your words like fish through nets
unable to ensnare your reader.
One forgets

whatever it was you started saying
(weirdly spaced, unpunctuated).
Could it be such thoughts are better
left unstated?
From NaPoWriMo 2014:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/ntl-poetry-writing-month-napowrimo-2014/

                   ♥☠♥
ConnectHook May 2018
José Santos Chocano (1875-1934)

Soy el cantor de América autóctono y salvaje:
mi lira tiene un alma, mi canto un ideal.
Mi verso no se mece colgado de un ramaje
con vaivén pausado de hamaca tropical…

Cuando me siento inca, le rindo vasallaje
al Sol, que me da el cetro de su poder real;
cuando me siento hispano y evoco el coloniaje
parecen mis estrofas trompetas de cristal.

Mi fantasía viene de un abolengo moro:
los Andes son de plata, pero el león, de oro,
y las dos castas fundo con épico fragor.

La sangre es española e incaico es el latido;
y de no ser Poeta, quizá yo hubiera sido
un blanco aventurero o un indio emperador.
Coat of Arms

I am the untamed voice of native America,
my lyre has a soul, my song an ideal.
My verse is not cradled and hung in the foliage
with the paused to-and-fro of a tropical hammock…
When I’m feeling Inca, I pledge my vassalage
to the Sun, who offers the scepter of his royal power
when I feel Hispanic and evoke colonial slavery
my verses sound like crystal trumpets.
My fantasy hails from Moorish lineage:
the Andes are of silver, but the Lion – of gold,
and the two are alloyed with an epic roar.
The blood is Spanish and the pulse is Inca;
and if not a Poet, I might well have been
A white adventurer or an Indian emperor.
ConnectHook Nov 2021
♥  ♥  ♥  ♥  ♥  ♥  ♥

Black greatness concealed:

Delusions revealed.
Get WOKE.
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Frumptart meets Trumptard: it’s bliss forever!

Rainbow twins make pink Indian Summer . . .

Poke your hontas, indigenous lover,

Till Twitter-dumb gets Twittering-dumber.

Having had my fill of a noxious brew

(Militant Marxist Genderqueer free verse),

My soul now seeks a less venomous view:

Write more poetry!  Dispel this global curse.
Can't remember what the lame-*** prompt was...
ConnectHook Nov 2019
I wet the whistle first, then blow
(my algorithm will let you know—)

And then my bot will rob you blind
in the name of humankind.

Which means there exist no more than two genders;
both of them are Truth's defenders . . .

and Eric Ciaramella didn't **** himself.
Did someone mention Effrey Jepstein?
ConnectHook Apr 2023
The worst monsters are REAL.

                         Sword and Scale


A True Crime binge has brought me here
To share with you my darkest fear:

Earth’s eternal curse: the wicked.
Criminals can play both sides—
Guilt may finally be acquitted,
Truth unites when sin divides.

Where humanity is shattered
Thin blue lines have always mattered

Thank the Lord for good policemen. . .
(Women too, let truth be told.)
All shall be revealed in heaven;
Badges there transcend mere gold.

Law and justice light the pyre—
Thugs and pigs deserve their fire.

We, the living, should be grateful
For the ones who do what’s right.
Exposing all the hidden hateful:
Our great duty in this fight.
PROMPT 19: write a poem about something that scared you –
or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you.
ConnectHook Aug 2022
Cut out the organs.
Leave the organless corpse there;
The corpse of haiku.

Return to the corpse.
Have intimate relations
with the dead body.
Haiku is a cop-out
ConnectHook Mar 2017
⚓    ⚓    ⚓

Name that metaphor (half-assed boating)

Polish the brass on your life preserver

Wring out some meaning for dockside observer

Moorings are tenuous; life is floating.
inspired by National Poetry Writing Month 2017

a.k.a: NaPoWriMo
ConnectHook Apr 2018
When nations give God the *******,
Remnants of his bronze-age wrath may linger
And mess with investments or data-plans
Or gender (both the mother’s and the man’s).
National cycles of slow boom then bust
Reveal the limitations of our dust—
And the Lord who prospers may change, and curse
From behind the facade of our universe.
A tech-addled farce: that’s the dying face
Of our graceless, depraved and inhuman race
Glowing with sin; lit up by tiny screens
Upon which the globalist ends and means
Seep into clueless souls. These dead-in-life
With which our funereal times are rife,
Live for online shopping, Facebook, and sports
Immune to all the incoming reports
That their doom is hastening on its way
Inexorable progress, no delay . . .
With the Sovereign Lord, there is no plan B
For the tools of a godless technocracy.
Twilight’s wind now stirs.
In sacred grove leaves tremble . . .
Shoot. Lost my **** keys
ConnectHook Feb 2017
In a panic, having lost control of the vehicle at high speed and swerving off the Data Highway, I assessed the impending impact and made quick mental notes for a feasibility study as the stationary tree moved closer rapidly. In a flash, ultimate outcomes passed before my eyes, like the newest edition of a celestial Clearslide/PowerPoint/Prezi presentation tool:

• Data drives performance as winter wind whips the data-driven snow.

• Real-time numbers are to outcomes what God is to Heaven.

• Data supersedes Life as Christ supersedes the angels.

• Vigorous data collection enhances and informs rigorous data selection.

• Data is to outcomes as outcomes are to income.

• Objectives tied to measurable outcomes bring numbers back into the game, turning benchwarmers into real-time benchmarks.

• Data quality ensures accountability, facilitates transparency, reducing redundancy.

• Performance indicators are ultimate vindicators, turning competitors into partners and sustaining creative growth by creating sustainable change.

• Data are plural – but only to the Brits…

These bulleted staff-development phantasms surged into my mind right before the massive, jarring crunch when my vehicle smashed into the Tree of Life that grows just off the Data-Driven Highway. I cannot recall the moment of collision, nor the impact assessment study that preceded it. It seemed many, many Continuing Staff Improvement sessions later when I awoke to the soothing pastel shades and muted color scheme of a projected graphic full of squiggly arrows, cyber-hieroglyphics and professionally-presented slides filled with corporate jargon. I was finally in Data Heaven where the numbers never lie but rise to live forever.  

    **I had achieved my final measurable objective!
Duck the Fata !
╭┫ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━━━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
┃▎▎┃╲╲╲╲╲╲┣━╯┈
╰━┳┻▅╯
ConnectHook Apr 2020
In the garden of earthly delights

A disturbing assortment of sights;

From sublime… to more ominous,

Holy Hieronymous

Painted abysses and heights.
PROMPT #6: a poem from the point of view of a person from Bosch’s triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights
ConnectHook Jun 2020
i poet
writes about suicides
impulse cutting
you get misunderstand

you need polarized
we am writes about depression
you so emo

me so emo
need u to reads
more socials justice
more racistism

you were rights
for me to reading
american poetries

because read a poetry
spewed out by
bot software
because u reddit on the internet
ConnectHook Apr 11
BRANDON cranes his scrawny neck
Sniffing for a business deal;
Sailors gather on the deck
Murmuring with mutinous zeal…

They’re bailing water from the hull,
Throwing ballast off the stern—
Captain BRANDON’s brain, half-full
Of shipping schemes, begins to churn.

Sensing profits in the ocean,
BRANDON observes the cresting swell.
In his faltering mind, a notion
Starts to form, and none can tell . . .

Fearing for their captain’s health,
The dwindling faithful check his pulse.
Sensing oceanic wealth,
His ****** muscles now convulse.

Then, hark—a mermaid’s silvery voice
Appeals to BRANDON from the sea:
Come to me captain; you’re my choice.
I’ll launder money here for free
.

“Man overboard”! the sailors shout
As BRANDON flails upon the waves.
Captain’s handlers harbor doubt—
Yet throw the lifeline. Jesus saves.
"Sewing to Rip"

My monostich unraveled when challenged to have poetic meaning and relevance.

PROMPT #11: write a monostich, which is a one-line poem
ConnectHook May 1
Rim-walker, Foe-slayer, Guardian of the sword—
Beast-breaker, War-bringer: BRANDON of the blade
Who slew the dreaded dragon ‘ere the sun had reached the noon;

Bear-baiter, Snout-smasher, Keeper of the Axe—
World-tamer, Science-truster BRANDON of the gaffe
Who slurred the teleprompter’s truths until the mic was off;

Arms-seller, Drone-striker, Valiant war-pig Puppet—
Tax-raiser, Gender-******, BRANDON of the press
Who stumbled up the White House stairs, starting useless wars;

Let every mead-hall hail the clown
And toast his name throughout the land.
Raise high the horn in dread renown
And bravely feast in BRANDON‘s name!
PROMPT #30
write a poem in which the speaker is identified with,
or compared to, a character from myth or legend
ConnectHook Mar 2017
how about something
                           radically different:

      Trump as ******
& all his followers
                                      as Nazis

yeah...     might just work
          as poetry
           ♡  ♡  ♡
Really maaaan...
We are now living in the 4th ***** maaaaannn --
so punch everyone you disagree with
and hurl (liberally) lots of overused epithets ☺

that will help a lot.
ConnectHook Aug 2020
The filth
Have written "Press"
On their helmets.
Just because
you scrawl it
Doesn't mean
we won't call it.
ConnectHook Apr 2019
Exiles from a dysfunctional global pipe-dream
of borderless corporate matriarchies,
multi-kulti nonsense and data-driven diversity
where virtue-signaling despots ruled
and those so confused
they didn't know their own gender
competed for victim-status
as they shrieked,
where rainbow torches on the filthy walls
smoldered with toxic smoke
barely illuminating the fragments
of computer carcasses we had to step over,
we fled the oppression
of passive-aggressive elitists
suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome
to found a pure republic, based on poetry, goodwill and faith in God.
We emerged from the labyrinthine caverns and malodorous tunnels
into the light right outside the cave:
Clear, strong patriarchal light
purifying the fresh air.

We breathe deeply.

Once I saw some Vikings
sail the sea looking for Diet Coke
only to find angry gulls and mothers
squawking in parking lots
as the dust of the gentle hills disappeared
down the unpaved road
of rolling Scandinavian seas.


I was emotionally engaged once . . .
but she was a neurotic feminist poet, so I broke it off
and moved to Kekistan where
(thanks be to Kek)
I married my TWO Kekistani brides.
PROMPT #11:
Where are you from?
Not just geographically,
but emotionally, physically, spiritually?
Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea
and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots.
Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers
and dust disappearing down an unpaved road.
And having come from there, where are you now?
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Shuffle along, show your ticket, be strong
while investing in spectacle
staid and respectable.
Nu Yawhk can never be wrong.

Shuffle along, bang a simian gong.
Life resembles a Broadway show;
plebes and patricians owe
apples to Empire’s King Kong.

Death joins the throng. In bananas your song
is re-peeled and re-stated
while apes are berated;
the zoo-keeper’s waving. So long.
NaPoWriMo #9

How do I love thee?
Let me count the syllables
In my bad Haiku
ConnectHook Mar 2016
After multiculturalism struck this
week, Vervoort said, “I would like to express
my support to the victims
of the attacks of this morning …”
Twitter bristled
with supportive hashtags,
the Belgian flag and professions
of solidarity. The Times editorialized:
“Brussels, Europe, the world must brace
for a long struggle against this form
of terrorism.”

All this would be perfectly normal if
we were talking about an earthquake or some other
natural disaster — something humans have
no capacity to prevent. But Muslims
pouring into our countries and committing mass
****** isn’t natural at all. It’s the direct result
of government policy.
Hashtag: We Are Neville Chamberlain!
Thanks, Ann
☺☻☺☻☺☻
ConnectHook Feb 2017
☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧

Incensed by mighty Milo, you act brave
then rage and bludgeon, shutting down dissent
while Mario Savio shudders in his grave.
Behold: another shameful sad event.
Youthful useful idiots on the attack,
pawns of global capital dressed in black:
Bernie's Berserkley: raze it to the ground
and Donald will be twenty-twenty bound.
Georges Sorel, amused, looks on in silence
at your half-baked proletarian violence,
infantile intifada, civil war,
a glimpse of what the future has in store:
you are the fascists you've been waiting for.
Mario Savio was an American political activist
and a key member in the Berkeley Free Speech Movement.

Georges Eugène Sorel was a French philosopher
and theorist of revolutionary syndicalism.
His notion of the power of myth in people's lives
inspired anarchists, Marxists and Fascists.

from: wikipedia.org
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Reflections on Psalm 97

Good Shepherd? He's more a flame-thrower...
this reaper who doubles as sower.
While His psalms hold our gaze
Holy fires will blaze...
He remains an unknown to the knower.

Though the psalmist prophetically blazed,
some residual doubts are still raised:
the good shepherd and sower
now armed with flame-thrower
both scorches—and leaves one amazed.

Our Lord is a reaper and sower
Spreading light via holy flame-thrower.
While His readership gazed
expectations were razed:
there were less burning standards to lower.
NaPoWriMo #27
ConnectHook Jul 2018
Algorithms
Troll farms
Paroxysms
False alarms
Projections
Smokescreens
Elections
Behind the scenes

End of all discussions:
Blame it on the Russians.
From Russia, With Love
Крайне левое мировоззрение неустойчиво
ConnectHook May 2019
Empowered and impaired
they conspire to impeach.
Bad Orange-man, spared
still remains out of reach.

If impeachment was due,
now it rots in the the sun.
They're attempting a coup
when no wrong has been done.

Over-ripened, it's rotting
the maggots now fly . . .
unfruitful, their plotting:
a low-hanging lie.
Hey guys, we are really sorry that 45 won almost three years ago.
Are you ready to get over it yet?
(in time for the 2020 circus ☺)
ConnectHook Nov 2022
Yo fui a botar.
Yo encontré basura.
Luego la boté.
Hay q controlar la botación
ConnectHook Mar 2017
Α  †  Ω*

Un gran vuelo de cuervos mancha el azul celeste.
Un soplo milenario trae amagos de peste.
Se asesinan los hombres en el extremo Este.

!Ha nacido el apocalíptico Anticristo?
Se han sabido presagios y prodigios se han visto
y parece inminente el retorno de Cristo.

La tierra está preñada de dolor tan profundo
que el soñador imperial, meditabundo,
sufre con las angustias del corazón del mundo.

Verdugos de ideales afligieron la tierra:
en un pozo de sombra la humanidad se encierra
con los rudos molosos del odio y de la guerra.

¡Oh, Señor Jesucristo! ¿Por qué tardas, qué esperas
para tender tu mano de la luz sobre las fieras
y hacer brillar al sol tus divinas banderas?

Surge de pronto y vierte la esencia de la vida
sobre tanta alma loca, triste o emperdernida
que, amante de tinieblas, tu dulce aurora olvida.

Vén, Señor, para hacer la gloria de ti mismo.
Vén con temblor de estrellas y horror de cataclismo,
vén a traer amor y paz sobre el abismo.

Y tu caballo blanco, que miró el visionario,
pase. Y suene el divino clarín extraordinario.
Mi corazón será brasa de tu incensario.

                                              *
Rubé­n Darío  (1867-1916)
Song of Hope    [Translated by Salomón de la Selva]

Vultures a-wing have sullied the glory of the sky;
The winds bear on their pinions the horror of Death’s cry;
Assassinating one another, men rage and fall and die.

Has Antichrist arisen whom John at Patmos saw?
Portents are seen and marvels that fill the world with awe,
And Christ’s return seems pressing, come to fulfill the Law.

The ancient Earth is pregnant with so profound a smart,
The royal dreamer, musing, silent and sad apart,
Grieves with the heavy anguish that rends the world’s great heart.

Slaughterers of ideals with the violence of fate
Have cast man in the darkness of labyrinths intricate
To be the prey and carnage of hounds of war and hate.

Lord Christ! for what art waiting to come in all Thy might
And stretch Thy hands of radiance over these wolves of night,
And spread on high Thy banners and lave the world with light?

Swiftly arise and pour Life’s essence lavishly
On souls that crazed with hunger, or sad, or maddened be,
Who tread the paths of blindness forgetting the dawn and Thee.

Come Lord, to make Thy glory, with lightnings on Thy Brow!
With trembling stars around Thee and cataclysmal woe,
And bring Thy gifts of justice and peace and love below!

Let the dread horse John visioned devouring stars, pass by;
And angels sound the clarion of Judgment from on high.
My heart shall be an ember and in thy censer lie.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Washing tons of money -
laundering gets funny.
ConnectHook Apr 2021
Do you want to come to the Beer Store?
My five-year-old self jumped in near the wheel;
(knew I'd get a Slim Jim out of the deal . . .)
Quest for Carling Black Label: flat of twenty-four.

Mt. Auburn and Belmont fork: short trip.
The hiss pull-top can sound homeward-bound;
Offered: the cold can coming round
the shady lane corner. You want a  sip ?

Beer cans have a different sort of tab nowadays;
More push-in than peel-off.  What I will never do:
Hand a cold can to an underage son. True,
he was just being nice. Nineteen-sixties ways . . .

Google Earth shows where the store once used to be:
"Father and Son Floorcraft", which seems funny to me.
PROMPT #15:
think about a small habit you picked up from one of your parents,
and then to write a piece that explores an early memory of your parent engaged in that habit,
before shifting into writing about yourself engaging in the same habit.
ConnectHook Aug 2019
Revealed beneath her seventh veil:
A poem on her *** in Braille.

My fingertips caressed that verse
And read her lyric universe.

An astral plane of swelling curves:
Her lyre well-strung to calm my nerves.

My lovely muse ! All lettered charms
Grow warm in her angelic arms.

Her noble face, her tawny cheeks
Bestow the balm my spirit seeks.

Bright thoughts arise, and glowing, pass
Upon the volume of her ***.
My muse alternates between spiritual and carnal inspiration.
Thankfully we know each other well.
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