Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you

Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay

The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up

Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:

I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers

Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me

Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight

Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.

and just like that we have
packed our bags
cleared up the house
thrown out the rags

walking away at a speed
so fast that we
wish we could undo
wish we could flee

the damage is huge but
this is home
that we built but now
on streets we roam

tears make up the flood
in roads that are dry
no solace in relief when
our only roof is the sky

washed away are homes
and all our lives
washed away is the makeup
that you hide behind

now that it is bare let's
fight an equal war
you've swindled lives
what more do you ask for?

leave us our dignity, even
when you eat our lives
you can feed on our money
but you still won't survive!

I once left my heart in the pocket of a saint
blinded by sunset light, drunk from midnight madness,
and falling into the monotony of broken dandelion stems and lost eyelash wishes-
I didn’t think I would need it much longer
The burden of rebirthing beats continuously
stamping out the keys
Of my empty piano chest –
As I held onto the breaths of broken warriors
Sponging the blood off their slashed

double
layered
skin

And praying
they could keep their fight for just

One
More
night

He never noticed the extra beat
added to the twitches of his time-ticking body
deaf from the ringing calls to heroism
only on the odd hours he didn’t have muffled
by the recipes of the women he’d saved
buying out bravery like it could shield his soft tongued love
leaving nothing but the clothes on his back
woven from stardusted bomb shelters
And
left over hopes
selling the silver lining of every breath he took
just to buy the next broken-bar girl a drink

He was a saint after all --

born from the innocent hopes I wish I still had,
tucked in the corners of sun-freckled smiles
and
Mothering seatbealt arms
and
Careless Carnival Food
the kind I know some of my soldiers withered against
writhing their souls from the bodies they had been straight jacketed too
prisoners of war stuck in the memory
of just how many calories a sugared funnel cake could have
did have
will have
add up to the self worth shot out of their chest
from last nights uncontrolled binge
of two apples and a cheerio promise ring

No,
he had never been in the middle of the war
never known the taste of blood
rusting in the rain of covered up skin
drenched in the salt water stings of failure
peeling away the scabs of
addictive adrenaline disadvantages
and mapping the battle plan of tomorrows attack
against an enemy so close
it was breathing the same air your lungs had not finished purifying

No,
his hands had never held the dyeing breaths of a comrade in arms
as they shook from the fears riding up their spine
praying the poison won’t take
praying the stolen bottles didn’t break
and that violent vomiting viguals
might burn just enough of the alcohol mistake
so their blood won’t have to curdle

No,
he had never heard the desperation
of sobbing secretes suddenly swindled
from between the lips of a girl who never wanted to remember
the night that never happened
one year, five months, fourteen days --
and three hours ago
her father had asked her why she never wore skirts anymore
and why she never brought boys over anymore
and why she never left her room anymore
and why her silent cheekbone cry for help never smiled anymore

No.

A saint is never found on the battlefield
never scared by the everlasting burns
of war paint psychiatric wards
and gun powder therapy sessions
sprinkled with the hope against hope moments that maybe
we’ll have a break through --

Like the ****** morning sun rebirthing the beats
of duck taped dreams
and
medicated eyes
and
catatonic lips --

I left my heart in the pocket of a saint
confessing the sins of the hopeless hospital it fueled
between our silent lipped kisses
squeezing out the stories of unnamed soldiers
between our woven fingers
and betraying my fear
in the tremble of my body against his –
I left my heart with him on the one-night-stand whim
that I would grow deaf to the sound
of TAPS played on my piano rib keys
and
blind to the specks of blown dandelion wishes

But I still hear the echoes of them
rattling against the stitching
of his bomb shelter pockets

and I wonder if he’s still searching for me
between the crumpled recites of midnight mass mixers
and
open cathedral whispers

because I still think of him sometimes
absent mindedly pick pocketing saints for smiles
but I’ve only found lint and regret
tucked in the corners of their heroic attempt
to protect the bruised hearts of the saviors
who haven’t quite yet found salvation

Chasten Calypso declared to be clear;
humming a mumble inside of mine ear.
Always heard, but ne’er understood,
a whisper so willing, decidedly good.

The rapture of doomsday is said to be near,
but an ounce of the evidence has yet to appear.
There are several factors that could end it all;
the pride of mankind is destined to fall.

Hastened Calypso declared to be clear,
rumbling a rumble, fueled by a fear.
Often forgotten, yet forever engraved;
those who are faithful have already been saved.

Dwindled and swindled, the man may soon ask,
“Your person is puzzling; take leave of your mask.”
Now the raven is calling, to bring out your soul,
but all you have left is a void with a hole.

With chastened Calypso declared to be clear
she is tumbling a bumble who’s drunken with beer,
and thought the cliff it is climbing is sharp, and quite sheer,
if the bumble dose stumble it won’t shed a tear.

Where we are looking and what we will find
is based in illusion we have made in our mind;
Always is heard, and is ne’er understood.
It’s a whisper so willing, decidedly good.

father flesh your vows were made
with certain good intent
better yet the brows you raised
could see no self dissent

strong, you were
a rock of sorts
which seldom moves an inch

long, you were
on life of course
life is but a cinch

oh so brave to walk the fire
the fire gone unkindled
a smothered flame to breathe again
once properly swindled

conscience plays a partial part
in stemming liability
but time you'll find will rob your mind
of valuable stability

it's a tell-tale sort of story
though no moral or no fable
and if you'll kindly pay the ransom-
the deed to my betrayal

we shall climb this rugged mountain
together we shall ascend
and once atop the sound will drop
"my father is my friend!"

Ah, Pinocchio--povero burattino°--
Always in a scrape; always in a jam.
The irresponsible, wooden-headed numbskull
Couldn't help but fall for every scam.
 
A walking, talking stringless marionette,
Pinocchio really would have had it made
In a modest home with babbo°° Gepetto.
But, instead, the foolish youngster strayed.
 
Ignoring the advice of the talking cricket,
Pinocchio EVEN smashed it with a hammer.
That right there should have been a reason
To throw the little rascal in the slammer.
 
The Fox and the Cat had no trouble
Dissuading the puppet from going to school,
Thus involving him in a series of adventures
Which often made him look like a fool.
 
The Fairy tried to be a good influence,
But Pinocchio's lies caused his nose to grow.
Constantly ignoring responsibilities,
The misguided boy, suffered constant woe.
 
(Swindled of his money, hanged on a tree,
And saved just in the nick of time
From being eaten, Pinocchio had
Too many adventures to fit into this rhyme.)
 
Fleeing with his lazy school chum Lucignolo
To the Paese dei balocchi,°°° there Pinocc
Turned into a donkey. Of all his follies,
This one had to be a masterstroke.
 
Once again a puppet, Pinocchio was swallowed
By a giant Pesce-cane,°°°° and then guess what!
The foolish boy was finally reunited
With babbo Gepetto in the fish's huge gut.
 
NOT until Pinocchio thought about others
And proved he was an honest and caring boy
Did his fortune start to change for the better,
And the stringless puppet became the real McCoy.
 
Does Pinocchio by any chance remind you
Of any politicians out there at all
Who fail to listen to expert advice
And thumb their noses at common protocol?
 
And speaking of noses, we can also see
Politicians' noses grow as they tell lies.
Lying to themselves and to others as well
And ignoring our best interests and flouting compromise.
 
Such politicians--unlike Pinocchio--
Have strings to pull when performing for the masses.
The more they avoid solving REAL issues,
The more they end up looking like *****.
 
They also love--these clever burattini--
To sell a bill of goods and promise many things.
But someone out there--or some corporation--
Is slyly and cleverly pulling their strings.
 
Do you ever wonder if these same politicians
Ever think about or care how you feel?
Will they eventually--as did Pinocchio--
Prove they have what it takes to be real?
 
 
°(burattino/i) - poor little puppet
°°(babbo) - dad(dy)
°°°(Paese dei balocchi) - Playland
°°°°(Pesce-cane) - shark

- by Bob B

Our affection was a spider web
As we slept in our separate homes
With our spirits inhabiting
Both bodies,
The gossamer was swindled
Carefully in between each
Eyelash and around each
Finger and toe,
Tiny filmy stings
Had our hearts connected.

I felt a pang inside me
When loneliness tugged
Your arms and plead with you
To follow it.

I wondered
As my tear ducts
Emptied themselves
Onto my cheeks,
How do I cope with
Sadness that is not
My own?

I have felt the
Icy sleet
That is one a.m.
With sad songs
And emptiness in
All aspects of life
And I wish it upon
No one.

I want the sadness
Only to be mine
I want to be greedy
I want to steal it
From you
If only so that
I could see you happy.

Tick. Tock. Two hundred down.
Pulp.
Swindled minds flock
so easily into their cages,
sealed vents pushing gas into their lungs.
Carpenter's masterpiece.
Hooks hanging from walls,
bloodied chains supporting old bones.
Rot.
Mirror image rooms kept secret, filled
with decay and trapped ghosts. The neon
sign flickering. 'Hotel'.
Pulling the moths in with its fire,
ready to burn them.  

Tick. Tock. Twenty seven around.
Confession.
The drugs were inefficient -
they never slept forever.
I had to help them get there. I was born
with the devil in me
and he sings like a poet in the shadow of evil.
Gruesome.
I feel their blood on my hands and I enjoy it.

Tick. Tock. Nine were found.
Possession.
"Satan corrupted me, controlled me."
"Innocent."
"I am imprisoned within myself, I swear."
"He made me."
The lever is flipped, I fall.
My neck does not snap.
Instead, I struggle, the air being forced
from my body. Darkness comes
after the fond memory of a knife in my hand
and blood on the walls of my ****** castle.

Swoon, swindled, spindled, and spun.
Wisp of a hand,
to the possession of tongues.

With your lungs producing breath; methane gas.
Lips like matches,
with tendencies to strike,
engulfing us in a passionate blaze.

Bodies connected in the dark,
the silhouette of your euphoric body proved that ignorance was needed and illumination,
never needed.

                                        Settle.


Intert­wined in the repose,
Was the leaf to our stick.
Fathomed indentation
Tethered in our unspoken script

Heavy apparitions conjured from tight gasps.
Releasing 3 whispered words,
becomes our catalyst.
One embedded in your eyes
     A riptide
          of size to rise
the ties
           in the endearing future of our lives
    until we say our goodbyes
you'll shed this pain that cuts like knives.

Daydreaming of electric wires.
Tiptoeing on what
hangs lower than our fire.
Closed currents in the air
You continue the shock
as your fingers dance through my hair.

We're the flowers and petals,
withered into the passion we're plagued with.
Oh so crowded,
We're cursive
Characters tied in knots,
We can't be split.

Fearing the closure,
We mustn't ever be print...



...Fragmented, affluent, vacant, and split.
The script unraveled
Not cursive,
now print.

President Comb-Over,
Quite the despicable guy
Got himself elected
But the wise folk wonder why.
Obama wore a tan suit
Conservatives went insane,
But this Wimpy lookalike butterball
Sports a totally artificial mane.

If ****** predation were a soccer game
This **** would win The World Cup.
If you ignored the news and his tweets
You’d think someone made this horror show up.
He’s lied and cheated and swindled his way
In to more lucrative deals than he deserved
Then a large minority of certifiable idiots
Elected him so he could to pretend to serve.

He took the Oath of Office, quite smugly
But that’s where his integrity would end.
He set about making deals for himself
His trophy wives, his offspring and friends.
He made few attempts to cover his tracks,
Mostly just shouted blatantly obvious lies
By which he was fooling no one intelligent.
Just the moronic, the foolish and unwise.

He relied on the vagaries of human nature
That voters are among the laziest humans
And would rather vote for a rascal it seems
Than take a chance on an honest new man
Or woman, or gay or an experienced soul
That could take over the Presidential reins
Instead of driving our country straight to hell
And making huge profits off the remains.

Brent Kincaid
4/23/2019

Call me such the liar and fool this is true, give no notice of the kindness and careful actions I have given you; but if still you feel cheated and swindled by my small offense, then I offer up in recompense. That while you sleep and so soundly slumber in your bed, behind your dreams I visit you in your head. A more clever prankster there never was to prey upon your petty needs, only to guide you through your misled deeds. However you may have strayed so far from these your gentle homes, I will have you back before the sun arose. Call to me not before the midnight hour for from your lips my name will hover, and roll along your awaking tongue the name Jack Underhill will be far gone.