The shades of gray are nearly infinite-
mirroring attitudes regarding our sin.
Degrees of separation give distinction
to human perception of ugliness within.

Living now in this ‘Age of Information’
has not made life much more palatable;  
visible is God’s Truth and Satan’s lies,
as individuals determine what’s palpable.

Gobs of available data doesn’t translate
into experience and useful wisdom directly.
Real sapience, is shown by the Holy Spirit,
when the ideas of faith are under scrutiny.

Biblical principles enable all to overcome
corrosive powers of intellectual pollution;
however, personal change, only occurs when…
one has the mindset for a Heavenly solution!
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
1 Cor 2; Phil 4:4-8

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
  
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

"Messy Gobs"


Metaphors are such messy gobs we slice
Them mid-brain skullpting contours agreeable
To me aggregate appear from out shared
Language karma form conditioning mind
Energy us uncarnate vast endless
Here movement in cosmos consciousness then
Unbelievably we believe these thoughts
Are truth entities external things worlds
Sentient beings micro macro wave
Particles black holes quarks galaxies i
Others other than i principles rights
Laws and bleed their blood of pain self crafted

i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      

I fell of a pavement curb once. 
I was a tightrope walker with an audience of thousands;
I could smell damp straw and hear the gasps as I lost my footing.  
Girls threw their hands to their faces
and relinquished their eyesight to their boyfriend’s shoulders,
who took the opportunity for a shifty *****.  
My chin split and the blood didn’t show up on the red dress
but the audience had gone.

I can still put my finger in the hole, see?  
Even now, 30 years later.  
The tip of my index finger goes right down to the bone,
missing muscular structure,
and it makes me think of a skull with a cleft chin,
kinda how Kirk Douglas will look given a few years of grave time.  
If I wiggle the finger in a circular motion it makes me wince,
something about gristle, gristle makes me wince,
even the word, a sensation of chewing wool.  

It was never fixed.  
My jaw clicks on the right side and, just this one time,
I yawned and couldn’t shut my mouth.  
Blind panic lassoed my heart and yanked it into my throat,
perhaps it was even visible.  
The longest 10 seconds of my life in which I spent a night in hospital,
sat up in bed, howling through my wide open gob.  
How would I drink tea?  
I don’t yawn properly now, I do little demi-yawns,
too terrified of the consequences of Open Gob.  
How would I smoke? 

I used to wonder why it was never fixed.  
Why wasn’t I taken to hospital
and given stitches and x-rays and pain killers? 
I worked that out when I was older.  
It could easily have been a fist.

The other afternoon I got a message
From a friend about my latest musing
He said he didn't understand the poem
And in fact, it was confusing
He told me how he'd read some others
And they made no sense at all
And he said, he'd fix my problem
And he gave me a number to call
As one who likes a challenge
And not one to turn away
I phoned the gifted number
That's why I'm here today

"Welcome to the Group Encounter
It's group therapy for beginners
Your problems we will fix
And will help make you all winners"
At least that's what the sign said
I felt like I was being led to slaughter
But, I told my friend that I would go
And if I say yes....I gotta!!
The room was bright and cheerful
No silly signs upon the walls
I saw nothing else of much importance
There were no chairs, just *****
Eight people came, we took attendance
Which I found funny, since no one knew
Our real names, or our problems
I stood behind a ball of blue
The leader was a man...a doctor
He said it was good to see us all
I smiled back, and gave a greeting
I remembered the silly sign out in the hall
He informed the group that at this meeting
We didn't have to say a word
I thought that wouldn't help me with my problem
But I might learn from what I heard
"My name is Bill, and I'm an addict
came a voice so soft and meek
I like ******* and thighs and *******"
"Bill, you say that every week"
For those of you new to our meeting
Bills a butcher, not a freak
He always says this as his welcome
I made a note...Bill's help..don't seek!!
"I am Julie, I'm an addict
I drink all day and through the night"
Now, we're talking..I was thinking
Here is someone who's not right
"Hello Julie"....we all answered
I was anxious for her tales of *****
But, what a downer was old Julie
She just drank milk, her tale's a ruse
Julie really didn't drink much
She just needed to get out
Her mother thought she was a loner
She's sit around the house and pout
Bill the butcher and our lactaid milkmaid
really made me wish I'd not
phoned the number from my buddy
Some magic beans...that's what I'd bought
I stood and looked upon the faces
I'll make up something for their ears
I stood and said "My name is Shecky"
"and what I'll say, will bring you tears"
"I'm an addict, a man of knowledge"
"I have to know what makes things tick"
"I know this meeting's for beginners"
"But, I am here because I'm sick"
I told them that I liked dissection
Like Bill the butcher, only more
I described a surgical procedure
And two folks ran right out the door
I smirked a bit, my act was working
I had them wrapped, intent and deep
Now into their heads, I would start working
And in I'd run, I would not creep
More tales of blood and carnage
Sent two more people on their way
The lactaid milkmaid made her exit
I thought for sure, she'd be one to stay
I talked for oh, say forty minutes
The doctor, stood, his mouth was wide
The others too, sat gobs wide open
I think a small dog would fit inside
The doctor said, our time was over
He'd pulled me over for a chat
"I think you need more than you'll get here"
"Did you really do that to a cat?"
I just grinned, I'd had some fun here
I'd not return, that much I knew
The night was not a total loss
On my exit, Bill said I could be a butcher too!!
I called my friend when I got home
I told him of the night of fun
He listened close to what I told him
And he laughed loud, at what I'd done
He told me he had learned his lesson
And my meetings tale was most amusing
From now on, he'd not dissect
And not look deep into my musings
I said my words were there to look at
To confuse your mind is not my task
But, if you like what you have read...please
click "like" or comment....that's all I ask.

Spent my hard earned money buying stuff I seen on commercials
with two singers claiming all they use was the stuff I bought to fix faces.
Both them women got to be telling fibs if they said a little bit of
skin fixer works good did not work and used full bottle and nothing.
I googled them womens pictures and seen how they faces look bad
and messed up and both got blotchy skin and look real tired in pictures.
Seen all them commercials with them woman I am talking about
saying all they used was that stuff but saying did not work on me.
I would be fibbing if I posted I thought those women are pretty
in google search pictures of them without tons of makeup I see on their faces.
No make up do make them look like not so good as women called plain Jane.
Simple telling when women ain't plenty made up or they not wearing skin fixer
when they got them dark circles and darker spots like some pictures I seen when I google.
We got a few women looking very pretty cause they got that natural beauty.
I not grandma old but I got crows feet and cracking lines on my face.
I been trying making up my face with gobs of crap and went to expert at store
where rich folks shop and I know I did not look good like she lied to me
telling me I looked good but that mirror in that store showed me truth.
No more making up this face cause I was born to be what I am not pretty.

what can't become anything like a theatre,
yet faces and masks fly off the shelves
in market stall, none are given the gravitas
of thought, instead: turkey-feeding
reverse bulimia, the sith and jedis?
      i can create a string of oaths to suggest
that it's happening,
   a grand masquerade of "concerns"...
      they call them the inverted commas...
what, like the spanish inverted question mark ¿?
jinnie out of the bottle sort of ****?
                   when did " become an inversion
of '?
                  that time i did the only thing possible
and dragged it down to the plateau of sentence
and paragraph like a prometheus?
         what could possibly be inverted about
the ditto?
              i guess you have to say that, given
shortenings, and all that glutton english,
don't ****'stani me this ******* back!
         the idea of an inverted comma is already
in use, and it's up, not down, as is:
    i wouldn't care as much if i didn't have an
education in chemistry: and didn't become pedantic
about certain things.
   the ditto enclosure: " " = ~ / ≈...
                             and that translates into:
well... if you want ambiguity of certain words:
read a book on existentialism rather than a harry potter
instalment; movies? great great,
      books? i'd sooner be dead than read
on of them.
                 i was just watching this
julian assange interview and couldn't help but see
a constantly implosive dualism,
    we got rid of the church-state,
   we inherited the military-industrial complex,
    and only americans have a justifiable concept
of nationalism, or so it would seem,
given they don't feel threatened by russia's ideologue
or that of china's; which really helps if you have
a puppet-state...
        back in napoleonic times they had satellite states,
now they have puppets...
    napoleon liberated poland and created the duchy
of warsaw, america has israel and the soviets
once had cuba...
                         but are any of the "axis" puppet-states
even recognisable? israel is blatant with connections
to america, they're practically nudist about it,
if i ever need to look at a glass window, i'd look
at that relationship...
   oh pick my sweet cherry blossom while you're at it,
i'll find the next plastic surgeon to remove my
protruding male larynx and talk funny...
water adam's tonic...
   i really want to see, though, how many spelling
mistakes i can make... julian... assange? assangé?
mannuel's ¿que?  fawlty ******* towers:
flip me a pancake!
                                  but you know what the saddest
thing about university is? babies...
  you end up teaching them how to make
pancakes, about how you add sunflower oil to
the runny-dough for the purpose of
what would otherwise become a tefal fryingpan:
garko-tłuks!
  can i ask what the necessary proximity of two
letters with diacritical marks? i know that english
loves that **** with either consonants and vowels:
tool.. pool... poll... pal... paul...
                                     stutter, staged,
     staging, poppy, pop, pops,
                         populist, pondering, package,
edge, age, -ydge... ****'s freaky...
             it really is... so you can have the orthographical
aesthetic of two vowels or two consonants side by side,
but what of an actual orthographic example?
the horrid case in poland of ó vs. u...
  there's no visible stress in the disctinction,
it's just something that ends up being either:
pleasing to the eye, or displeasing.
                               i never heard the ó accent to
be honest, people just ended up saying:
we need to remember the beauty of a word that uses
that distinction... notably on walls via
graffiti... grafitti? cappuccino?
          huj vs. hój...    or what later becomes: ahoy!
cockrels for supper! no, wait: cockerels for supper!
tomato       ta-may-toh, american drooling out
spaghetti from their gobs... tah-may-toe(h)...
and between H and H              a lot going on...
     hard to find a laugh though... you find it people
start complaining... i never understood the
cognitive concept of laughter, about how you might
laugh internally...
          if only germany learned to play rugby...
i'd love to see germans play rugby, just for fun,
and expand the tournament into: the 7 nations cup...
what sort of history can combine scotland to
italy? i get the british isles to be related,
but i just loath seeing italy get thrashed all the time...
i'd love to see germany pick up a tenet for rugby
(yes, a tenet, not a tenant... and it is a type
of spiritual currency);
or maybe the germans are just really good football
ballerinas?
            oh they'd fit it alright, what with so much
shared history; they had a football match in
Flanders one time, so why wouldn't they bond over
rugby?
             yeah... so this old form of problems,
what with the church-state complex, that lost both
church, and state, and became a federal institution...
or whatever it was that it became...
it's something new emerging on the horizon?
   i couldn't say church-like, but nonetheless very
much church-like?
                       i don't even know how to conceptualise
current affairs in a hyphen (-) complexity...
   it's ****** obvious though: corporations?
      yet the state disappears... the only permitted
nationalism is american, so what the hell do we get
to juggle with? evidently throwing only one
ball from hand to hand and "pretending"
to be juggling will not end up with a successful circus
act...
                    so we got rid of the church,
and that morphed into the ultimate poly-schism in america,
we got rid of the state, and that morphed into
denials of sorts...
                so from the military-industrial complex
we have created a military-consumer complex...
    isn't that so? isn't america faking it a little bit?
   ever time i had *** with women i always assumed
they were never pleased...
    then one night in st. petersburg i asked her:
- i'm keeping count, how many did you have?
- 7.
- thank-*******-fabulous.
                     brag? isn't that the whole point?
****** brags about a yacht he owns in the caribbean (
carribean?)... i'll brag about that night
                                                  and the 7 ohs;
but the current situation isn't about a military-industrial
complex, that's why there came promises of
job revival: blue work, not white collar work...
   but once you feed china-smaug the coins
for every piece of work someone else could have
done to a better quality... wait... what was that? desolation
of smaug?            
                 the military-industrial complex isn't exactly
dead... but it's like a seesaw with a fat kid:
   to many losses on one side... say 100,000 iraqis
and about 400 english troops...
                when it becomes too easy... to ****** advanced
that it: literally becomes boring...
                  no kind of memorial will do it for me,
i'm still involved in the military-consumerism complex...
          like: it's so so "complex"...
                          throw **** here, throw a **** there,
and then not ask for spoilt snowflakes to come along.
             if i only said something original
i would have been more than happy...
        but since i didn't, and it's all there for everyone
to see, i guess i had to turn toward
         orthographic "inconsistencies" -
or those dreaded words: inverted commas...
     "    "     i'm seeing four, no one writes the un-inverted
comma, since no one writes,, and doesn't point out:
oh look! a typo!

Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."

This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.  

Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.

But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.

We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."

tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.

Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.

But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.

Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?

There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.

Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.

These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.

Surely these surly bits
Must be burrs caught up in my
Makeup -

Making up reasons for
Why my spit was accidental.

I done been through a
Rough patch or two -
Crawling with these
Thorns in my knees
Across funky plateaus
That poke their chests out
In their scouts
For sunnier flora.

Though,
I assume their search
Didn't go over so well.

'cause these scabbings won't heal
Like I want them to,
Buried under gobs of
Ointment
That was supposed to take care of it

(And
One more bandage
Just in case).

I'm just moseying on through,
With my feelers out,
Making sure you're someone
I have to know.

In and on my way
Somewhere
In this crazy field,
Waiting for sunflowers
To bless my prayers
While I continue to
Make room for myself to
Slip past
Without being noticed.

I'm smiling so hard
To keep the soft-hearted
At bay -
Trying to avoid being forced
Into pinpoint relations
With clueless drifters
Who refuse to stay on their side.

They only mean well -
I know this,
I do.

But, the simple has yet to escape me.

Send your
Sympathies
To the weak ones,

Roleplaying
Alongside the meek,

For these are the creed
Who,
Without giving heed,

Deliver their lives
To bliss.

We just swallow & stitch on
flimsy pharmaceutical feathers,
with gobs of spit and wax.

We circle the sun
hoping this simulacrum,
weighs more than a hedon

We practice ephemeral mechanics,
only with bridges on the river Styx,
then wonder why winter never seems to end.

My belly, a pimpled basketball, 
puffed with pasta, 
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth, 
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl, 
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own. 

I do what I can to feel bliss among ****.
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever 
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles. 

Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"  
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and 
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple 
pinches of this or that.

my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to 
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes. 
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.

Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I share a blurb regarding my poem "Enjoy This Season".

Lots of people like to surmise about the idea of living in a different period of recorded humanity, such as: Italy's Renaissance (circa 1400-1600 ad), the building of the Greek or Roman Empires, the time of Christ and so forth. However, not me. Being an I.T. (Information Technology) professional in this "Age of Information" with available technologies - specifically "Personal Computers" and the Internet allowing me access to gobs of data - can be a real and surreal "head trip". For I've learned how to glean concepts from the experience of others; such an ability is helping me to learn to dream and redefine my personal journey. After all, we are instructed in the Bible that "we're to be more than conquerors" and thus live a Christian lifestyle successfully. Hence the rub...

Like everyone else, I'm uniquely defined. So expect that your results will also vary. In the Scriptures, one of the many analogies to describe mankind is "withering grass". When compared to the centuries of mankind, one's existence is brief; however, it doesn't need to be invisible. With the tools and information presently at our fingertips, we can learn to develop vision and ultimately uncover the "unseen things of God". So in my desire to want more of Jehovah's presence in my life, I became more vulnerable - in a spiritual sense. As a result, I lost my joy; I lost it because I didn't recognize how important a commodity joy is. It took years to recognize what had transpired. And it took more years of internal fighting (with myself) and prayer to get it back. While attending Church for decades, I was familar with the idiom "The joy of the Lord is my strength."; its importance was only revealed once it was gone. Feel free to learn from my mistake and avoid the associated pain.

It had never been my life's desire to publish a book, as with some people. Writing poetry became my personal therapy sessions for reclaiming my joy; an insight that was realized once I reviewed my accomplishment in retrospect. Although a portion of my joy has been restored, I still have more work ahead of me. And more serious challenges are now in view.

One of my dearest friends, Norman J. Richard Jr., died earlier this year (August 19, 2009). One of his favorite quotes was: "Do something, even if it's wrong!". As some of you may guess, he was unquestionably a man of action. In addition, he fiercely loved life, his family, and friends - and he did so with an overflowing river of joy. Not only was he a member of "my inner circle", but he was one of the few who truly encouraged me to pursue the goal of getting my poetry published. By the way he lived, he also showed me that I would be able to ultimately recapture my joy completely. So back in August of 2008, after spending quality time with Norman, I wrote this simple poem of encouragement for myself. And it's my desire that others can also find encouragement for themselves, during their times of difficulty.

Nothing stirs in my heart.
The paper sculpture was
held together with
spit and glue
gobs and gobs
of it.

Three blue candies in the morning.
One blue, one yellow, one white candy at night.
Keeps me regular

Though phantoms may be howling at the edges of my mind
Ripping away gobs of flesh until my soul lies exposed
Rotting off my skull, hanging loose from my tired bones
Whilst the terrifying multitude of my unseen fear
Hath become like the vile, gnashing teeth of night's Reaper
As I bare witness to the demons rising and writhing
Within the silver pool of my own lean, haunted reflection
Yet I cannot turn away; Even in my darkest hour
I must summon the courage to stay; For this is my reckoning.

you really need spectacles to read this, zone-in like a humming bird, given all the see-through gaps on the page - reading the Latin alphabet is like looking at x-rays - it's what happens when phonetic encoding borders on geometry that you get problems, or a joke of the gods (erase gods from poetry and you can erase Chernobyl from the history of Ukraine or chlorophyll from the study of biology.*

mother with a                         u...
like the tips of a parabola enjoining to make a double-o?
i.e. moother / μωθηρ? no wonder
the umlaut given specification against the omicron....
this is why greek shouldn't attract diacritical usage,
necessarily borrowed via the Ω-square:

u                            oo



ω                  ­           ü                                       ¨

              (term it as a parabolic union of two dots
          and the twin omega kissing the sky, a limit of
                linear rubric, sentencing
a...............................................................­.......
b........................................................­.............
c..................................................­....................
                                            ­                           and 6ft1 tall)...


or sigma, or castrato sigma M wonky...
who the **** is reading this compass, drunk?
it's all over the place! west... matter... σouth
Σorph...                 ρita pread... the ****?!
this is turning out to be a right Bermuda Δ:
cockney humour, please, we have children present!
i'm teaching them to count matchsticks in a pine forest!
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): give me a jaw,
i can't laugh without it.
skeleton (b) says to skeleton (a): conjure up
a diaθragm for me.
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): you mean a diaφragm?
skeleton (b) to skeleton (a): any squiggly line will do right now.
compass!
                                             d


b                                                            ­                            q

                                  ­      
                                              p...

and you thought you needed an acid trip.
the above is a hall of mirrors, it's not a compass or
a Kabbalistic magic square... it's a hall of mirrors.
please excuse the Greek gentlemen for applying
diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet -
that left Brits still standing stark naked in Eden...
                                                                ­ we're waiting;
tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. hello?!
you'd sooner shove an armadillo into an aardvark's ***
than expect the "masters of the universe"
to put on some lipstick to their gobs:
it's not even about being pretentious as it's about being
donkey stubborn; budge *******! budge up!
i need a can of sardines from you, it won't work unless
you turn into custard or fudge!
you have to forgive my friend, he still thinks he's
part of an empire - which he squandered for politically
correct speech like those Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
noblemen who squandered in three partitions
while ******* on their ancestral grave... the last remnant
of the empire, nortern ireland saved by black market cigarettes
than the good friday agreement; hong kong ping pong
is still going on between Mr. Chi and Forest Gump,
sit down street protests, hippy protests in asia not fuelled
by marijuana... he is a bit deaf: SHOW'S OVER!
PACK UP YOUR PRIDE AND SHOVE IT INTO THE HAUL
OF H.M.S. BELFAST... ****** doesn't hear me... ******...
well, keeping an empire is like keeping an *******,
doesn't last forever, better chisel out a ******* emblem
and pray to it while knee bending at Stonehenge come
the summer solstice. Mr. Bellybutton pimps it gluttonous
in pomp at the Greenwich meridian: clocking up an ancient
0, although not slicing apart A.D. from B.C., just the time
difference: London 9p.m. is Moscow's 12a.m,
hence the 24h news reels.

When you smile at me I see the tips of your fangs peeking out from behind your lips
Your words drip from your mouth in gobs of venom
And coat the minds of those around you
Keeping them numb and compliant
              Until it is time to strike....

But I have seen your fangs
I have felt the cold sting of their bite
And I know that no matter how sweet those words
They are still poison.

You can’t fool me, little ssssnake
For when you flash those fangs at me
I’ll flash mine back
*And there is more than one kind of predator in this jungle.

I, a willing ******
sacrifice to this
deity dreamt up by cavemen
trading shells
for gobs of ******
meat.
In my pocket
I hold paper bearing
sacred holy writ,
and on the internet
somewhere
are hours of my existence
documented in binary
like good deeds
in a seraphic tome
ensuring my someday mansion
in the sky.
Rappers wear the dollar sign
like a gilded golden crucifix
because the wealthy are
the holy men when
Jehovah is money.
If I were to preach
against this theology, become
the antichrist, the anarchist,
throw my cash into a stack
and light that ***** up
I’d be burning myself
at the stake.

It's the big day of the big yard sale
Where every thing must go
There was much to much to haul out to the front
So I opened up the home

There were gobs of people everywhere
Wandering around with arms packed full
I'm making money hand over fist
This idea was really cool

You see my neighbors came to me with their front door key
And asked if I'd watch Binkie their cat
While they spent a few days away, I said sure what the hey
So they showed me where everything Binkie was at

While they were gone Binkie got bored
He missed his masters who were out of town
I thought a yard sale would be just the thing, Binkie purred that'd be neat
And of course it brought Binkie's good mood back around

Now before you start thinking bad thoughts of me
And wonder how anyone could sell everything they had
I want you to know I had a slight twinge of guilt
Right before I sold Binkie the cat

a 'good' poem crumbles in your mouth. it doesn't
tell you, chiding, "this is how i should taste" -
instead decomposes into the loam of ages.
no single flavour is the same
to every person.

a 'good' poem forces open the jaw,
climbing in. it begs no hospitality -
it needs none. and as it clambers on your tongue
(trying to avoid incisors), only taste
keeps you chewing, rolling gobs of words over molars,
wondering when before you've felt them
without knowing.

sustaining life sustains a string of
otherwise insubstantial little letters no better
than ideograms, clicks and chirps
all ones and zeros, really.
we embroider and tack up that
which our minds give meaning to.

the enfeebling mistake
veiled as a no-no
the little miss brazen **** bears the brunt
of what now must be a joke
incoherently fishing about for the juice
indecent glycemic index
meter says 30
profile says 10
or 15
milligrams of the judy blue pastille
no gobs to say about she
but when her jeans genuflect
no tiff
no tease
be a lamb or another even-toed ungulate
and give the poor girl what she needs

Heads up
at gilded cielos and ceilings
a time when extravagance was bilious
and public.

relics and
the coronation of Napoleon
sublime impositions and plaster,
some marble. Gobs of it.

Oils and linens
of faces, faces.
How could we remember it all
in hallways and corners
and monstrous great rooms?

I got tons and tons of spit,
And vinegar dribbles of sour,
Lemon lime frothy gobs,
Ripe with a distilled scent,
But leaden with this dull ache taste,
That I try to get rid of but can’t…
No matter how much I spit,
I am cursed…
To hate myself and to hate others.

brewing potion with ritual
reciting chants, merely verbal
niching these little caviar
a mixture of gravitas and war

such ladle so long enough to combine
a ******'s blood with a spoon of wine
perhaps adding a buckskin would suffice
this hellcat's hellacious bliss

a bushel of a misogynist's intestine,
must not forget to hitch gobs of sharks fin,
augment a pair of an old man's sight
then smatter the hogs' teeth bite

sing song this dark lullaby
you ought to hear plead and cry
smell and smear this fatal brew
any life it shall take and shoo

death will come and it will reign
blood will begrime and it will stain
thoroughly toting the daring deathly hex
seeking a prey who must be next

I am experienced in empathy.
Not comfort,
For I can easily feel when hugs and tender words will do no good.
They hurt the broken people, don't they?
Make them only more aware of how they should be.
Not sympathy, or pity,
Those burn their victims like acid
Spoon-fed in the guise of tonic
In the semblance of medication.
No, what I am good at is empathy.
I feel
What they feel.
Touch it with my fingertips and learn it like braille.
Like I am blind, reaching out to them.
No matter how close I get, it never impales me like it does them.
I am the watcher without eyes.
But I feel it, understand it, read it,
And so I know
Not what to do or say, really.
Just what not to.
It is a skill that people seem to fly towards and huddle around.
I think not a lot of people must take the time to understand
Pain
When they see it's there.
They barge in with their little toy tools
Plastic hammers and screws,
Elmers glue,
And fix it all with sloppy gobs of paste.
And at the end, looking at their handiwork,
Sagging to one side,
Simply propped up like it will stay stable,
Smile,
Sigh with the satisfaction
Of a job done,
If not well,
And brush their palms together
As if to say,
"Well, that takes care of that."
And whistle merrily on their way,
Even as the poor person they fixed
Must now wash the gaudy decor
From their jagged edges
And start again from the bottom up.
The real truth is that you can't glue a person back together.
You can only tell them that
They are still art
Even though they are no longer
As they once were.
Empathy takes restraint.
Takes patience.
Takes practice.
It is the art of feeling what another feels,
And still acknowledging that you do not fully understand.
It is the subtlety of looking at another person
And never telling but always showing
That they are themselves strong enough
To heal.