The greatest challenge my nature presents:
Love is harder to find
Hate is easier to find
Within myself and others

Is rejection different for me?
Everybody seems to know the pain of being unwanted
And idle threats and empty words are no stranger to rejection
But when you say you'll **** me if you ever see me again
The intention is clear
The existence of my attraction
Is grotesque beyond redemption
I thought I loved you...

When appreciation comes my way
It's superficiality amuses me
Because I know all that needs to happen
Is breaking down the wall to my mind
Or unlocking the door to my heart
And those appreciators will transform into detractors
Especially if the hideous leviathan approaches their vessel

Not finding women gross frustrates me
Because I have no reference point
For why people hate me so much
Which provides a reference point
For why I hate myself so much

It's difficult not to be dominated by this damnation
But there's no way people could understand
The daily subtle nuances
Why should they?
I don't constantly consider their lives either
Even if someone tried to comprehend my life
I'm not sure it's possible
I've been here the whole time and I'm still massively perplexed

I display my emotions
Disgust
I shroud my emotions
Indifference
I **** my emotions
Hatred
Is there no escape?
Even with sanctuaries along the way
Life feels like
Everybody swims in the ocean
While I'm resigned to my lonely oasis
Is it possible to feel more alone than completely alone?
Like a cockroach consigned to living under the refrigerator
It gets so cold and dark down here
I forage for crumbs only at night
Mortally afraid of human contact
For I know that the boot follows the light
And why not?
In a world where our priorities obstruct our compassion
How much consideration should a real human show
to a lowly maggot like me
When they have to worry about paying the exterminator?

The four fundamental forces:
Zeus, Aphrodite, Ares (or Mars), and Adam and Eve.

                            <<0>>                                          >> 0 <<

             Electric field induced by             Electric field induced by
            a positive electric charge            a negative electric charge

"Deutsch thinks that such 'jumps to universality' must occur not only in the capacity to calculate things, but also in the capacity to understand things, and in the closely related capacity to make things happen. And he thinks that it was precisely such a threshold that was crossed with the invention of the scientific method. There were plenty of things we humans could do, of course, prior to the invention of that method: agriculture, or the domestication of animals, or the design of sundials, or the construction of pyramids. But all of a sudden, with the introduction of that particular method of concocting and evaluating new hypotheses, there was a sense in which we could do anything. The capacities of a community that has mastered that method to survive, to learn, and to remake the world according to its inclinations are (in the long run) literally, mathematically, infinite. And Deutsch is convinced that the tendency of the world to give rise to such communities, more than, say, the force of gravitation, or the second law of thermodynamics, or even the phenomenon of death, is what ultimately gives the world its shape, and what constitutes the genuine essence of nature. 'In all cases,' he writes, 'the class of transformations that could happen spontaneously--in the absence of knowledge--is negligibly small compared with the class that could be effected artificially by intelligent beings who wanted those transformations to happen. So the explanations of almost all physically possible phenomena are about how knowledge would be applied to bring those phenomena about.' And there is a beautiful and almost mystical irony in all this: that it was precisely by means of the Scientific Revolution, it was precisely by means of accepting that we are not the center of the universe, that we became the center of the universe."

Danger comes from the root bad brakes and bald tires. Chain saws
      and wildfires. Poisonous
ideologies, housecleaning chemicals and toiletries. Powerful
      industrialists, alcoholic fathers.
Invasive species, illegal immigrants. Concentration camps, attention
      deficit disorder.
Performance phobia, identity enhancements. Pleasure, applause.
      Quiet moments, walking and
talking war buddies. Electoral politics, marriage and divorce. Pest
      exterminator, Yeats seminar.
Love affair, pencil sharpener. Whatever, matter. Ionic and covalent
      bonds, republican hairstyle.
Events in their mere chronology.

"What is a typical place in the universe like? Let me assume that you are reading this on Earth. In your mind's eye travel straight upwards a few hundred kilometers. Now you are in the slightly more typical environment of space. But you are still being heated and illuminated by the sun, and half your field of view is still taken up by the solids, liquids and **** of the Earth. A typical location has none of those features. So, travel a few trillion kilometers further in the same direction. You are now so far away that the sun looks like other stars. You are at a much colder, darker and emptier place, with no **** in sight. But it is not yet typical: you are still inside the Milky Way galaxy, and most places in the universe are not in any galaxy. Continue until you are clear outside the galaxy--say, a hundred thousand light years from Earth. At this distance you could not glimpse the Earth even if you used the most powerful telescope that humans have yet built. But the Milky Way still fills much of your sky. To get to a typical place in the universe, you have to imagine yourself at least a thousand times as far out as that, deep in intergalactic space. What is it like there? Imagine the whole of space notionally divided into cubes the size of our solar system. If you were observing from a typical one of them, the sky would be pitch black. The nearest star would be so far away that if it were to explode as a supernova, and you were staring directly at it when its light reached you, you would not even see a glimmer. That is how big and dark the universe is. And it is cold: it is at that background temperature of 217 Kelvin, which is cold enough to freeze every known substance except helium. And it is empty: the density of atoms out there is below one per cubic meter. That is a million times sparser than atoms in the space between the stars, and those atoms are themselves sparser than in the best vacuum that human technology has yet achieved. Almost all the atoms in intergalactic space are hydrogen or helium, so there is no chemistry. No life could have evolved there, nor any intelligence. Nothing changes there. Nothing happens. The same is true of the next cube and the next, and if you were to examine a million consecutive cubes in any direction the story would be the same."

The 5 colors of sadness:
disappointed, didn't get what was wanted
confused, don't know what to do next, where to go
lonely, no one to love or be loved by
sorry, unable to help or change what happened
depressed, can't get out of bed, want to **** self

"Unless a society is expecting its own future choices to be better than its present ones, it will strive to make its present policies and institutions as immutable as possible. Therefore Popper's criterion can be met only by societies that expect their knowledge to grow -- and to grow unpredictably. And, further, they are expecting that if it did grow, that would help. This expectation is what I call optimism, and I can state it, in its most general form, thus: The Principle of Optimism -- All evils are caused by insufficient knowledge. Optimism is, in the first instance, a way of explaining failure, not prophesying success. It says that there is no fundamental barrier, no law of nature or supernatural decree, preventing progress. Whenever we try to improve things and fail, it is not because the spiteful (or unfathomably benevolent) gods are thwarting us or punishing us for trying, or because we have reached a limit on the capacity of reason to make improvements, or because it is best that we fail, but always because we did not know enough, in time. But optimism is also a stance towards the future, because nearly all failures, and nearly all successes, are yet to come.

As I think of things to do I do them.
Thing by thing I get things done.
That's how my father and his father did things.
I guess my mother and her mother did things that way too.

Sometimes I'm driving and I think how my father and his father drove
      too.
There was weather and they had problems. There is weather and I
      have problems.
Time exists only in the human mind. But if the mind exists, time exists.
Joy everywhere. Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy, all times.

While you’re sleeping
The spiders bathe in your nightstand water
As the mosquitos play you Copeland’s “Fanfare For The Common Man”
The worms use you as a blanket
The bees outside your window spread rumors about the Praying Mantis
The roaches climb the bedpost to get a better view
and the ants want to be left alone cause they’re too busy working on their own things
while the Praying Mantis makes a move on the Brown Widow
It’s actually not a widow it’s a  Brown Recluse according my roommate, Charlie
He tells me their bites are harmless
But I don’t believe him
So I take a picture and ask someone on reddit spiders
and they tell me it looks like a Brown Widow but the photo quality isn’t too clear
I mean I got up as close as I could to take the picture
And we should really call an exterminator
Because the Ladybugs now won’t shut up about the Mantis
And the Moths are making a mess in the kitchen
And it’s really Gal the landlords job to handle it
But he’s too busy being a heart surgeon on the side so I guess I’ll have to do it
I’ll call today. I’ll call now.

Conflicted
Internally tormented
Butterflies come alive
Just beneath the flesh
Some with
Wings of razors
Others soft as silk

Call the exterminator
The pests won't leave me be
They flutter about
Collide and ****
Dead ones floating in the blood

- Jay M
December 8th, 2020

Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.

Happily,  he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.

All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.

Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.

Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.

From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.

we sing of dreams

of better things

we blaspheme

and spin the scenes

of our murdered dreams

and just clean the guilt away

I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.

I am a god that cracks the asphalt.

I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.

I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.

The first

The last

Laugh of inevitability

Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.

Free will

A fragile blessing

I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my  belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.

I'm the ******* son

Strumming for the only one.

Once.

Before the lore of the storm.

Born of the swoon of a gun.

More than one.

Once.

As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.

As of recent,
there has been an infestation of cockroaches in my house.
I want to rid of them, but I cannot call an exterminator.
I do not want him to find the bodies.
So I decided,
I could only rid of them,
by eating them.
And I ate them all,
one by one.
Each roach crunching between my teeth.
The tangy juices,
squeezing into my mouth,
and down my throat.
I must say,
after a while,
they did not taste bad.
They in fact tasted quite delicious.
So delicious, that I started eating them with meals.
Soon, I was only eating the roaches.
Now, all I eat,
is roaches.

Bright light attracts the bugs at night,
So I got smart and dimmed my glow.
Barely noticeable to untrained eyes,
I just simply glide through the day.
A little less unimpressed at sunset,
Watching all my circles shrink.  

It can get a little lonely here,
But the past comes to remind me;

Sleeping with dogs can give you fleas,
So I adopted a no animal policy.
I haven't had an itch in ages,
But I miss the companionship.
It can get a little lonely here,
but at least I have no bugs.

smoke it on the daily
i do
and
i left the last batch near the window.
the only thing these days waiting on me to come home.

i have an addiction
and it all started
with
you
.

it is thursday today and
for reasons i don't remember
the exterminator is
coming

but i've been hiding out
in my hidey hole
under the patio
playing with needles
all day
and it seems like i have already missed him

he left a note on my door
telling me that there are
bombs in the house
but
i guess
it won't make a difference.

it's already a chemical warfare in these veins
and
nothing i'm not use too

closed into this skin
i won't let myself
out to see the world
too much restraint
the handcuffs are too tight
and i know i'm killing myself
but i also know they won't miss me

grown accustomed
to
this muggy air
and the lack
of
love in my lungs
i have

you can't
phase
the unphaseable.  

i open
the door and wait on the porch
for someone to invite me in
even though this is my home
and chivalry is dead.
sometimes
i expect my love
to great me at the door
but
we play a constant game of hide and seek and i haven't been able to
find her for ages.

the rain has stopped and
my vampire hands
have ceased to shake..
by the time
i
step inside.

the freshly lacquered linoleum floor
hits me in the face with a waft of lemon scented chemicals.
and i know now that
someone has been cleaning
but i purposely don't take off my shoes
and
this smell
of orchard lemon trees
is the false pretense of safety that
dances around my nostrils and tucks me into bed at night

this is home.
for now.
and
i
  guess
    it

  will
have
to
do
    .


i walk in a circle
as to not upset the balance of things
turn on the record player
and
find myself a chair in the kitchen.
only
to witness a symphony of
spiders
fall to the floor
and crumble up into
themselves
with  one
single
crescendo
.

everything is dying
and the air
is barely breathable
but i find comfort
in the thought of you
still loving me through it all.

i'll be sure to call this exterminator again
he really did do a swell job.
even took care of all the cobwebs  
on my bookshelf
which i haven't used in years
because its
where i keep our cardboard box full of memories  
hidden
behind the great gatsby and the
apocalyptic books
i tried to make you read
in hopes of you maybe seeing the beauty in such darkness
but you never liked them anyways
and you stopped reading my poetry
a long time ago
so who was i really kidding
other then myself?

it's newly November
and i hope it snows this year
i don't need a scarf
or mittens
because
i can feel your warmth even though you're not welcome in my house anymore  
and i can feel your lips on my neck
and your hot breath
whispering
***** little secrets to my skin

your hickeys we're love notes written in flesh
but of course bruises were your signature trade mark.

the thought of you calling my name
kills me
even quicker
then
this poison that enters in through my pores
and kisses my bloodstream like
an old family friend

i am not scared
of it
though

in fact i don't even flinch

after my experience with you
i am now an expert at dancing with the devil

i am brave
not fearless
no,

merely

immune to things that try to **** me
whilst loving me to pieces.

There's a hearse next door,
but I don't know who its for.
The driver is wearing a midnight black derby,
and a midnight black sports coat.
Its plain to see, he's not in a hurry i
I hope its not my fault.

There's an officer at my door,
he has a warrant,
my house he'd like to explore.
There's a goat's head in the tub.
Luckily,
it's invisible.

The rats are building bombs in the walls,
I can hear eggtimers ticking, as I walk through the halls,
sinister squeaking, and cracks in the plaster,
from "The Seventeen dead!" M-80 disaster.
The exterminator says I'm bonkers,
but he runs a white slave ring in Yonkers.

You call me paranoid,
from collected chemical indiscretions,
and laugh as I keep peeking out the blinds,
but even if you don't see them,
they're coming from all directions.
They will get you too, in time.

Maniacs are Golden,
that's why God loves them so much,
they're the only ones that keep in touch,
with both him,
and the Devil.
Maniacs are Golden.
Cut them open and see.

It is often said that sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt.
But wait if each word were beautifully carved into stones, the size of each letter.
The smaller the word, the bigger the stone.
The bigger the word, the smaller the stone.
Idiot became much bigger than intelligent.
Dumb became much more common than bright.
Shy became an excuse for exclusion.
And the word friend had a double personality with adversary.

I didn’t understand.

Each stone formed a meteorite,
Hurtling down to destroy my purpose,
Slay my heartbeat,
Butcher my happiness.  

My happiness, however, was too powerful.
The exterminator disintegrated as it peeked at my face.
Each pebble hitting my skin like confused bullets.
It took my hands, then my shoulders
Then my back,
Then my legs,
Then my lips,
Then my voice.
It melted my skin,
Screaming demons lay atop.
Each layer of skin peeling, falling apart.
My smile had been long gone.

PLOT TWIST:
Instead of melting like a witch,
I remained.
Today, I stand before you, stronger than ever.
A message from the universe told me to tell you:
Never give up.

So i tried to be Snow White
And did the whole pin-up girl look
Red lips, black hair, white skin.
then I joined a website
and learnt how to cook
and how to wield a rolling pin.
Then I sat and waited for a charming prince
who never came.
So I got up and made an apple pie
and lo seven guys turned up in a pinch
but most of them were really lame
and short and they didn't like the pie. I cried.
I threw the pie into the trash
where the rats choked on the apples
and waited for their own true love's kiss.

(But then I needn't have worried about making a hash
of things because later on the steps of an abandoned chapel,
The Anti-Pest Society gave me an award for getting rid of all the rats
and that's how I got work as an exterminator -which I am justifiably proud of and good at-
So hasta la vista baby, I'll be back.)

You were poetry. You made my heart beat fast enough to start a car engine, but now I'm suffocating, and you won’t let me catch my breath. You’re a song stuck on repeat - I’m getting sick of you - but you just keep playing. The poem feels repetitive and I’m a lyric away from regurgitating every love song I ever composed for you. The only noise playing in my head is the scarlet letter you wrote back. The letter where you called me as beautiful as a flower, yet ripped the roots of my beauty until there was nothing left to recognize. The letter where you reminded me of the strings you pulled with my veins, the way you controlled the choreography of my body with your presence near; I believed you were an amazing ventriloquist. All you are is a skeleton coming from the back of my closet and I can’t get rid of you in discretion. I want you gone. I don’t know whether to call an exorcist to rebuke the demons in my head or an exterminator to get rid of the termites your corpse has left behind. I want you gone. The memory of your acidic touch is leaving third degree burns that may never heal. The memory of butterflies in my stomach makes me wish a whole zoo trampled me instead. The butterflies have burned a hole inside of me and I can no longer digest chocolate kisses from sweeter times. I now sit in this bed, where we once laid, and write about how badly I want to change this radio station.
You are in every station.
I’m tired of writing tragic rhymes about missing you.
I’m tired of missing you.
This is my final sonnet to you.
And with this, I finally turn the radio off.

I am the terminator
The exterminator
I walk around with my spray
Aiming at things that get in my way
So you better stand back
Before I start my attack
Because I might see
You as a tiny flea
******* out my life force
You might be the source
Of that itch I can't scratch
You will have meet your match
I love to destroy what bugs me
It fills me with a sense of glee
I wonder if God feels the same
Maybe that's why none of us are sane

HAVING DREAM CATCHERS ABOVE MY BED
AND CONTINUING TO HAVE THESE NIGHT
TERRORS IS IRONY BECAUSE YOU ALMOST
******* CONVINCED ME THAT YOU WERE
THE EXTERMINATOR TO THOSE NIGHTMARES
BUT GOD, WAS I DEAD WRONG ABOUT YOU.
YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE THE INSTRUMENTS TO
RECREATE ANYTHING GOOD IN MY DREAMS
ANYMORE. FRANKLY, ALL YOU ARE ANYMORE
IS THE TRIGGERS TO MY NIGHTMARES. THIS IS
WHY I DON'T BELIEVE IN FORTUNES, TAROT
CARDS, SPIRITS, AND MUCH LESS, GOOD LUCK.
NO DREAM CATCHER CAN FULLY REMOVE THE
SCARS YOU'VE LEFT IMPRINTED IN MY MIND.

There are no hammers in my room.
No tactical advances which need enhancements.
no broken bits of furniture in need of further
assessment.
There are no screwdrivers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed.
nothing blotchy or broken.
or to say this house is less than homely.
There are no hammers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed. Deconstructed. Detonated.
No little lines on the carpet, no rusty pipes beneath my sink
There are no razors in my bathroom
nothing which brings blood from my retinas
nothing stinks of mold, nothing sinks in the carberater
escaping excavation
measure the short comings of my
makings, and takings, and tasks.
There are no dust mites beneath my bed
there are nothing but soap and cleansing masks.
sleeping with the boogy man, sharing his head
space,
no naked, termites in my walls.
skeletons in my closet.
nothing that would appall an exterminator.
nothing which says this house is less than
homely.

I am the terminator
The exterminator
I walk around with my spray
Aiming at things that get in my way
So you better stand back
Before I start my attack
Because I might see
You as a tiny flea
******* out my life force
You might be the source
Of that itch I can't scratch
You will have meet your match
I love to destroy what bugs me
It fills me with a sense of glee
I wonder if God feels the same
Maybe that's why none of us are sane

There's a minute mouse hidden in the darkness under the house.
Hear it scooting around, it's chewing on paper.
All the books are getting distressed.
Notice  the scuffling things.
A peek from the corner of householder's eye.
Wonder why she didn't call upon the services of the exterminator man.
Not the daleks naturally.
See them darting across the room, honed almost invisible darts.
In they pop to empty their bladders and bowels, all over the house.
Discarded broken pencil leads.
Their broods hidden under the host's cosy house.
And they nibbled the wire.
Gnaw, gnaw,nibble,nibble .
Ignited a spark.
Now the house is on fire.
(C) Livvi

~ per la bombardiera italiana di Vienna~

you want a poem of (a)side dishes, instead of a main,
you prefer a side vent, instead of a main event,
but always commence at the commencement ending,
another day begs for the first poem of the day (FPoTD)

the sky produces another hue, a whitish blue,
with violet shadings, majestic clouds slow moving,
heading north, Northwest by North(NWbN)
to New England, onto Toronto, then west to B.C.
but me won’t be there for that new course correction

sent some messengers your way, umpteen Canadian
snowbird geese, returning home, Florida too **** hot,
hurricanes not to their liking, quite the sight, brave old
man in dracula cape-flapping bathrobe, clapping and heehawing them intruders into the bay waters, off his land, their partying
in my no-noise motel against a law, not to mention their
empties and plentiful droppings, but I side vent digress

from where this Mariner’s tale began, but the mental alarm
signals seven bells, return to port, now a mess mate, inside,
delivering coffee in white china teacups to the Captainess,
who in time of war makes tremendous sacrifices, par example,
who due to the pandemic, graciously deigns, accepts paper(!)
napkins, a sign of the gravity of the times, no ironing!

god, I do not understand how you do it, vast eternal patience,
every way, every day, a new shade, you musta been an art major,
or very bored, either way, this goose chasing, cook, exterminator,
driver, poetry-writing no-maven son of a Canadian woman, is
your devotee, morning glory audience, who accepts your sky tapestry, your cloud interweaving laddering, with humble gratitude, a still life never stilled, my eyes, my tongue sings your praises like King David, and that other court-appointed Canadian psalmist^ who  understood, conversing with you is where all hallelujah poem songs main event must begin, fiddle middle, and perforce must conclude, that! the! main event

everything else just a side event, a side venting, a prayer-in waiting,
a get-in-line for another paradise, where poets play cards, smoke see-gars, checking their stockings for runs and new poem ideas, word worshipping the gifts of existence, a child’s ice cream dotted nose, a body’s curves, but I digress...he LoL’s to himself, wondering why his eyes are tearing...as usual, he is clueless, the last to know, but the first to weep because the winter is coming, yet again, a sky will be less frequent friendly, but the know-nothing-man will digress yet again, once more unto the breach...


2020
8:18am
Sat Sabbath Aug 29

I had this girlfriend many years ago
her name was Wendy Edge
she was my first love
I gave her my heart and pledge

Well she took me to meet her family
her father was a pest exterminator
and his young son took up the banner
by being all the poor frogs terminator

As we sat and talked in the garden
by the pond of frogs
Wendy's little brother came up
and ******* with a hammer in his hands

He grab them out one by one
hammered them to death and throw them back in
my god I told them, I was in dismay
they said to me, leave him alone and let him play

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

I've pondered on whether or snot Sun Tzu
was psychopathic. Sun Tzu might've been a
good man and a bad man strange variant of serial killer/Apex Prime Exterminator within
his theories and experiments.
Every successful contemporary military, government, politician, global health advisory control panel, corporation, and CEO practices The Art of War.

Sun Tzu added a trident to each prong of
the pre-existing "Three-Pronged Approach". Instead of there being three main paths and results only, there were now many possible combinations and results, especially when
Dark Sun Tzu added a trident to each of the
expanded 9 prongs for 27 possible results,
then did that again for 72 possible results
that can be arrived at from many possible
combinations and pathways.

The fork is an often primal, psychoapathic thrusting force—a thrusting force of nature
on many levels of instinct, natural Earth laws
and universal laws, and sociopsychology—
the fork is code, icon, symbol, archetype,
metaphor, Meta, in parallel with the trident,
unsheathed sword, the thrusting ***** *****
and hypodermic needle:

Hypo dermis: beneath the skin:
Ancient Greek etymological root that moves
through Latin and Auld English, from deeper
symbology and metaphor, to the technocratic
medical and clinical, to a chrome or chrome
plated hypodermic needle.

The most maniacal journey and result within Sun Tzu's expanded and multiplied "Three-Pronged Approach" is to use heavy
psychological direction to assist the enemy to disembowel itself before your feet while the enemy believes that you're reaching down as friend to help it. The enemy believes that
you're a saviour who is offering it a cure-all healing apple. The "apple" cuts through the enemy's belly. Now convulsing in pain on the ground, the enemy believes that you're a benevolent angel reaching down to help as the enemy pulls out its bowels onto the green grass, with greasy, slickened hands.

Trident. Forked Tongue. Snake in the grass.
Apple. Belly of the Beast. Snake bite: The
chrome fangs of the one-eyed technocratic
serpent on the Rod and on the Staff. That

was later adapted into Marxist, ****,
and Democratic medical practices on the national and corporate levels, and on international levels within foreign diplomatic agendas: Get the enemy to **** and/or sicken
itself within the belief that its actions are
saving itself, loved ones, and free society.
When Sun Tzu's momentum is used, an
intended target enemy can send Sun Tzu
orbiting back around in various forms and
forces that are usually far worse and forceful
than its previous forms and applications.

The enemy cries out for, begs on its knees for, the medicine.

"Ask and thou shalt receive."

The enemy dispenses the medicine to its offspring, enforces the absorption of the medicine, crawls back to its hive of maggots
to dispense the medicine

on its last dying breath.

Many people misunderstood the implications of "Flatten the curve". For how many more centuries will the cycle of not quite "normal" and not quite "novel" continue? Will the adults ever understand the fairy tales.
Vatican Witches and Federal Government
poison that need to be burned and purified
in their own fire. Good Cop/Bad Cop politics and The Welfare State breaks the family,
steals the bread crumbs, and the children
are lost in the woods again, hooked on candy and Federal Government endorsed dope.

It's amazing, aside from the miracle of Earth and life, I finally believe in miracles: A person can read a story 10,000 times and fail to apply it when needed most of all.

There, in the doorway
Brown field mouse looks inside
My spirit shudders

Exterminator
Looking just like a space man
Ready for the moon

Chemical spray clings
Morning dew inside my home
Scratching from the wall

Wooden trap, cheese piece
So delicately balanced…
The mouse laughs at me

Layer of strong glue
Forest fibers make the tray
One foot is enough

Tear falls on the deck
Cat has killed my worthy foe
No wet food tonight…..

America they speak of you so demonically
America wasn't it you who separated the dark humans from the light?
I lay wake sometimes for no apparent reason watching television
I'm useless in most situations I can't control
******* and you ballistic missiles!
America when will miss Liberty start showing justice for all?
When will you stop hiding the fact
you're not all white ?
When will you stop trying to fit into societies demands ?
When will you acknowledge the fact you are not always right ?
America why are your libraries filled with wove lies?
America when will you help without showcasing your "good deed"?
Your greedy and I'm tired of it
When can i cash my paycheck without it being yours to begin with?
America you do know you and I are a team don't you?
Your produce is too much for me
You make me want to fast like your Christian leader "Jesus"
There has to be a way to come to an agreement
Don't talk to me about College !
Colemon went overseas as a chef I doubt he'll return it'll be sinister,
I refuse to lay rest my poetic passions
America I know what I'm doing stop pushing !
Immigrants should have freedom too
ISIS started in Syria or Iraq or In the CIA
America when are you getting an exterminator?
America when does your spring cleaning begin, when you fall ?
America when will you take off your clothes?
There seems to be a confusion with gender is why i ask
Can you distract me with more propaganda
i seem to have spilled some tea
The white house is back to being the "white" house it's ancestors intended
America I use to be darker as a baby I'm not sorry
I haven't listen to the news in months, everyday someone is murdered
America can we throw away false beliefs and false idols
America can you send me the money printing machines that gets you out of debt ?
I tend to get drunk occasionally and make a fool of myself
My love life comes and goes like the L train
America I haven't told you what pain you've cause my future children
I'm talking to you
Do you really want another war?
Does everyone really want what we have or is it the bipolar opposite ?

From the Genius Loci, Vernarth fell for an apocryphal anticipated death; there were rumors of the Seventh Heaven of having found him extinct in some ruins where they were excavating for the expression of the locus of the Megaron, in the space of the holistic visualization field, to relocate the Áullos Kósmos IV, as an interaction of the Invisible Eclectic Portal, doing it for the patron of the parallel world, and of his apocryphal death. The naturalness of his parallel residence led him through this canon and sketch, clearly with an archetypal character of symbols that meant more than his own image, with parapsychology and Genius psychics who considered a being of high dignity deified with the Gidon or Gideon; as a catastrophic exterminator of his being in both dimensions that separated him from a predicted death, which he had already experienced at the site of Arbela.

Vernarth, after finding the ruins that had succumbed to his own Genius Loci, unleashed his religious soul for souls in the atonement that sheltered the construction plunged into ruin under the Megaron, conforming worlds of sensibilities with risky existentialisms in the glossary of two-dimensional man, which is transfigured into being of the Eclectic Portal and the Genius Loci, seconded by the pyramidal conifers that alluded to the Romanesque bilocated appearance of terminologies after the sacred war of Amphibians. Making of this nature the two-dimensionality of Vernarth, a naturae that embraced him in the Greek landscape, spicing up all the topographic characteristics, towards a territory that surrounded him with a God who threw him into the hierophany of the being that self-erected him as his own host, so that it is definitely related to its natural environment, this being the Goddess and numen of the same in her temple as a sacred declaration, in a room that was always next to the sanctuary immersed in her templar necropolis list. Thus he refounds and strengthens his ties with Saint John the Apostle, who from the genesis of his encounter with him spoke of the portal that would lead him to the limit of the sacred, but contiguous to the profane of Temenos, for the dimensionality of worldly proselytism that will help him with the surrounding voices when called! seconded by Wonthelimar de Chauvet and Kaitelka, when he gets tired of this voluminous Áullos Kósmos, and parade with the Souls of Trouvere, Helleniká, Armas Christi and Messolonghi, together with the Ghosts of Shiraz passing through the propyla of the Megaron, making him pass the triple porticoes with their bilocated parapsychological lives, and by the global cendal of the In Antis, with two columns in the first portico where the vigil of their Sibyls and Eurydice will reside, pointing out the treasure of herbs and magic mushrooms that they keep in the Stoa that walled Borker and Leiak with their Xifos crusades. The frontispiece flew with the Gerakis from the peribolus that lay afflicted by the amber and violet essences of the rites in transit, making polyverbality in the protocols that led to the transcendentality of his apocryphal death. Vernarth lived the apocryphal death of him intensely mounted on his Alikantus steed, and without a semi-tight mount, to point out the essences of his acropolis that conditioned him to the temenos, more than a profane skinned to a sacred rite of passage in the Genius Loci.

I accompany my dark shadow...
(many hours before edge of night,
where twilight zone evokes night gallery),
and resumed walking a circuit
around perimeter of parking lot
today, a breezy temperate
twenty fifth of April two thousand
and twenty two, and perhaps
if regularly habituate myself
to said stroll physical endeavors
may one day find me to cantor or trot.

Yours truly realized modus operandi
to kombat (mortal) lethargy;
last year, he did stride rite
around resident parking lot area
(here at Highland Manor apartments)
then usually at approximately
19:00 hours each day
casually bumbling and ambling
one lap after another
counting one hundred and one,
one hundred and two,
one hundred and three...
coordinated with deep breathing
to distract self from repetitiveness.

Modicum of walking exercise
benefits this sexagenarian
in tandem yours truly began
burning ghee (my slang for calories)
while maintaining sitting position
placing each foot in strap
and pedalling lightweight machine
against adjusted tension.

Aside from strengthening leg muscles
choosing to while away time
by disciplining myself with former or latter,
both modes of physical fitness
also help keep anguish at bay
mental duress triggered
courtesy of property management
constituting: Zoftig, the warden
and maintenance man,
(a recent hire),
the first two whose invisible clutches

asphyxiate me and the missus
hounding us to keep
one bedroom apartment in shipshape order
and particularly to wipe away fruit fly feces
(cuz exterminator informed us
said itty bitty teeny weeny insect
breeds within their
yellowish gummy waste matter)
prompting us to Google search
senior low income apartment facilities,
spurring spurious query wondering
whether any anonymous reader
might be able, eager, ready and willing
to hand over keys to main lodging
including carriage house,
we would even settle for a dog house
or (in a manor of writing) Yukon
assign access rights to an excellent outlook.

Sense and sensibility concerning
the emotional fallout
brought about by sedentariness
(essentially affecting me to feel
glum, melancholy, and ruminative)
helped goad generic indigent solitary man
(practically self quarantined
his whole mucked up adult life)
hence not inconvenienced
when coronavirus COVID-19
wrought havoc and mayhem.

Just on the cusp of experiencing joie de vivre,
the triumvirate of Crooks and Quade
figuratively swoop down
to announce re: inspection
of apartment unit B44
whenever they deem appropriate.

Thus series of unfortunate events
(linkedin with bull limey
Lemony Snicket bro)
got sidelined nsync with
contracting a minor bout
with deadly Amish Flu
symptoms found garden variety
reasonable rhymer
bedridden feeling a little horse and buggy (ha),
incapacitated to craft signature poetry writing.

An honest to dog confession
regarding hiatus spewing forth
vociferous versatile vocabulary
mine words - worth their weight in gold
(told woofer I do not know), nevertheless
included perusing a gamut of reading material.

The passion to engross intellect
witnessed courtesy immersing
attention, concentration, excitation
gratification, intoxication;
knowledge prized more precious
than fine spun gold.

Likewise crafting (albeit painstakingly)
elusive notions that flit
to and fro hither and yon
(analogous to ping pong ball)
within parameters of
microscopically crenellated
sixty plus shades of gray matter
also constitutes fervent interest.