Dear Friends, I have simplified the true story of
the Grand Canyon of Arizona by leaving out the
plethora of scientific details, & the various theories
of scholars about its formation! Presenting here the
more popular version for your kind appreciation!
Therefore, I have used only a part of my Notes on
the subject. Kindly don’t forget to read Part Two
later, for the total story. No need to comment in
a hurry! Thanks, -Raj.

STORY OF THE GRAND CANYON IN
VERSE : PART ONE- BY RAJ NANDY

              BACKGROUND
Our unique planet earth on which we reside,
Remains restless and dynamic, which in its
bowels it hides!
Titanic forces have been at work since our planets
formation; (App. 4.5 billion years ago)
Tectonic plates collided shaping continents,
along with quakes and volcanic eruptions!
Mighty glaciers had formed and receded, while
forces of nature did shape,
When mighty Himalayas and the Rockies rose
up, as we see them on date!
Several species evolved and of multifarious kind,
Leaving a trail of geological mysteries behind!
Geologists have tried to figure out what caused
the rugged Rockies to rise,
From miles below the surface of the earth,
stretching across 3000 miles;
Across New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming and
Montana, all the way up into North Canada;
To become the longest mountain chain of
North America!
The Geologists speculate that the heavier
Pacific Oceanic Plate, had moved northwest
under the North American Plate;
And as a result of this geological seduction
and embrace,
A split had opened up in the American West!
Such mountain building activity or ‘Orogeny’,
Had occurred in several phases during Earth’s
evolving history!
But mostly it occurred during the ‘Age of the
Dinosaurs’ in the Mesozoic Age,
Around 100 to 200 million years hence!
Now cutting across million years of Geological
History,
I come to the Colorado Plateau to commence
my Grand Canyon Story!

THE COLORADO PLATEAU
The awesome forces which raised the Rocky
Mountain Chains, also raised the Colorado
Plateau at a later time once again!
But during the Plateau’s gradual rise there was
surprisingly no devastation,
As the well preserved sedimentary layers rose
up with the Plateau without deformation!
Like an elevator traveling upwards this Plateau
gradually rose,
Along with its several embedded rock layers,
with which it was composed!
The Plateau is scattered over an area of some
1300,000 square mile as we know;
Going clockwise it covers Arizona, Utah, Colorado,
and the State of New Mexico!
Within this rugged area are located the Grand
Canyon, Grand Staircase, Bryce and Zion Canyon,
Arches, National Bridges, Monument Valley,
Glen Canyon, and Lake Powell.
It was Major John Wesley Powell a Geologist,
a brave solder and an explorer,
Who during the 19th century had mapped the
entire Grand Canyon area;
By sailing down the treacherous rapid infested
and uncharted Colorado River!
During the American Civil War Powell’s right
hand was amputated,
God bless his soul for the work he had initiated!
(The area from Bryce Canyon down to the Grand Canyon
is referred to as the ‘Grand Staircase’ due to the existing
land features!)

THE SOUTHERN RIM OF THE PLATEAU
Standing near the edge of more easily accessible
Southern Rim, one gets captivated by the sculptured
beauty and brilliant colors of sedimentary rock layers;
Which also captivated the imagination of tourists,
geologists, painters and explorers!
Geologists have opined, that till 80 million years, this
area was inundated by the Sea several times;
By dating the limestone and marine fossils on the
top Kaibab Limestone Layer they now find!
The lowest rock basement of this Plateau the
Vishnu Schist, dated as a third of our Earth’s
total age, still exists! (Dated as 1.5 billion years.)
Yet the dominant color of the layers of the
Canyon is of a reddish kind,
Due to iron deposits in the layers that we find!
Standing on the edge of the Southern Rim one
is struck by the grand panoramic view and its
macro immensity !
Gazing into a 1500 meter deep gorge carved into
nearby horizontal sedimentary rocks, - a stark
reality,
Where Man becomes aware of his own micro
fragility!
These layers were deposited 500 million years ago,
Prior to the elevation of the Colorado Plateau!
Viewing this testament to Nature’s magnificence,
Man loses himself for a while, to become transfixed
in space and time!
Though there are other deeper canyons in this
world we know, but none are more impressive
or grander;
So Major Powell named it the ‘Grand Canyon’,
which had also made him to wonder!

GRAND CANYON AND THE COLORADO RIVER
The Grand Canyon stretches from Lake Powell near
Utah-Arizona boarder right up to Lake Mead,
Is around 277 miles long with a max width of 18 miles,
and a max depth of around 6000 feet!
The Canyon proper is located in the northwestern
portion of Arizona, in the midst of the Grand Canyon
National Park,
Where the Colorado River bisects this Park into
Northern and Southern halves!
The Northern Rim is a 1000 feet higher and is ideal
for rafters, trekkers, and cliff climbers.
The better connected South Rim has around 5 million
visitors annually!
But the affluent few with lesser time, visit the glass-
bottom horseshoe shaped ‘Skywalk’ in the western
section, in Hualapai Indian Reservation territory!

             CONCLUDING PART ONE :
The question that intrigue Geologists and the visitors
alike, is how the Colorado River did shape,
The mighty Canyon through this great depth?
Before giving you the answer in Part Two
I must pause here to quote,
Lines from the poem “Grand Canyon” which
Lisa A Williams once wrote; -
“I look to the depths far, far below,
To crevices and caverns formed long ago.
To twisting trails, ledges steep,
Winding rivers with pools so deep! ..........
Cascades of color with each sunrise,
Golden walls with lavender hues,
Shades of pink and smoky blues.
Rainbows of stone, dance in fading light,
Lengthening shadows, with approaching
night . …………….
A brush in hand the painter can see,
The miracle of nature and all it can be.
Trying to capture the beauty of age,
Seems impossible with human gauge!
So much to take in, the eyes try to behold,
An ancient image of creation so bold.
Formed by ice and melting snow,
An artist’s canvas sketched long ago!”
-  by Lisa A Williams.

Dear readers, later in the second part of this
story,
I shall conclude by telling you how the
Colorado River in all its pristine glory,
Carved out this vast Canyon through million
years of our Earth’s History!
Part two will be posted later after a break
surely,
Thanks for reading patiently, from Raj Nandy
of New Delhi.
*ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY

Questo matrimonio balla la linea tra giardino e rustico ;prendendo la bellezza naturale di una cerimonia all'aperto e abbinamento con la bellezza industriale del Sodo Park.dove da pranzo in stile familiare regna regina .E piegato in graziosi dettagli è abiti da sposa on line l' abilità di progettazione di McKenzie Powell .belle immagini da Bryce Covey fotografia e un video di nozze da Super Frog Salva Tokyo che è andato virale per una buona ragione .Date un'occhiata qui ancora di più.

Si prega di aggiornare il tuo browserShare questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsGardenWarehouseStylesRustic

Da Sposa .Così molti dei nostri amici e parenti viaggiato incredibilmente lontano per essere al nostro matrimonio a Seattle .quindi abbiamo davvero voluto tutto il giorno .non solo per essere una festa.ma sento come una grande cena di famiglia in stile .Abbiamo tirato un sacco di ispirazione dai terrosi .cene comunitarie avevamo sempre adulato in Kinfolk .così abbiamo messo l'accento su avere lunghi tavoli comuni fattoria .una tavolozza di colori neutri / caldi .e un sacco di verde e di fiori .Abbiamo anche un colpo con un bellissimo spazio di accoglienza con soffitti alti e travi a vista che non richiedono alcun fluff supplementare .

E 'stato sorprendente vedere i pezzi si uniscono il giorno - di .ma onestamente .i nostri amici e parenti hanno giocato il ruolo più importante nel rendere tutto il giorno al di là di quello che mai avremmo immaginato .Abbiamo avuto così tanto coinvolgimento da parte di tutti - dai progetti bricolage e materiale stampato .ad avere un caro amico ci sposare .e tutta la mia famiglia che canta presso la nostra reception Von Trapp - style - ognuno ha lasciato la propria impronta sulla nostra giornata .( mio cugino èun panettiere ed effettivamente volato nostra torta tutta la strada da Toronto !) che ha reso incredibilmente memorabile per noi .La ciliegina sulla torta doveva essere la festa da ballo che seguì .Abbiamo avuto un incredibile equipaggio di amici e parenti per festeggiare con abiti da sposa on line .nessuno escluso .e venditori di eccezionale talento che ci ha aiutato a tirare fuori tutto il giorno !

nostro slow motion stand era il sottoprodotto di tasking una agenzia creativa per fare un video di nozze .SFST non sono video di nozze .ma mio marito .Quang .è un maestro nel convincere le persone a fare cose che normalmente non farei mai .( E probabilmente aiutato il fatto che egli è un co -proprietario di SFST . )

L' idea per la cabina è nata dopo aver realizzato un paio di cose : Ci sarebbe voluto molto tempo per loro di modificare il video completo di nozze .ma ancora più importante .abbiamo voluto provare e sfruttare alcune delle cose che SFST è in realtàbravo a - come fare le cose belle vanno virale.In verità.era quasi un dopo pensiero .Dalla realizzazione di idea era forse dieci secondi.

hanno suggerito di mettere una telecamera RED in una sezione della sala ricevimento e sparare tutto ad un frame rate elevato .Ma il successo del video è nel modo in cui è stato eseguito.e gli amici e la famiglia che hanno partecipato .L' uomo dietro la macchina da presa .Blaine Lundy .ha avuto la personalità perfetta per indirizzare la gente e ha fatto un lavoro incredibile modifica del pezzo .Anche i più timidi ospiti sono stati persuaso a taglio sciolto davanti alla telecamera .Re-



guardare il filmato per la prima volta .e vedere tutte le imbrogli che sono andati durante il nostro ricevimento è stato un momento davvero divertente sia per noi
Fotografia : Bryce Covey Fotografia | Videografia : . Super Frog Salva Tokyo | Event Design :Mckenzie Powell | Floral Design : McKenzie Powell Designs | Gown : Jenny Packham | Cake: The Cocoa Cakery | Cerimonia Luogo : Greg Giardino presso l'Università di Washington | Banco Luogo : Sodo Parco By Herban Festa | Bridesmaids Dresses : Amsale | Catering : Herban Festa |Calligrafia : Esque Script | Giorno di coordinamento: Get Stuff Done Group | Dress Boutique : La Teoria Dress | Trucco E Capelli : Erin Skipley | Photo Booth : Usnaps | Supporto Stampato : Katrina Mendoza | Veil : Sara GabrielAmsale e Sara Gabriel sono membri della nostra Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .McKenzie Powell Floral \u0026 Event Design e Bryce Covey Fotografia sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .McKenzie Powell Floral \u0026 Event ... vedi portfolio Bryce Covey Fotografia VIEW abiti cerimonia on line
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The Annual POCU Fashion Show held by the campus organization “People of Color United,” was held in the Student Activities Center on Saturday, April 18. The fashion show is the final activity of the year held by POCU. Junior Martell Prayear and senior Miranda Jackson were the show’s hosts and announcers.

The fashion show is a competition where various designers, or teams of designers, are required to create outfits that adhere to a general theme, but also incorporate the designer’s unique, personal concepts. This year, the general theme for the fashion show was: Thrift Shop. Each designer, or group of designers, was required to utilize clothes purchased from the local Goodwill and maintain a $50 budget. Preparations for the event, Jackson said, were very short. “I was really surprised how well it turned out, because we started practicing for the show at four o’clock that day,” Jackson said. “They typically start practicing way a head of time.” Despite the delayed preparation, the fashion show was an overall success. The first designer to present at the fashion show was Victoria Webster.

Webster’s fashion line was inspired by professional work attire. “I think it can be hard transitioning college wear into professional wear, on a budget,” Webster said of her outfits. Webster was able to find three models to wear the clothes, which she said was a combination of the model’s personal items, as well as those purchased through Goodwill. The second fashion line presented at the fashion show was designed by Iyana Lynch. For her personal theme, Lynch designed outfits that were inspired by the different seasons. The third designer to present that evening was Alyssa Nieset. Inspired by 90’s menswear, Nieset designed a line of androgynous outfits. The final clothing line presented was a team effort from: Jeanita Blue and Angel Powell.

Their theme was considered “90’s Reloaded,” and featured various throwbacks to 1990’s pop culture such as TLC and The Spice Girls. Blue said that most of the outfits in their fashion line were inspired by “eco-friendly fashion,” and were intended to decrease hesitation toward shopping at thrift stores. While the judges finalized the scores for each designer or team, the Urban Dance Association entertained the crowd with a quick performance. The judge’s scores resulted in a tie between Jeanita Blue & Angel Powell, and Iyana Lynch. Despite the general tie, Blue and Powell were awarded first place, while Lynch was granted second place. There was an off-campus reception held in Cleveland after the event. Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/purple-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/green-formal-dresses

which is cool.    Kidnapped by computer geeks



Adam and Benjamin Powell are brother's with a difference, Adam is a nice clean cut young dude who likes to muck around on the streets, while Ben loves to have his geeky friends over for an evening of dungeons and dragons, adam quite often teased Ben, saying he wasn't very normal and when Ben was finished he got out his wild west kit and tied Adam to the stairs and pretended to hold Adam hostage till their parents got home, and mind you Adam was very scared, in fact, what Adam wanted to do mainly is hang around with his street kid mates, but Ben wanted Adam to be his little teasie, even if it meant he would you know make Adam feel, like he's been held hostage, and what makes it worst, when his parents got home, Ben carried on as if nothing has happened.
So day in and day out, weekends and after school, Ben told Adam to be home before him, or he'll hang you by the neck till he was dead, and Adam was too scared to say no, and went home as he promised and each day, his brother Ben was there with his mate Rick and both Ben and Rick tied Adam up and held kept him in the cupboard in the room where they played their fantasy game, Adam was scared and banged the door, and then Ben got up and opened the door, come on ******, play with me, I have friends, you haven't, and that is how it'll stay, Adam Powell, and then Ben went back to his game, leaving Adam very scared, thinking his brother was a evil villain, we all know he was a kid, but Adam was still sacred shitless, because really he doesn't deserve this one little bit.
At 5-30 their parents got home and Ben let his brother Adam go and then their parents dropped a bombshell which made Adam happy, because some of Adam's school friends invited him to a birthday party, and Adam looked at Ben and Ben was smiling, saying he isn't a poor sucker, who relies on this small talk, to get him by, just as long as he doesn't meet any of the cool street kids, because I ain't playing my geeky games, so he can bring to this family the poor people act, so Ben went to Adam and told him, if you go anywhere near anyone street trash, I will hold you hostage right in front of mummy and daddy, and then Adam left the house all scared and jumpy and on his way there he grabbed this 7 year old, and said, watch out for my geeky brother, he is a psychopath, and then Adam saw Ben's light turn on and Adam ran real hard, so Ben can't see him talking.
Ben went out and this kid told Ben what Adam said to him, and Ben said thanks and went back to his house and waited for Adam to come home, and when he did, their parents weren't home and Ben decided to hold Adam hostage and tie him up on the shed with his d&d; friends and while Adam was struggling to get free from the rope and gag, he was getting rope burns all over his body and all the geeks laughed their geeky laughs, saying we are keeping this little cool kid away from any street kid, because we want him with us, we want to teach him, that people do what Ben Powell and his mates tell him, and if you call me a ******. Like you told that kid, you will die, little Adam, so suffer little cool kid, us geeks will keep you from being safe, heh heh heh heh heh.
These kind of events happened day in and day out, and their parents never knew what happened and when Adam turned 18 he went to his friend who was a street kid when he was young, he was saved off the streets and both Adam and Rob, the name of his friend, mucked around together throwing beer bottles on his geeky brothers roof, and Rob forced Adam to make fun of his brother and Adam liked that, and he seemed to understand it, so he went home and teased Ben and his mates saying, you guys are geeks, you ****, and I will never be like you and Ben tried to keep a goody goody look for his parents, but Adam decided to take Rob's advice and treat Ben like a stupid little geeky yeah mate yeah kid and then he said, you will be pushed to family life, because I ain't like you, I am like the street kids, they help you protect themselves, from **** ******* ***** like you and Ben who thought he still had the hold over him phoned his friends to kidnap Adam and tie him to a bed, to cut the devil out of him, and Ben's friends were persuaded by Rob to ask Ben to the singles night, to pick up chicks, but instead they kidnap Ben and take him to Robs parents house and tie him up to the bed, with duct tape on his mouth really tight.
Ben was very scared and he tried to say through his gag, why me, and Rob said, because you keep your brother from us, we're cool, and you will be gagged here for life, so if you were cool once, your not anymore, and then the kidnappers let Ben go and Ben was too scared to teaee Adan anymore and made love with his girlfriend and he had 3 kids with her, and Adam, who was still scared, because he thought a leopard doesn't change his spots, still was too scared of life, but every time he saw Ben. He laughed secretly to himself, because Ben is no longer his holder, some say, Ben is now scared to mess with Adam, but others say, that Ben didn't know right from wrong, really, and he was just being a kid, and now he's an adult, and those days are behind him, and all the kidnapping thoughts are over, Adam was relieved, and now Ben is his best friend,

Betwixt of any sense beyond experiment, I sat on the bed between shifts and out-whipped the bag of Concerta given to me by Matt, o'timey hard-worker-soft-souled Matt, who felt, perhaps, that I had a legitimate reason to explore this legal avenue of pharmaceutical mind-manipulation for reasons he would rather fathom in retrospect. I popped a single pill, and voilà, the legal-cocainnabinoid began to flow between my red and white blood-cells playing cops and robbers.

It is when I feel nostalgic that I feel the need to write. I remembered, at work, with all those strange everyone-elses faces gliding past (and myself annoyed at the general lack of positive reception "Hello there!" "h .. i ." is one sour-looking businessmans sultry whispered reply.. once, a woman told me 'look, I know that you are told to say hello at the door to everyone who enters, but I don't like it. I just want to shop in peace, and no, I don't need any help' and without case to what my managers could say, I somewhat-hissed-back, "if you don't want to be greeted, then perhaps you shouldn't walk into big private corporate establishments to find the books you're looking for," and she shrugged and muttered some ****-talk under her breath and glided upstairs to find a copy of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead or Machiavelli's The Prince to validate her bitter attitude, I bet, the sour witch), my time spent living in that backwater Esso suburb of Port Coquitlam back in 2011 when Occupy Wall Street was still a hungry potential, not yet bogged down in procrastinates over herbal teas and talk of chakras and enlightenment and how the typical Wall Street businessman probably never had a real ****** and hence had never truly satisfied the energies now burnt-to-crisps inside his Root Chakra or whathaveyou, where I believed I would find a better, more interesting world further from the musty-smallness of forest-drenched rain-drenched Powell River, only to discover I may be right outside my front door, but that's EXACTLY where I was, no further than right outside my front door.. I mean, for Goddaskes, I was born in Vancouver, this isn't a culturally-shocking move to New Delhi or Kathmandu--- and so on and so forth is how I once berated myself thru constant cycling thoughts of no-escape, I, a little walking hell of devils-advice and panic disorder-- the Great Big Port City of George Vancouver only succeeding in further overwhelming my already delicate attempt at false optimism thru self-voided Buddhist smalltalk as I travelled from bookstore to bookstore reading Alan Watts in shady attempts to save-myself but only digging my walking grave even deeper into the soil of feared-insanity.

Port Coquitlam itself was a small-town wearing a business suit and holding hands with an angry father forcing him to college for computer networking as it's the most economically viable market at hand.. at first, I did not see this. I saw my idolized imaginings of Vancouver (never Port Coquitlam), the shining water-reflected skyline of my past and present legacies, where my father once snorted ******* with a bohemian group of someones, and my mother tried LSD just to prove to her friends how bad it was (and lo and behold, what a terrible time she had!), all this Otherness, Strangeness, yet still Connected-- an Otherness with which I was taken, left to whisper into empty Campbell's cans so-as to speak with the city from a distance, two children growing older together 'til my inevitable return and our agreement to share costs on rent.

I returned, as planned. I returned, and found that old-best-friend hating the Homeless and loving the Rich-- spending time with the Peppy Plutocracy whilst enslaving the Middle Classes (first Letter Capitals to Assist YOU in Grasping my Anger with All Five Thumbs) and the horrors I saw in my already delicate state, all the starving addictives slouching-inching down the sides of ***** old walls, the only thing missing a smear of blood to follow their corpseish collapse, all just footnotes to history, footnotes to wealth and progress-reality, all footnotes with no shoes O my God O my Goodness and O Canada, Our Home and Native Land!

It hurt like it did, but I felt powerless and gaited. Felt like it were just as well me (*** it just as well is), I, in Vancouver.. *Great Big Port City of George Vancouver.. saw the end-stretching-cold-legs of Nietzsche's Dead God.. those in cutthroat-black-suits armed with calculators and wives could afford private jets and yearly trips 'round our globular strangeness whilst others had to beg and berate and debate and break-down to get a crummy old bagel and a past-due mostly-empty jug of old milk and perhaps a 'side of fries with that order.'

What crushed me so much about this playing a Witness to God's Death (or, not so much a 'witness' as a relative asked to the morgue to identify the body) was my intuitive grasp that this is the poverty of the First World.. this is not as bad as it gets and on a scale of 1 to 10 this would only be a 3.. all the poor and displaced of Eastern Europe.. Moldovan families indifferent to the whims and what's taken.. someone called me a Socialist and said I would later grow out of it as 'reality' angled its rearing-ugly head to chop me smithereens like it did so mercilessly to the Poor and Irrelevant.. I looked at them and still look at people like them and think 'that is evil unsure of itself.. that is evil unaware... that is evil and evil is  evil to watch..' the Evil Act being the use of Money to purchase the world, demanding us all to pay royalties (mass royalties) for the privilege of life so afforded by them.. (the Sons and Daughters of God first stabbing their father then stabbing themselves then locking away and ignoring their young brother with cerebral palsy '*** he could never be armed with a calculator, nor wife)..

I learned, thru practice, to cope with these evils as laws-for-now. Coping did not mean tolerance, nor did coping mean agreement.. I had charged at life expecting hugs and bottles.. what I got was hugs and bottles.. all while I watched over the shoulder of whoever embraced me and saw young-others doing the same, where are the hugs and bottles..? they sank into the nether as the crowd ebbed past, ignoring the cries of pleading love, pleading love over time so traumatised as to distort this love (so inherent and implied in the Heart) into confusion, confusion into loss, and loss into hatred.. as the crowd ebbed past, the crowd ebbed past..

After 3 and a half months, I moved back home to Powell River.. the soggy ol' calm of what I already knew.. the warm arms of the rest, the warm arms of water-reflected sunsets.. and I got my hugs and bottles.

but was this really a happy ending?

Long Night Full Moon


You only watch the news to find out
where the fires are burning, which way
the wind is blowing, and whether
it will rain. Forecast ahead but first:
A mother’s boy laid out
in the street for hours.
These facts don’t wash away.

only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.

working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

Red flags in the beginning are easy to turn into little sticky notes, notes for later that sometimes lose their adhesive and fall to the ground much like my current tolerance for ****** dudes

The first known use for red flags was by the military to indicate they’re ready for battle, unfortunately I’ve seen enough red flags to start the next world war

I should’ve known
When I came back from Arizona and he said “you must’ve cheated on me because your ****** feels different”
Not because he’s insecure
or
because he doesn’t know trust
or
because he’s trying to assert control

I should’ve known
When he asked if I “had a problem getting wet because it seemed like that was a thing”
Not because he doesn’t know foreplay
(side note: **** doesn’t teach you foreplay)
or
because he doesn’t actually turn me on
or
because fun fact!- women can be turned on and not be wet

I should’ve known
When he said “if you shaved, then I’d go down on you 24/7”
Not because he was scared that choking on my ***** hair reminded him he’s with a real woman that grows hair
and humans inside her
and ideas
and opinions
and strength
and my body is not yours to give me ultimatums of

I should’ve known
When I asked if figuring out my pleasure was a burden and he answered “actually, yes it is”
Not because he’s too lazy to actually want to pleasure anyone but himself
or
because his only ****** education ended with a .com
or
because no one has ever expected more of him

I should’ve known when he said
“What I want out of a ****** partner is someone that wants me inside of them as soon as possible”
Not “inside my soul”
or
“inside my thoughts”
or
“inside my memories”
or
“inside an intimacy he will never know”

I should’ve known when he said
“Let me show you how Rachel did it”
Not “this is how I like it”
or
“can we try this?”
or
“opening your ******* mind to how another human being moves around you”

I should’ve known when
He spit on my ******, the universal sign for disrespect  
Like I deserve the same fate as tobacco swollen cheeks
Like my ****** is your spittoon,
am I the end of a tobacco session or a fancy wine tasting?
these things matter

Now I find it symbolic men are taught to spit while women are taught to swallow

Swallow our reactions
Swallow our feelings
Swallow our voices
Swallow his releases
Swallow his spit
Swallow us whole

When you see a red flag do not ignore that it means battle
This battle is not a healthy one, this battle will leave you bruised
Uproot this flag and take it with you to remind yourself
You can lose every battle and still win the war


11/28/2016 Amanda Powell

To everyone who's lost someone they love
Long before it was their time
You feel like the days you had were not enough
When you said goodbye

And to all of the people with burdens and pains
Keeping you back from your life
You believe that there's nothing and there is no one
Who can make it right

[Chorus]
There is hope for the helpless
Rest for the weary
Love for the broken heart
There is grace and forgiveness
Mercy and healing
He'll meet you wherever you are
Cry out to Jesus, Cry out to Jesus

For the marriage that's struggling just to hang on
They lost all of their faith in love
They've done all they can to make it right again
Still it's not enough

For the ones who can't break the addictions and chains
You try to give up but you come back again
Just remember that you're not alone in your shame
And your suffering

When your lonely
And it feels like the whole world is falling on you
You just reach out, you just cry out to Jesus
Cry to Jesus

To the widow who struggles with being alone
Wiping the tears from her eyes
For the children around the world without a home
Say a prayer tonight

Songwriters: MAC POWELL, MARK LEE, BRAD AVERY, TAI ANDERSON, DAVID CARR

© Universal Music Publishing Group
For non-commercial use only.



Data from: LyricFind
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THIRD DAY LYRICS - Cry Out To Jesus - A-Z Lyrics


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Lyrics to "Cry Out To Jesus" song by THIRD DAY: To everyone who's lost someone they love Long before it was their time You feel like the days you...
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"Cry Out To Jesus" was written by Mac Powell, Mark Lee, Brad Avery, Tai Anderson, David Carr.


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Cry Out To Jesus - Third Day (2005) To everyone who's lost someone they love Long before it was their time. You feel like the days you had were not enough
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THIRD DAY - CRY OUT TO JESUS LYRICS


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Lyrics to Cry Out To Jesus by Third Day: To everyone who's lost someone they love / Long before it was their time / You feel like the days
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Third Day Cry Out To Jesus lyrics & video : To everyone who's lost someone they love Long before it was their time You feel like the days you had were not enough
THIS BELONGS TO THIRD DAY THE BAND


.

She will kiss in public while she’s young enough,
old enough, in love, or bored enough,
without any damns or ***** to give you.
Her hips move at a cant, leaning eager
like the legs of new-limbed lambs.

She waves them on
with twin fingered salutes,
all for a moment,
of ****** hands, tilted necks,
for heels popping off the floor
in rejection of restraint.

So watch.
Drop your jaws
and shove your sweat-lined hands
deep in your lint-filled pockets
while she pours her endorphin soaked joy
into that boy's mouth
surrounded on all sides by Technicolor
sweetness wrapped and bottled,
anticipating its own undoing.

I love you. I will always love you. What we had was so incredible, and so beautiful. Sadly, everything in this world is transient, and so here we are, coming to an end as well. Perhaps there's a chance it isn't the end.. perhaps one day I'll run into you years from now in Powell River, and something may spark again.

Perhaps a few months down the road we'll meet again in Victoria and who knows? You need your freedom right now, though. You aren't ready for a relationship. As much as you love me (and I can tell you love me), you're fidgeting uncomfortably because you don't want to watch life trail on by and see all the could-still-be's turn into the could-have-been's. We're young. We loved each other enough to stick it out for life, but sadly youth is something that still keeps the boat rocking with uncertainty in all regards. I'm afraid to be single again.. I'm afraid of the moments when I sleep with another woman, and I hear your voice in the back of my head. Or when I kiss another woman and forget it isn't you.

I'm going to wake up crying at 3 in the morning remembering some adorable little quirk of yours, and cry and cry and cry until I can hardly breath and come close to choking on air.

There's the saying that I told you the other day.. about how sometimes, 2 people are meant to fall in love with one another, but not be with one another. Perhaps that's us, but it could also be that we just met at 2 different points in life, so I was on a different track than you, and you're still in the mode of a younger mind, unready for any substantial commitment. Which is totally okay! None of this is my trying to insult you.

I hope neither of us get too sick to the stomach seeing one another throughout the city, perhaps holding hands with other people.
We can't be friends for now. Perhaps in a few months we can, but at this point, any attempt at friendship would either still be a relationship.. or it would be a friendship with resentment, where we went to a party together and potentially had to spectate a kiss with someone else and feel like killing ourselves on the spot. So no. Maybe in a few months.. maybe in a few years.. we can be friends.

Maybe we can even be competent lovers once again someday with a little more of the world under our belts and that aching insecurity of 'I didn't have a chance to try this because I was committed' eating away at us from inside. But seriously.. who knows. We'll have to see what happens. Like in the Murakami story, 'The 100% Perfect Girl for Me,' we can trust our future re-encounter to fate. If it's meant to be, we'll meet and love again. If it's not.. well then, it's over. And that's okay. We'll find happiness elsewhere.

Goodbye, Amanda. I love you. Just in case fate doesn't bring us back around anytime in the near or distant future.. I wish you a fantastic and beautiful life full of love and excitement and joy and really great friends, and hopefully, someday, a guy who can treat you like you deserve to be treated.

Have a great life, kittycat.

I guess it’s true what they say
about blondes having more fun
If you’re sad & feel grey
then she’ll liven you up
Make you smile when you’re starting to frown
pick you up, when the World brings you down

Like a Christmas Angel at the top of the tree
she shines like a rainbow in the air that I breathe
Innocent like fresh falls of snow
don’t ever let your innocence go

Hayley Powell
can you show me how
Not to take life too seriously
because I want to laugh not scowl

When a favour’s in question, it’s hard to say no!
you can’t help but save her from the perils of woe
She could charm the birds right out of the trees
unite the World with her laughter & peace

Hayley Powell
can you show me how
Not to sink in misery
because I want to float not drown

She don’t get out the wrong side of bed
she resembles Phoebe from the comedy Friends
Like the Moon that glows when all else is dark
she’s the happiness I lack in my heart

As I was gazing at the sun through the window, searching for the friendly and warm beams of light emanating from it, but instead all I felt was a chill that was isolated from its warmth only giving me the feeling of being alone. This was my life, always reaching towards the stars, and endlessly punching an omnipresent wall in front of me. While I was dreaming for the world to stop its aberrant disgust towards me, I hear a distant yet close voice calling my name.

“Nicholas…Nicholas… Are you going to answer the question?” I look up with a muddled expression on my face as though I didn’t know I was in a classroom; I see my teacher speaking to me. She repeats,” Nicholas, are you going to answer the question? Is something wrong, do you need to go to the nurse?”

I tell my teacher, “Sorry, I was lost in thought. Can you repeat the question please, Mrs. Powell?” I don’t quite grasp the reason why I am so polite to people who are insignificant to my existence. She was an example of someone who always looked at me with eyes filled of pity, but never did anything for me except give me a fabrication of a real smile. As if her smile would break down my enclosure, and let me run free with a jubilant look on my face.

She then asks me, “What are your goals in life?… Since I am the new English teacher here at the school.” It was the same old pattern of introducing yourself to the class which is exactly why I think it is pointless. It’s not as though if people knew who I was or who she was, they would start treating me differently. I will always be the kid in the corner of the classroom, or the person swimming from a remote island towards civilization that always getting pushed ashore by the forceful wave called society. Also, why does she need to know what my goals are? It’s not like my dreams will ever come to fruition.

“I want to become a doctor,” I said, with a dreadful look on my face because I know when the world hears my dreams; it will as always put an impregnable barrier around them. Just thinking of the barrier around my dreams is flooding my mind with thoughts of the traumatizing events that shaped me into the disfigured person I am today. I was disfigured by the many events of my past like how the Egyptian Deity Osiris was cut into twenty-seven pieces by his own brother. At this point I am yearning for this conversation to cease, but yet I knew she was going to ask that one exasperating question.

Mrs. Powell then asks that very question, “Why is becoming a doctor your dream? It’s quite a great dream to have don’t you think so?” She replied to me as though she was a machine set up to respond to certain interactions based on the user’s input. Everyone in the class looked at me through the windows of my enclosure waiting for my response. Questioning how the gloomy kid in the corner of the classroom is going to respond to such a cliché question.

I looked at my teacher with a desolate expression on my face and said, “I want to become a doctor, so I can make a difference in the society we live in.” My classmates probably are thinking that it was such a cliché response to such a cliché question, but they are completely wrong beyond question. Though they most likely think that the difference on society that becoming a doctor is to save lives or to help people who are in need, but for me, it will be a march on the society that shunned me to an isolated island. I believe that achieving this dream will be the first time I receive the tenderness of the sun’s warmth instead of the cutting winds representing my distance from it. I believe that this feeling of isolation is a feeling that only a select few people and I will ever fully comprehend.

Mrs. Powell finally ends the conversation by saying, “Isn’t that a wonderful reason for your dream. That very idea of making a difference in society is exactly why I became a teacher, you know?” She continued to talk about why she became a teacher, but I was drawn to the window looking towards the warmth of the sun like a moth attracted to lights. Until I heard a soft voice say something divergent to the many countless fantasies called dreams.
“I want to be friends with everyone, that’s my dream!”
“What a great dream! I’m sure you can be friends with everyone in the class.” Mrs. Powell replied with a smirk. As if she knew I wouldn’t open up to anyone, and because of me her dream would never come true. In my opinion, the fact that I heard someone’s voice was an achievement of its own, but I only heard it because she said it with overwhelming sincerity. As if she knew she was going to become friends with everyone and didn’t even think that she could fail her dream in any regard.

Two days went by, and I haven’t heard that sincere voice since the beginning of school. The reason why I address her as that sincere voice or the sincere voice is because I don’t know her name nor do I know what she looks like. Of course, I’m not going to actively try to find out who she is, but it wouldn’t hurt if I stumbled upon it. Since her sincerity was able to break open my cage for a few moments at most but allowed me to feel as if I was free from the everlasting isolation society casts upon me.

Even though I believed I wasn’t going to actively look for the person whose voice broke down my enclosure, I found myself staring at my classmates wondering who it could be. Until I heard the words of my classmate next to me, “Nicholas, do you want to be my friend?”

What I am, I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is what you are.
My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect.
I observe, I don’t make conclusions –
for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence.
The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really,
it is the world around me in all of its embodiment.
I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos,
and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation.
In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity,
the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak
of the old elevator in Rasputin Music.
On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom –
the air and I, we hold hands.
The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems
until only the unwanted ones are left standing.
In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage;
I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me.
Sitting here, on my bed,
flipping pages and pages as books progress;
if only my own storyline were half as intriguing.  
Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble.
Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window,
and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety;
the world is below me and I am defying its weight.
In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility;
I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator,
a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world.
All in all and end in end,
poems are poems but it mostly depends,
everything is contingent,
and it’s all ambiguous of course.
That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.

It was six in the morning**: I sat in a cab dangling on small-talk with a middle-aged white male cabbie basted in the demeanor of the over-friendly uncle. He asked me about school—I'm hyperawake, paranoid, body pulsing, feeling loose, depersonalized, and lightly psychedelic—my vision wavering as if someone had entered my skull to punch raw brain. I did a gram and a half of ******* that night; mixed lines with ketamine to simulate a proto-psychosis, but am convinced I may very well have driven myself past the point of no return. I'd been doing this strict mix for over 2 straight weeks, landing myself in out-of-body experiences and coked-out drawls on the floor like a sad, puckered monkey chewing on a lemon it mistook for an orange. Why I led myself to this existential precipice is both beyond me and totally within my rational sympathies if I pretend I am on the outside looking in.
When I was 18—drawn, for the first time—away from smalltown Powell River and into the Vancouver suburbia of Port Coquitlam, my only successful job-find was a McDonald's arched inside a Wal-Mart. The double-insult this presented me as a teenage anarchist pushed me deep into my first true emotional crisis which I only turned to accept after a particular phone call with my father in which he appealed to me to think of this stint as a 'temporary social experiment'; a chance to learn and breathe this proletarian experience from the inside out. During the pre-Christmas night-shifts, the only customers we ever had were the dark, apathetic silhouette-people Wal-Mart hired to greet the absolutely no one's walking through the door. I incessantly cleaned what was already a mirror-wet floor and made sad conversation with Rosario—the slightly autistic shift-manager with a prickly-shave of a face and an awkward sense of humor I could never come to appreciate and yet always managed to humor in polite obsequiousness. Regardless, it was a form of spread and endless boredom that began to fascinate me; it brought me to a darkness I had never quite known. It was an experience—like all experiences—to be had at least once, to the fullest and truest intensity. To be pushed with reckless sincerity.
Ever since, I have found myself pushing every limit to disembodied extremes—on occasion, to points of such profound irresponsibility or feigned responsibility that I break a particular streak and wind-up on the other dichotomous side of whatever line I unintentionally (or intentionally?) crossed (or broke?) because everything is a social experiment and I've touched the multifarious lives of overworked modernity, residential care aide, dishwasher, Christopher McCandlessesque wilderness jaunt, melancholic Kierkegaard, psychonaut, and now: a short-lived ****** inspired by the excess of Burroughs and the early beatniks all willing to **** their darlings for the sake of blood-stained posterity.
And yet meanwhile—in the cab—I can feel my headache grow perceptively wider from my left temple. Almost like a mushroom cloud over Bikini Atoll I am watching from as safe a distance as the physical body can withstand, according to some calculable hypothesis drafted by Oppenheimer himself. I am constantly amazed at how lucid I am in conversation with this friendly cabby; given that I feel as if I'm about to go ******, focusing so deftly on the way the streetlights glide across placid puddles moving only with our tires intervention—and the way I keep imagining insanity in the form of a zombie-likeness of myself strapped into an electric chair, skin melting and eyes rolling back in my head as I seizure to metaphysical death—I still laugh away short quips about the blind-leading-the-blind (he has no idea how to find my destination, and keeps pulling over to check a book road-map for 4143 Hessington Place). The only reason I am with him now is that I am venturing to see my girlfriend at her group-house past Uvic where the door is always unlocked for friends and friends-of-friends, she being the only solution to this crisis with her stash of .5 Xanax pills.
I remember those tense moments—with my body and brain as taut as a bow—he would pull over or pull out and my entire existence seemed to move through space and time as if against a wind that was perpetually in resistance—as if my entire consciousness was going to capsize into some form of overdosed darkness. Even when I exited the cab and waved a friendly goodbye to the old man, I could feel my dopamine receptors attempting to fire on empty. This caused a latent buzz that was only solved with two milligrams of alprazolam and my eyes wide shut until my head shut down.

I held her close. I knew she thought I was an idiot.

My Library

my library is crammed full, some of it ****,
somethings in there, I don't even get,
but that's who I am, and what I'm about

stories, movies, books and such,
all overflowing into the living room hutch,
I even found an old jar of sauerkraut  

Plato, Brokaw, and Chaos's Gleick,
Saving Private Ryan, and Naked Gun shtick,
I'm here, there and everywhere on the map

Sagan, Obama, and General Powell,
who here remembers, Thurston Howell,
Gilligans Isle, now that was some goofy crap  

and if you know me, my music's the bomb,
some loud as hell and some really calm,
Mott the Hoople, All the Way to Memphis and back

I'll listen to Bethoven, I'll listen to Bach,
but my favorite of course, is kick-*** rock,
Nectar remembered the future, it's in my stack

Sabato likes politics, and Roberts the past,
Dan Brown's novels, has the action real fast,
Schopenhauer had little regard, for the girls

Schindlers's list was a gripping tale,
Titanic was cool but had a horrific sail,
I always really loved, Shirley Temple's curls

Sherlock Holmes, was a real tricky dude,
I remember when I saw, Mary Poppins ****,
Shawshank Redemption, was a powerful flick

Monty Python's search, for the Holy Grail,
old time rock with J.J. Cale,
the first Alien story was really slick

now I've barely opened, the door inside of me,
there's a hell of lot more, of me to see,
so I'll probably be back, with much more to tell

my poetry of course, when I find the time,
always looking for, a reason or rhyme,
see y'all later, come back, sit a spell    

Gomer LePoet...

I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.

Barack Obama, first US President of African origin.
Langston Hughes, earliest innovators of then-new literary jazz
                                     poetry.
Angela Davis, African American political activist, and author
Coretta Scott King, author, activist, and civil rights leader
Katherine Johnson, African-American mathematician

Anita Baker, African American singer-songwriter
Muhammed Ali, African American professional boxer and activist
Erykah Badu, African American singer-songwriter activist
Rosa Parks, the mother of the freedom movement and civil rights
Ida B Wells, African-American journalist and feminist
Colin Powell, statesman and retired four-star general in US Army
Al Sharpton, civil rights activist and Baptist minister
N*elson Mandela, South African anti-apartheid revolutionary
                                   political leader

I stood before the town folk, who were all revved up, in gear,
" I'm laying claim to 'Yonder Road', which leads to my lot there".
And as I spoke, I found my voice~ "And I, G Clair, it is my choice
to take it back" and dared the few, who looked me in the eye, and knew
they'd met their match but here's the catch,
I took it straight, right down the hatch...
The road's not mine to take.

"We must decline. It's on the line, the Powell Township County Line"
~So half of it is theirs to sell? And so I'm thinking "What the hell?"
I never planned to buy the land, which leads up to my pile of sand,
and half a road? That's just a load of ****-a-mamey crap and toad!

Not one spoke on my behalf, that half-a-road was just a laugh,
but secretly I knew their game, to share the road, and to their shame,
I'd have to buy the township out, if private is, what it's about.
And so I kept my peace of mind. "I'll pay for Yonder, rob me blind!"
"And all in favor, just say 'Aye'" The room went silent. Then a cry~
from down behind the furthest row, an "Aye" and then the rest in tow
and everyone you would have thought, would die before the road was bought
and on that day, the vote was wrought, and ALL for one road to my lot.
the road was mine to take!

And as I drove on down my road, I wondered, if it ever snowed,
if they'd still plow a private road, or leave it to the one who owed
the price of owning graveled lane, which cut in two, by grassy mane
and wondered if I'd have to mow the place which pulled like undertow~
which drew the settlers through the plain, where nothing grows in fitful rain
yet wagons, traveling there in vain, would lose a wheel, and what a pain
and one last thought to keep me sane:

Those drivers who had lots to gain
whose hearts were heavy, just the same
from weary rolling over rocks
in untilled pastures, void of flocks
who held the reigns in calloused hands
and prayed while sweat dripped from their glands
to make it to their promised lands,
would LOVE... a road... like mine.

To dream of a place
Where all pain has been healed
All we know is love

He spoke about Mike far from the Jackson but more like the color Brown.
As if whites love to see white since the lightest part of his body was in the air before his demise.
I think you should cut that dread off you know the one for Mike Brown since you weren't there. Far from a activist I honestly don't give a ****. Far from an activist you're just adding fuel to extinguishing flames. You know how words spread like aids. People saw what they saw, so they say. You're no Martin you're no Malcom you're more like Powell.
This is when I knew I was a racist since all lives don't matter so you say.
If I was to die today in the hands of a white man. You wouldn't care since I'm light right.
Spanish boy on the mic.
Like if my daddy wasn't black as Wesley Snipes. But you know how the ***** daddy story goes.
Never home.
Left mama with a belly on her own.
They don't want to be the fathers but sure in hell they want to hit the daughters.
I prayed one day you'll walk through that door without the bottle. That's my only memory.
A dream.
So if I was to die today you wouldn't care or maybe for half
I mean my dad left me slung
Guess that changes the fact the left me hug like a pair Jays on the electrical line
Never to come by.
Never to teach how to ride a bike.
Never to teach me how to fight.
This is when I knew I was a racist.
Because I hate people, I hate crowded places.
I hate 34th street I hate 42nd.
I hate the city life
I should be somewhere in the country side.
But back to the matter tell me would you care if I die today in the hands of a white man.
What if I got killed by my enemy since minority violence is not a hate crime to society.
You see Tito got popped by Jahim
And Jahim lights went off in the middle of the night by Piddy
But these life's don't matter right
Is just minority violence
Is not the same media feed.
So for all you rappers, poets and activist whose saw Mikes hands up round of applause.
You're just like the media feeding in to what your eyes didn't see.
Is not about the truth anymore ******* but the ratings.
So to the special guest of honor poet I must tell you I'm a racist
I have 6 dead Spanish friends killed by all hands
Black, white and of time
Don't speak to me about justice
This wasn't Gardner or Bell
And if there's beef let me know I always keep a glock close.
My life won't matter to you like to yours won't matter to me.
But if that's what makes me a racist,
******* what are you?

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

Today, I met a man.
Ive known him for over 5 years now.
But today I met a different man
That really is the same.
Same in the way ive seen him walk,
Heard him talk…
But different in my sight of him.
Because now,
Ive really heard him,
Feel like I know him
Just a little better.
Know I will never know the whole story,
The complete man.
But thankful to get a snippet,
A shard, a piece
Of the years and stories he holds.
Listening intently to only a few of his memories.
He sang in front of and in the audience of
The Vienna boys choir.
He sang at the berlin wall.
Captain of the football team.
Met Bill Clinton and Colin Powell
And had cigars with them.
Loves his two children
Has a heart bigger than most peoples.
Treating us to dinner
We sit and listen
To tiny pieces of an amazing person,
A life filled with travels, love, and hardship.
This man that I already know,
I met him again today.

2/13/10

Never thought I'd be
**** shamed
Gas lit
All in 20 minutes
By an athlete

I have stood in a thousand formations
and beared witness to the greatest men
who've recieved the greatest honors

I have stood in few formations
where i have cried
tears for my fallen brothers

I have stood at attention
as the casket was loaded
and away they flew

I have flown the heroes
no longer here
and cried every minute

I have rendered a million salutes
but the ones i remember
are for the fallen

With flag draped casket
etched upon my memory
never to see another golden sunset

Lost but never forgotten
the heroes, my brothers, my comrades
for as i breathe you'll never be forgotten

Rest In Peace
Shadow Brethren
SSG Powell And Sgt Silk

May you sleep with angels
on the wings of doves
to the pearly gates at ST. Peters Steps

to those that I've known
to those that I've never met
your always remembered
and never forgotten
one day when my bones turn to ash
and when my spirit has left this world
may we drink a pint and remember
all that we given to protect
may we toast to freedom
and the lives we saved
while the world remembers
that we made the sacrifice
we went like warriors til
the very ****** end
fighting til our strength
sapped from our bones
but our love for our country
endures beyond what we've left

Rick Madsen - 09/03/08
Brandon Silk - 06/21/10
Josh Powell - 09/21/10

May you fly on the wings of angels
and dine with the best of men
Always Remembered Never Forgotten

Donald Trump Limericks IV



The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?



Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”



Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.



Viral Donald (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
His pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.



Viral Donald (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Why didn't Herr Trump, the POTUS,
protect us from the Coronavirus?
That weird orange corona of hair's an alarm:
Trump is the Virus in Human Form!



No Star
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll all be wearing lederhosen.



How the Fourth ***** Ramped Up
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump prepped his pale Deplorables:
"You're such easy marks and scorables!
So now when I bray
click your heels and obey,
and I'll soon promote you to Horribles!"



The Ex-Prez Sez

The prez should be above the law, he sez,
even though he’s no longer prez.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump Dump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a con man named Trump
who just loved to take dumps at the stump.
“What use is the truth?”
he cried, with real ruth,
“Just come kiss my fat orange ****!”



Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten A$$
by Michael R. Burch

There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest a$$ (et) wus his ****.
It wus padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!

Interpretation: In this alleged "ode" a southern member of the Trump cult complains that Trump's a$$ produces so much ***** matter that his legions of a$$-kissers can't hope to drain it and need mechanical a$$-istance!



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Raw Spewage (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a political sump pump!



Raw Spewage (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a garbage dump
in need of a sump pump!


Keywords/Tags: Trump limerick, Trump limericks, limerick, nonsense, light, verse, humor, humorous, donald, trump, president, ignoramus, *****, imbecile, conman, fraud, liar, shill, criminal, huckster, snake oil salesman, Twitter, tweet, tweety



OTHER TRUMP LIMERICKS, POEMS AND EPIGRAMS



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Dark Shroud, Silver Lining
by Michael R. Burch

Trump cares so little for the silly pests
who rise to swarm his rallies that he jests:
“The silver lining of this dark corona
is that I’m not obliged to touch the fauna!”



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a cute stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancun cruise.
—Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition”



Mini-Ode to a Quickly Shrinking American Icon
by Michael R. Burch

Rudy, Rudy,
strange and colludy,
how does your pardon grow?
“With demons like hell’s
and progress like snails’
and criminals all in a row!”



Christmas is Coming
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!

Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!



Fake News, Probably
by Michael R. Burch

The elusive Orange-Tufted Fitz-Gibbon is the rarest of creatures—rarer by far than Sasquatch and the Abominable Snowman (although they are very similar in temperament and destructive capabilities). While the common gibbon is not all that uncommon, the orange-tufted genus has been found less frequently in the fossil record than hobbits and unicorns. The Fitz-Gibbon sub-genus is all the more remarkable because it apparently believes itself to be human, and royalty, no less! Now there are rumors—admittedly hard to believe—that an Orange-Tufted Fitz-Gibbon resides in the White House and has been spotted playing with the nuclear codes while chattering incessantly about attacking China, Mexico, Iran and North Korea. We find it very hard to credit such reports. Surely American voters would not elect an ape with self-destructive tendencies president!

Keywords/Tags: Trump, Donald Trump, poems, epigrams, quotes, quotations, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Cancun, Christmas



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Mercedes Benz
by Michael R. Burch

I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this:

Oh Donnie, won't you lend me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I f-cked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?

Oh Donnie, won't you rent me your **** import?
You need to pay your lawyers: a **** for a tort!
I’ll await her delivery each day until three.
And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free!

Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?
I'm counting on you, Don, so don't let me down!
Oh, prove you're a ******* and bring them around.
Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?

Oh Donnie, won't you lend me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I f-cked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?


Ode to a Pismire
by Michael R. Burch

Drumpf is a *****:
his hair’s in a Fritz.
Drumpf is a missy:
he won’t drink Schlitz.
Drumpf’s cobra-hissy
though he lives in the Ritz.
Drumpf is so pissy
his diaper’s the Shitz.



The Ballade of Large Marge Greene
by Michael R. Burch

Marge
is large
and in charge,
like a barge.

Yes, our Marge
is quite large,
like a hefty surcharge.

Like a sarge,
say LaFarge,
apt to over-enlarge
creating dissent before the final discharge.


Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch

Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



My Sin-cere Endorsement of a Trump Cultist
by Michael R. Burch

If you choose to be an idiot, who can prevent you?
If you love to do evil, why then, by all means,
go serve the con who sent you!



Bird’s Eye View
Michael R. Burch

So many fantasical inventions,
but what are man’s intentions?
I don’t trust their scooty cars.
And what about their plans for Mars?

Their landfills’ high retentions?
The dodos they fail to mention?
I don’t trust Trump’s “clean coal” cars,
and what the hell are his plans for Mars?



Untitled

Don't disturb him in his inner sanctum
Or he’ll have another Trumper Tantrum.
—Michael R. Burch

It turns out the term was prophetic, since "conservatives" now serve a con. — Michael R. Burch

To live among you — ah! — as among vipers, coldblooded creatures not knowing right from wrong, adoring Trump, hissing and spitting venom.

Trump rhymes with chump
grump
frump
lifelong slump
illogical jump
garbage dump
sewage clump
sump pump
*******
cancerous lump
malignant bump
unpleasingly plump
slovenly schlump
yuge enormous diaper-clad ****
and someone we voters are going to thump and whump
—Michael R. Burch



Putin's Lootin's
by Michael R. Burch

They’re dropping like flies:
Putin’s “allies.”

Ah, but who gets their funny
money?

Two birds with one stone:
no dissent, buy a drone.

For tyrants the darkest day’s sunny!



Preempted
by Michael R. Burch

Friends, I admit that I’m often tempted
to say what I think about Trump,
but all such thought’s been preempted
by the sight of that Yuge Orange ****!



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

The editorial board of the Washington Post is “very worried that American women don’t want to marry Trump supporters.”

Supporting Trump puts a crimp in dating
(not to mention mating).

So, ***** dudes, if you’d like to bed
intelligent gals, and possibly wed,

it’s time to jettison that red MAGA cap
and tweet “farewell” to an orange sap.



Squid on the Skids
by Michael R. Burch

Sidney Powell howled in 2020:
“The Kraken will roar through the land of plenty!”

But she recalled the Terror in 2023
with a slippery, slimy, squid-like plea.



The Kraken Cracked
by Michael R. Burch

She’s singing like a canary.
Who says krakens are scary?

Squidney said the election was hacked,
but when all her lies were unpacked,
the crackpot kraken cracked.

Now, with a shrill, high-pitched squeal,
The kraken has cut a deal.

Oh, tell it with jubilation:
the kraken is on probation!



Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch

My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.

Forget the ****** Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.



Two Trump Truisms
by Michael R. Burch
When Trump’s the culprit everyone’s a “snitch.”
It ain’t a “witch hunt” when the perp’s a witch.



Horrid Porridge
by Michael R. Burch

My apologies to porridge for this unfortunate association with an unwholesome human being.

Why is Trump orange,
like porridge
(though not some we’re likely to forage)?
The gods of yore
knew long before
Trump was born, to a life of deplorage,
that his face must conform
to the uniform
he’d wear for his prison decorage!


Dictionary Definition of Trump
by Michael R. Burch

Trump is a chump;
he’s the freep of a frump;
he’s an orange-skinned Grinch and, much worse, he’s a Grump!;
he’s a creep; he’s a Sheik (sans harem); a skunk!;
“**** the veep!” he’s a murderous coup d’tot-er in a slump;
“Drain the swamps, then refill them with my crocodilian donors!”;
Trump is a ****** with insufficient ******;
Trump is, as he predicted, a constitutional crisis;
Trump is our non-so-sweet American vanilla ISIS;
Trump is a thief who will bring the world to grief;
Trump is a whiner and our Pleader-in-Chief.



Triple Trump
by Michael R. Burch

No one ever ******* a Trump like Trump.
He turned Mar-a-Lago into a dump
and spewed filth at the stump
like a sump pump
while looking like a moulting Orange Hefalump!
Trump made the Grinch seem like just another Grump
by giving darker Whos a “get lost” lump.
No colored child was spared from his Neanderthalic thump.
Trump gave fascists a fist-bump,
consulted **** servers for an info-dump
and invited Russian agents for a late-night ****.
Don the Con con-sidered laws a speed bump,
fired anyone who ever tried to be an ump,
and gave every evil known to man a quantum jump.
You may think he’s just plump
and a chump,
with the style of a frump,
the posture of a shlump,
his brain in a slump,
and perhaps too inclined for a ****-star ****,
while being deprived by his parents of a necessary whump ...
but when it comes to political *****, Trump is the ****!

#TRUMP #DONTHECON #MRBTRUMP #MRBDONTHECON #MRBPOEMS

Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, limerick, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, salacious, ribald, risque, naughty, ****, spicy, adult, nature, politics, religion, science, relationships


Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical


OTHER LIMERICKS AND POEMS



Red State Reject
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I once was a pessimist
but now I’m more optimistic,
ever since I discovered my fears
were unsupported by any statistic.



The Red State Reaction
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Where the hell are they hidin’
Sleepy Joe Biden?

And how the hell can the bleep
Do so much, IN HIS SLEEP?



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
Limericks by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when again I enquired with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!

5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, nonsense verse, humor, humorous, light verse, mating calls, *****, prudish, lonely, loneliness, longing, America



Animal Limericks

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can't sing,
but now, here's the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry! "



Honeymoon Not-So-Sweet, or, Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride? "
"Nevermore! " bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!



The Platypus
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
　
Dear Ed: I don't understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I'm brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who's dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!) :
since he's plagiarized Unknown, I'll wager!



"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
by Michael R. Burch

The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.