GMO foods punch holes in cells
permeate the gut, creating gaps in guts
Leading to food floating in bloodstreams, rivers of pain
Food allergies, ulcers, IBS .... these are the milder troubles
I won't speak of  IBD, Cancer and Crohns disease
Babies born now allergic to foods, children allergic more than ever
They said, though the BT injected crops killed bugs, bursting their bellies
that they were still safe for humans....They were wrong!
Now these GMO crops are causing a myriad of gastro problems in people!
Food crops are now Roundup ready in the
Killing Fields.


Videos to watch:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FS72J9bDvPM&feature;=relmfu
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6D3TUk-XX1o&feature;=relmfu


TOP FOODS TO AVOID (unless labeled organic)
Corn
Soy
Potatoes
Canola, Cottonseed Oils
Sugar, fructose, corn syrup
Dairy - except organic
Tomatoes - except organic
Papaya/Hawaiian
Helpful links:  
www.naturalnews.com/035734GMOsfoods_dangers.html
http://truefoodnow.org/

Monsanto's roundup
never failed to **** the weeds
Monsanto's roundup
being known for deadly deeds

of late a court case
has hit the headlines
on behalf of a grounds man
who'd sprayed roundup
over rambling vines

he'd ingested the product's
residual mist
whereupon his body became
sick from its whist

other plaintiffs are gearing
up for a trial date
which will mean the suing
of Monsanto won't abate

hefty cash payout
can but damage the company's
profitable reputation
on lawyers presenting
evidence of the **** killer's
lethal saturation

and people in countries
off shore will obtain a chance
in litigation against the corporate entity's
expenditure advance

Monsanto's roundup
never failed to **** the weeds
Monsanto's roundup
being known for deadly deeds

I AWOKE THIS MORNING WITH A VERSE IN MY MIND , AND THIS IS WHAT BECAME OF IT.

CHRIST – THE LAST ROUNDUP
He was on his last roundup; all his followers were brought in
About to be crucified to wipe away man s sins
They laid him on a cross with a thorn crown upon his head
Then he was nailed to it, and would be left until he was dead.
His cries would echo out from on top of that hill
Even the ROMAN guards had sensed a chill.
As the skies became as dark as night, and the son of GOD
Would lose this fight.
The thunder and lightning was heard and seen
As he let out his final scream.
The strongest of men would pass out from the pain
That he would endure as the ROMAN said:
“He truly was the son of GOD “!
And from this world, he would depart.
He was taken down from the cross and the nails
Taken out from his hands and feet and his
Body cleansed for his LORD to meet.
The rabbi‘s feared that his body may be removed
They put guards at his tomb.
On the third day when the early morning came
The stone had been moved away.
The roman guards in total awe could not believe what they saw.
How was the stone moved without sight or sound?
As the guards stood all around.
His reappearing to his followers would be the
Last miracle they would see!
The rest you know is history.

I moved a few years ago
To the upper state of Vermont
Although the place is beautiful
At times it can be one great big yawn

That's when we put our heads together
Me and my best friend Shawn
And came up with the great idea
To start a Hippie Farm

Our noggins were a knocking
Not sure how this could be done
Do Hippies come from packs of seeds
Or like flowers, in a bunch

And can you start them off by grafting
Like they do on Apple Farms
Where you get rows and rows of Hippies
From just a single one

That's when Shawn remembered this mail order magazine
That we took out and took a look inside
It came with an assortment of Hippies
From Raw to Roasted to Highly Deep Fried

So we sat and weighed all of our options
And ordered a bushel of Hippies alive
Then we set out cultivating the fields
Till the day our Hippies arrived

The package  arrived a few days later
In an old beat up VW Bus
With psychedelic smoke pouring from the windows
Pretty sure they all came buzzed

Of course Hippies don't come with instructions
Only bell bottom jeans and old Jefferson Airplane tapes
Can't tell you how many Hippies we went through
Before we learned from our mistakes

Like don't plant a Hippie face first in the dirt
They need a bit of air to breath
And they don't like to be over watered
Just dust them off when you feel the need

Now that the farm is up and running
We seem to have come into our own
We've even come up with  a way of branding
Some of the Hippies that we've grown

We started selling them in flavors
Like Ben and Jerry's down the street
From our Abbie Hoffman Radical Cherry
To our Hendrix Hazy Purple Berry Treat

But it's our Groovy Rainbow Roundup Hippie
Whose sales have never let us down
In fact I'd put that Hippie up against
Anybody else's Hippie in town

I've never been much of one to brag
But we're known on the East coast, up and down
We've had people as far away as Florida
Come and buy our Hippies by the pound

So next time your up in Vermont
Stop in and take a tour and watch us grow
Don't forget to stop by our gift shop
And purchase your very own Hippie to take home

We are a team, That have a dream…
We don’t stop, no not even when we drop.
other teams are lame , cause we got game.

Sprint, pass, shoot, dribble, assist, defense
Thats our life as we thrive. This is our house
And the game is our spouse.

We grieve every loss, cause we hate losing
more than we love winning. But the next game
We go up down, down up back at it with the roundup

We get hungry to get revenge, on the team that
Can’t avenge but we don’t rest til we’re the best.
We’ll be on top one day and they’ll pop.

We steal like thief’s in the night,
We wont lose without a fight,
We have the pace, and we keep up with the race.

There are setbacks, slumps, bumps,
But that only makes us stronger
And it makes us last longer.

We fall as one , rise as one,
That’s what makes us family

Although the Wrangler has left the ranch,
Within our hearts he'll be enshrined,
For now he's gone to the last roundup,
Leaving the rest of us behind.

The sky was the Wrangler's favorite rooftop;
Walls couldn't pen him in.
To him the slow destruction of nature's
Wonders was a cardinal sin.

The saddle was his poetry--
His homage to life, a living ode.
When not on his horse, you'd see him riding
His two-wheeled "horse" on the open road.

An expert storyteller he was.
How he delighted us with his tales!
His theory: a little embellishment
Never hurts when all else fails.

And write! How the Wrangler could write--
Each of his letters a work of art,
A masterpiece of expression, replete
With wit and charm that flowed from his heart.

Fishing, hunting, philosophizing,
Photography, and art to boot:
His varied interests, but interest in YOU
Was maybe his greatest attribute.

Sometimes when his patience dwindled,
He could lose it, and who could blame him.
His wife, Barrie, had to try
To tug on his reins to try to tame him.

A legend in his time, he was--
A striking presence wherever he went.
And spending money to help other
People--to him--was money well spent.

Although to the last roundup he's gone,
The Wrangler's lasting imprint survives.
As we say our good-byes, remember
How he enriched all of our lives.

-by Bob B (8-3-20)

I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.


I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****.
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of your frequent well-beaten paths of hatred.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.

Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.


Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.

I am the **** in your pristine garden,

Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,

Unwanted, I lift my head high,

Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.

You spray me with emotional roundup.

You wish I would simply go away

Crushed under your foot yesterday,

I wilted under your hate.

Resurrected by the creators love,

In joy I dance to his music,

That floats on the wind.

I am a rose of Sharon,

Planted firmly in the dirt.

Hated by you for just being,

I am loved by the one who made me,

Loved unconditionally.

Planted in the wilderness,

Where he walks in search

Of those who seek his name.

If you see me know that he is near.

Yet you hate me for being the ****.

Invasive, that shows up in the cracks,

Of your well beaten paths.

You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.

Revived by God who loves me.

Someday he will do justice,

Someday he will show them mercy,

For failing to love his creation.

He animates me an earthen vessel,

With emotions triggered by fluid actions,

His loving smile, His tender touch,

In his love and goodness I find joy.

The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,

In its flooding sea of contentment,

Knowing that in him I have rest I am secure and calm.

From your bitterness that floods my feet,

He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.

Freely I give the love I receive,

As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,

Used to the smell of death and dying,

The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.

They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.

Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,

Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,

Someday those that cry for war will love peace,

Someday those that hate others learn to love.

Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,

Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.

And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,

Love the beauty of God's creation.

Some day will the enslaved and captive soul fly free,

Forever free in the plains of Eternity.

hapax legomenon “Texas Women”

(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)

for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ  & Cne’

once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially

this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate

your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon

akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance

so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction

I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me

an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient

have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance

they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!

ok.

the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter

I am the **** in your pristine garden,

Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,

Unwanted, I lift my head high,

Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.

You spray me with emotional roundup.

You wish I would simply go away

Crushed under your foot yesterday,

I wilted under your hate.

Resurrected by the creators love,

In joy I dance to his music,

That floats on the wind.


I am a rose of Sharon,

Planted firmly in the dirt.

Hated by you for just being,

I am loved by the one who made me,

Loved unconditionally.

Planted in the wilderness,

Where he walks in search

Of those who seek his name.

If you see me know that he is near.

Yet you hate me for being the ****.

Invasive, that shows up in the cracks,

Of your well beaten paths.

You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.

Revived by God who loves me.


Someday he will do justice,

Someday he will show them mercy,

For failing to love his creation.

He animates me an earthen vessel,

With emotions triggered by fluid actions,

His loving smile, His tender touch,

In his love and goodness I find joy.

The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,

Like a flooding sea of contentment,

Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.

From your bitterness that floods my feet,

He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.


Freely I give the love I receive,

As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,

Used to the smell of death and dying,

The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.

They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.

Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,

Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,

Someday those that cry for war will love peace,

Someday those that hate others learn to love.

Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,

Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.

And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,

Love the beauty of God's creation.

Some day will the enslaved and captive soul fly free,

Forever free in the plains of Eternity.

I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.


I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****.
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of the well-beaten paths of hatred, you frequent.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.

Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.


Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.

The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on

I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.


I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****.
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of the well-beaten paths of hatred, you frequent.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.

Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.


Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.

I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.


I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****.
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of your frequent well-beaten paths of hatred.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.

Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.


Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.

I know this girl from Texas
Who rustles up smiles for free
Feels like home on the range
With lasso in hand
Pretty as you please

Warm and comfortable as a campfire
Wild as a coyotes howl
God was right in his choice
Giving her an angels voice
Mixed in with a Southern draw

There's a mischievousness to her roundup
Like that of a rouge rodeo
Playing life's full hand
From sunrise to sunset
This girl from Texas that I know

BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS …
by Alice Connally Fisk
                
Majestic Monarch butterflies
spectacular in flight.
Vast population plunging.
Endangered now their plight

Monsanto’s toxic glyphosate
drives down the Monarchs number.
Giant wielders of clout driven by greed
count on the public to slumber.

Toxic **** killers **** butterfly beauties
as they drop from the blue one-by-one.
Roundup Ready concoctions of cold profiteers
cause our Monarch’s extinction be done…

So rally to end sweet butterfly’s fate
and bring back our Monarchs before it’s too late!

© 2015  Alice Connally Fisk


BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS


"To make a wish come true, whisper  it to a Butterfly.  Upon these wings it will be taken to heaven and granted, for they are the messengers of the Great Spirit."  ~ Native American Legend              


Alice Connally Fisk, 11 Pineview Place, Melrose, NY  12121
77-year-old great-grandmother, lifelong poet


Kindred spirits will be given permission to add music to my lyrics and sing the song - afisk10302@aol.com

BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS …
by Alice Connally Fisk
                
Majestic Monarch butterflies
spectacular in flight.
Vast population plunging.
Endangered now their plight

Monsanto’s toxic glyphosate
drives down the Monarchs number.
Giant wielders of clout driven by greed
count on the public to slumber.

Toxic **** killers **** butterfly beauties
as they drop from the blue one-by-one.
Roundup Ready concoctions of cold profiteers
cause our Monarch’s extinction be done…

So rally to end sweet butterfly’s fate
and bring back our Monarchs before it’s too late!

© 2015  Alice Connally Fisk

BOYCOTT MONSANTO
BRING BACK THE MONARCHS
  
"To make a wish come true, whisper  it to a Butterfly.  Upon these wings it will be taken to heaven and granted, for they are the messengers of the Great Spirit."  ~ Native American Legend              

Alice Connally Fisk, 11 Pineview Place, Melrose, NY  12121
77-year-old great-grandmother, lifelong poet
  
Kindred spirits will be given permission to add music to my lyrics and sing the song - afisk10302@aol.com

You said I made the best mint parfaits,
was part of the cutest couple
wearing my urban cowboy duds
with the sous chef.
We'd immerse ourselves in the suds
at the ritual roundup,
stick amyl nitrate inhalers
up our noises & wait for the rush
to take hold.
I was never bold enough
to cross over the line,
enter never never land
& besides,
it really wasn't my style.
But I'm told
those were the days,
the days when we'd smile
wider than the universe.

dreamed that Current studio hired me
to design
a walkthrough of a ceiling-high,
openly grinning,  paper mache pig's head:
the stable's entrance to tiny pens
packed with caged (paid)
human children
who passed out tiny buttons
enscribed with varying notes:

Please Help
They Did Not Ask Me
I Don't Want To Die
Can You Find My Mom?
I Can Do Math In My Head
Eat More Monkeys
Please Save Us
I Don't Want To Die


But it was an unpopular exhibit
The Oklahoman would not report it
The Gazette managed a story on page 9
Yet advertised Cane's Chicken on page 5

Rattlesnake Roundup is just a few weeks
away
And I have no clue how I could possibly
convey
The value of wild
life.
The degree of their
strife.

boardroom doors,
circuits open
grey matter hallways
where skeletons
made of lightning
fricassee my synapses

jackboots roundup
****** dahlias deflowered,
their wilted smiles
rainbow
the grass below
with shadows

cowardly dandelions
roar no more,
taken to see the wizard
on yellow brick roads
paved with the
carcasses of braver kin.

I walk down the misty streets
Trying to find me something,
Sometimes I feel like a hit and miss
I go back home
I seat near the lit fireplace
It’s near midnight
It’s getting late
My bones are crumbling
The only sound I hear is the fire crackling.

It’s near 2 o’clock
I want to eat
However, my legs are weak and I cannot get up
Turn on the television
News roundup
The type of stuff I never pick up
“The crime was a setup”
Oh god, where has humanity ended up?

It’s near 3 o’clock
My patience is out of stock
Now that I started this…
I'm locked down
Trying to resist
Not everything can be resolved with fists
I could try to make myself a list
Nevertheless, there is a twist
I cannot coexist
With me.

It’s 4 o’clock
Should I get a drink?
There is some near the sink
I drag my sleepless body to the kitchen
Oh god this place stinks
Stinks of cheapness, shoddy
I could drink it all in a blink
I embody the alcoholic.

It’s 5 o’clock
I am neurotic,
Psychotic,
Idiotic...
I always hated this behaviour
Quite so hypnotic
I have been told I was a failure
Now I taste the flavour
Of misbehaviour
Of which I savour
I am no saviour.

It’s morning
I have work
I have this quirk
And I don’t know why now I smirk
I guess I avoid it
But the thought still lurks
Now I sit here destroyed
Maybe now,
Unemployed.

השואה גוססת...the Sho'ah is dying

©  STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
30 Sivan 5778 / 13 June 2018
revised:
1 Tammuz 5758 / 14 June 2018
2 Tammuz 5778 / 15 June 2018
3 Tammuz 5778 / 16 June 2018

I.

and cantillated poetry -- memory being
automatic editing -- may not be enough.

what was not a reality
may never be a reality,
may never be a memory. soon,
survivors will be silent, and
the concierge of film and tape
and books will whisper
in library corridors.

the villanellesque windows of
constantly chanting 'disaster' and
'master' are shattering,
an amphigouri of shadows and
mirrors...

II.

I stand on the balconies of quantum
strings: Auschwitz made my
forebears more Yehu'dit than Moshe.

No one
bears witness for the
witness.
-- Paul Celan, 1971. Speech-grille
& selected poems [trans. Joachim
Neugrosche] (E.P. Dutton), 1-255 (241)

the horizon is grey, in
Poland 2018, the ash still creating
a haze, specks on the leaves,
the shoulders, the watch face on
my wrist having no hands...

III.

how is the memory of a paternal
relative kept 'alive'? she remains like
a flickering match growing fainter
in what will be a night of
receding possibilities,
shadows be-ing alongside
my own. I have one colour 1941
photograph of her.  like salt held
on the tongue
she is carried in my mind.

she would not, a decade later in
Rosemead, speak of the
Kingdom of Night.

one of the fading blue
numbers stamped (not tattoed)
on her left forearm in 1942 was
a four.

she would stare intently into
my eyes, turn her arm over,
the four becoming a chair...
it was Garcia Lorca in 1928 who said
'verde que te quiera verde'...

she loved green, even the green stained
gargoyles she was painting in Paris...
on a sidewalk caught up in a christianist
SS roundup 16 July 1942, the Rafle du
Velodrome d'Hiver, her painting
fingers crushed. soon she was on a
rattling box car in August 1942, sent
to the East...

she was gone in 2006...but her dreams
are still in me...

IV.

teaches Reb Ya'akov Glatshteyn...

Like a tiny candle over each grave,
a cry will burn,
each one for itself.
'I am I' --
thousands of slaughtered I's
will cry in the night:
'I am dead, unrecognized'.
-- Ya'akov Glatshteyn / Yankev Glatshteyn
/ Jacob Glatstein, 1987. 'I have never
been here before', p. 111 in: Ya'akov
Glatshteyn, 1987. Selected poems
of Yankev Glatshteyn [ed./trans. R.J. Fein]
(Jewish Publication Society), 1-215
[Yiddish & English]

V.

let us compell trolls among us
to remember that, at its peak,
their grandparents' vaticanist
Auschwitz was burning 12,000
of us every 24 hours...

when it was happening
sound still reaches us in 2018.

and yet.

when it was happening,
few were listening, but now it is
bashert / inevitable my soul
hears nothing else.

the 'orderly' minds of the
trolls among us are well-tended
cemeteries without
gravestones.

the fire escapes are covered
with psilocybin spores.

long after midnight, when the
darkened carnival is awake,
there are survivors at the
seder table awaiting the
Missing One return with Her
Sefer haZohar, pick up the
empty cup.

the underside of every leaf
is fear, shadows gathering
at the foot of our beds,
transforming gristle into haze,
made real by Hebrew letters
and syllables.

TO BE CONTINUED

'When I am in the darkness,
why do you intrude?'
-- Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan', 1978

*****



STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT

IN PROGRESS: Shabtai Zisel benAvraham v'Rachel Riva:
davening in the musematic dark

I remember the first time I killed a girl. She loved me. I loved her.

I would hand her Xanax and cigarettes. One time she handed me her heart on a silver platter and seductively smirked whilst saying, "Dig in."

She then, unfortunately, was burdened with my child. We decided to purge my family tree. We did so faster than a gallon of Roundup kills a single dandelion. I had no desire to let my family tree grow, it is a horrid thing.

Soon after she was filled with grief. So then I killed her. I used my divine nonexistent influence to perform a task that she was oh so familiar with. I teleported from Albany to Long Island in a matter of seconds and hand fed her all her medications, then her mother heart medications along with all my own stock pile of pills I used for recreation. Her heart rate began to slow. She died. I laughed.

I now have two tear drops tattooed on my face.

Let the black dogs run wild,
sharpen the knives for
some real back stabbing,
roundup the usual suspects,
the mystery is about to begin.

The cardigan teen with
his nose buried in his iPhone-
he’s a suspect- murderous thoughts
sprouting his blood-brain barrier.

The neglected son tethered
to a high ranking, paying
position in the family business
with nothing burdens-
he’s a suspect too.

Eight others are robbing
Peter to pay Paul
to pay Mary to pay Martha
to pay the extorting genomes,
on the verge of being exposed,
all dangling near disinheritance.

The old codger with the money
whose always leaving clean knives out,
knowing they will forever thirst
for meat and blood, the ******
that will do the work for him,
the job his lawyers failed to do

until the whole ***** gang
finds him splayed on the calico rug,
a Chuka Bocho clever in his stomach,
a Wusthof stuck in a vertebrae-
well, he was a prime suspect,
but now, obviously he is not.

Patricide is not always a family crime.
Point the finger at the mother,
daughter, sister, son, brother
but also the heart, soul, brain
of all others inflicted with hate
that makes everyone suspects too.

(From My 'Searching For Crazy Horse' Collection)
                   'Read In Elko Years Ago'

With ten more miles of wire
  my horse wants to turn back

There’s dark clouds over the mountain
  just a small tent in my sack

The fence line sits all busted
  from two bulls that went astray

They both missed being neutered
  last year on roundup day

My hands are cold and blistered
  that salve jar all but gone

Two wolves begin to howling
  that lonesome prairie song

The storm clouds now have thickened
  light pulls its covers back

Just one more night on the western *****
  —with eight miles left to track

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)
              'Wrtten in 2006'

A week away from the TV set
Is the normal world still there?
Or has the madman burned it down
On his latest crazy tear.

We miss the roundup on the news
It’s different every night.
The elephant’s still cry witch hunt
While the donkeys do what’s right.

He’s angered every friend we have.
He doesn’t know a thing.
He never gives a single thought
To what his antics bring.

He kow-tows to our enemies,
He’d like to be like them
And rule with no one saying ‘stop’
To his next crazy whim.

He’s going to light a world wide fire
The middle class in flames
The wealthy standing by to watch
Like they were seeing games.

Hated by the civil world
He couldn’t give a toss
He wants a place in history
No matter what the cost.

He is already number one
In White House Loser’s polls.
He hopes to guarantee his place
With armies of red trolls.

If we don’t  show him the door
He’ll do what he does best
He’ll lead this country into war
And we’ll die with the rest.
                         ljm

her mind was a rose bed
and he was a new bottle of roundup

A barking dog
universal sound

Mankind's companion
known all over the World.

When it comes to bread, the
general public are seduced
by the misconception that
"FRESH" means wholesome.

Not true.

A bakery could just as easily
state " NOT STALE " and achieve
the same result as Fresh which is
an optical subliminal.

Fresh is a word used to garnish
what could be tainted with a
herbicide pesticide or fungicide.

Fresh salads from a garden that
is sprayed regularly with Roundup ™.

Are you getting my drift?



fresh
adjective
1 salads made with fresh, wholesome ingredients: newly harvested, garden-fresh, not stale, crisp, firm, unwilted, unfaded; raw, natural, unprocessed, unpreserved, undried, uncured, unsmoked, without additives, without preservatives. ANTONYMS stale; processed.

With ten more miles of fence line
  my horse wants to turn back

There’s storm clouds over the mountain
  just a small tent in my sack

The fence line sits all busted
  from two bulls that went astray

They both missed being neutered
  last year on roundup day

My hands are cold and blistered
  that salve jar all but gone

Two wolves begin to howling
  that lonesome prairie song

The storm clouds now have thickened
  light pulls its covers back

Just one more night on the western *****
  —with eight miles left to track

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)