The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

My love is destructive, vile ,and bitter to the taste
It will drag you in and under.
It's sporadic and vicious, a damaging fate
Run, before I need you most.
My love is jealous, selfish, an unforgiving gate
It will resent all you do wrong.
It's needy and bloodthirsty, forcing your affection
To where Infatuation is all you can hope for
My love is a scary, passionate, unjustifiable thing that will break under  its own pressure
It was not nurtured, comforted, or taught to stand straight
It is an evil, inhumane, alien trait
Run, please, please, get away.

My breath heightened
It's just the same old grind I said
but the escalation of breath was undeniable
and suddenly my palms became frightened
No, no, no its just another night, nothing to dread
but your actions are just unjustifiable
beads of sweat begin to build,
and I can't deny the stress and tension settling atop my shoulders,
but, it's just another night, nothing to dread
certainly, you can't be dead,
and now the darted looks are starting to take place,
denying emotion is only for the skilled,
and tears are reddening my eyes,
but the skies aren't even beginning to cry,
and the sweat that built is ready to be spilt,
but no, no, no, those are the tears,
they've been building for years and now they're left to spill
but, its just another night,
there really is no need for fright despite my plight to take flight and set it all right,
for you, the tried and true, who opens the skies to be blue, for me
who can bring herself to see that you need to be free in light of all your plees...
but it's just another night,
and the bottle hits the ground,
and it's just another night,
unlike the rest that were in sight,
it's just another night,
of fright and desperation in the soul searching escalation,
it's just another night because nothing has ever been alright, any other night,
you just kept it out of sight like it was a special night,
but tonight...is just another night.

Put all the
elderly eye sores
in monochromatic,
ammonia scented
cages.

We’re sick of their
unsightly nature,
And their unjustifiable
hormonal
rages.

Who care’s what
lives they led?
What stories they could
tell.

Let them all go insane,
(if they haven’t already)
to the sound of a
teenage
certified nurse’s assistant
texting her boyfriend
like hell.

Let them rot in defecation,
and fears.
Let them pray to a god
who no longer cares.

Let us go to work.
Chase ***,
Apply lip gloss,
bat our lashes,
and drink
our beer.

Occasionally going to an elderly’s
funeral
to stare.

the story of the year was nothing but an escapist fantasy.
she took it, she read it, and she understood it as such,
yet she did not point it out so as to make it less real.
across an expanse of water and an equally daunting stretch of time,
she assumed my unjustified and unjustifiable love would dwindle,
would crumble, would fade, and would die.

and in fact, her plan is working.
every second, like a cancer,
the love that courses through my brain is being transformed.
through sheer pain and disillusionment,
whether she likes it, whether she knows it,
whether she wants it or not,
the waves of infinite love,
the ones that used to lap at her feet when she,
alone and too beautiful,
would sunbathe on the shore of my ocean,
they are turning toxic.

something has gone wrong.
like a tormented planet, choked of all good, deprived of love,
my wrath tempts my restraint.
will the hot and angry sun scorch the lush rainforests of affection and goodwill?
will the bitter waters flood the plains of balance and reason?
will my mind,
whether in retribution or in self-defence,
turn to thoughts of cosmic revenge?

but then,
with a flash,
the drugs kick in.
or are they wearing off?
and i realize that it's all for what?
and i remember what i want.
and i smile.
it's a simple wish, really,
but it's proven elusive, at best,
at worst, beautifully, passionately,
revoltingly unattainable.
i hope it stops.

but will it ever begin?

BANG
Another heart shattered by broken promises
BANG
One more bone fractured by a life unraveling in alcohol
BANG
A bullet wound from piercing insults and accusations goes untended
BANG
Another nation torn apart by differences and misunderstandings
BANG
The chair slips out from beneath his feet and another broken heart is forgotten
BANG
One more shot of ****** is traveling through her veins like spider webs that suffocate her sorrows
BANG
Another child soldier dragged into battle, bloodied and scarred on the outside as well as within
BANG
Gun violence takes another victim, an irrelevant child sent to the grave
BANG
The familiar sound of all this unjustifiable **** hitting the wall.
The sound of prison gates closing too late.
The sound of a life ended too early.
The sound of another moment lost.
BANG
The only noise capable of encompassing the sight and sound and feeling of "gone"

Who keeps reloading the gun?

You and I are revolutionaries
Right up to the ruckus we cause daily
Switchblade tongues
And coal black lungs
And bittersweet intentions.


We are the voice of a generation
We the Degenerates
We the Proletariats
We the Lost and Found among the wreckage of the millennial metropolis.


Living in our forever 21 society
Governed by no laws and lack of sobriety
We the reckless
We the ruthless
We the key board warriors

Pixels and manic pixie dream girl *******
**** boys, man buns, Jordan's not brogues
We the soulless love makers
We the relentless heartbreakers
We the snapchat sexters, molesters
We the grotesque.

You and I know no boundaries
Lines crossed and used as skipping ropes
As ***** jokes, cut throat and savage
We the endless trouble makers

We who know the end is nigh  
Hiccuping our ways through orchestrated lies
Screaming and bellowing our silent pleas to this world of terror alight
Setting fire to ourselves daily
We the terrified
We the unjustifiable
We the hopeful sad


We the gods of everything and nothing
We the repercussion of double standards
140 characters in every psalm
We the unforgiving
We the unholy
We the non believers
We the incomprehensible in the face of sin


You and I are not recognised by x or Y
We identify in binary with the wind and the stars
Honest realisation that our little lives are insignificant to the monologue of the universe
Lighthearted libertines light years ahead and behind

We the star struck
We the scientists and academics
We the prophets
The artisans
The beauty queens
The mystics and cynics

And I am the voice of a generation you rendered speechless

Why do you try so hard to justify the unjustifiable;
Affirming lies to yourself?
Who's really being liberated now?
Your intentions laid out in broad daylight, it's no use.
Like planting flowers in an open wound, it's not helping.
Speak your mind, but know truth favors not who erred.
Save yourself the silent humiliation.
Move along, just don't look back.

I cursed His name in vain
As my cousins had in the past
Exalting a new formation
Based upon the new caste
Our dividends made us dry
Allowing floodgates to open
The ephemeral pleasure of power
Giving us an unjustifiable position
As heads were laid in order
Our serpents knew their place
Beneath the Head Dominion
Shooting out more sons
In walls of Green Umber
A regal hypocrisy
Not to be admired
Nor taken for granted
Just for blue profit
In just, for the reason
The Lord told us to do it, upon thee
Leading us to oblivious matrimony
Sights and sounds drowned all out
As we made our double fantasy escape
Forever feeling the post-effects
Of our timely duality
In perpetuum
Donec oblivio

Holy Mother hear me now!
The High Priestess sits jaded on sapphire throne wreath'd in laurel purities,
Blessing the sinners one by one as they line up grovelling down the block,
Shivering for acceptance, the emaciated children of a future abandoned and thrown to the wolves,
In reverence, she watches the nations burn!
The prisons burn! The churches burn!
The balance bleeds the light of dawn into the sidewalk cracks and tinted apothecary windows,
While the other end of the spectrum weeps blackest night into the open casket funerals of the unjustifiable crimes committed in the name of PEACE
The Almighty PEACE
PEACE in the Highest
PEACE at all costs
The High Priestess rains down PEACE from her bomb shelter throne
You may not understand it now
But this is for your own good

To honour the honorary,
And counter the contrary,
To sing the merry song,
And make right of every wrong,
To praise the only winner,
And condemn the sinner,
To chase a distant dream,
And criticise the nearly perfect team,
To keep the promises I made,
And take back all the abuses I said,
To replenish the memories lost,
And pay it’s unjustifiable cost,

I evolved into this unsettling being,
Some wild animal without it’s circus ring,
I’m no longer the ideal man,
A unique devil which you never can,
This is the irony,
Which you are reluctant to see.

the worst curse i ever received upon breaking up with a girl: you'll always be a child if you leave me and go back home. my reply? it's the pain that makes me childish sometimes, i'm a son of immigrants, i was ready to work the roofing business to earn money, but i guess Rasputin didn't see as much either in the people of St. Petersburg... i can say: the Scottish Widows' HQ roof near St. Paul's cathedral is partially mine... well thanks for only allowing me to complete one roof.*

o sweet medicine! o sweet medicine for my burning
head after such prolonged watch,
insomniac, i can't believe his disciples who
were working men, men of the fisheries,
and of other trades, who fell asleep so easily
at his prayer in the garden of gethsemane,
i alone would have stayed awake,
not because i'd want to, or because i would
chose to have: but because the night is my
malady, to stay awake, and during the day
esp. during summer, it's no good time to
find a Nordic shade - that's about half a litre
of absinthe and a walk for five beers
and then the synthetic sleep inducers will
work, little disks of such an infinite pleasure
but of finite experience when compared to
those venturing with shamans from both the
Amazon and the Swiss chemistry laboratory -
she wouldn't be as smart about being able to
take pain, to later complain about a weak
spine if man managed to ditch the inglorious
book of genesis and chose instead the rationality
of the Roman way of birth... oh men so content
with life fall to sleep so easily in order to
jump back into life, and morning, this past morning
i can watch a man walk cool spring streets readied
for whatever emptying task, for indeed the emptying
task is filled with the already emptying thing:
the thing that cradles many things, and by process
of not only economic, but of aesthetic conditions changes
many hands with Shiva playing poker with you,
once the stone carved precious rather than crude held
value, prior that, the flint... but aren't these the times
of the limits of money changing its form?
perhaps all these profession that bring neither bread
from dough, or egg from hen, perhaps the readied
meal, the readied salad, milk sold as skimmed
semi-skimmed and full, when could have been sold
only full so what water might be added at home?
O man's care over fellow man's health, first ruining
his behaviourism, then enticing him further to
some idea of amphibian genes in his ability to swim?
to have created diabetes by cursing natural fat,
to have eradicated fat from natural products needing
to contain it, filling it with excess sugars...
what good would that do if not create a diabetic outbreak?
mm, the honest workers fell asleep while the dishonest
mystic prayed for compensations to his aims?
of my life, i'd give the many hours he gave on the cross
in order to know a certain guilt and a justifiable
punishment - but i know only uncertain guilt
and unjustifiable punishment by man, a fellow of youth,
if you are to plagiarise a plagiarism of monotheism
remember that the first plagiarism took root in
polytheism, does Islam know this? monotheism
made a mistake, polytheism exploited it and never told
the monotheists the mistake from the travels of
Alexander to India... O poor Malachi...
just a brief book, perhaps two poems by 21st standards
of prodigious output, and so much zeal invoked...
for fair you in Hades? you'd fare better with me on
the Mount of Megiddo... look here what a poor
shepherd's frustration at being excess skin on forehead
cheeks and neck made him do to his phallus -
at least the pagans of the north worshipped what was
given to them, and didn't bother revision,
look at their civilised shock and the barbaric being
revised as if a dove of Noah metaphor of promise
to spread the good word of revision the same revisions
given unto the Dobberman dogs with slit ears and
cut tails... or, let's just say Bleach Jackson and painkillers...
well, if one wants to suffer to continue spreading
the good word of revising creation, of man's lost
invigorating spirit, making man more docile,
well virile in head and toe: O ROMANS, LEND ME
YOUR EARS, YOUR FORESKINS AND YOUR TESTICLES!
see... spread the message far enough and a few of
man will lose more than just the ease of only one
*** with excess skin... hey! castrato hymn! sing!
well, the crown of Myrrh did spread to our modern
companion of excess diagnoses, we diagnosed
the imperishable, the soul of persistence in this world
not by destroying the existence of god,
that's no man's vitality, unless in earnest prayer
for personal concerns, rather than kneeling in oink church:
prayers for the slaughter rather than martyrdom...
it can't be that easy even if you played yo-yo
with alms and tax... what modern man destroyed
was soul: he instigated so many theories against man
rather than against god (god is readily gone away with),
by undermining the core essence, the vitality of man,
indeed thought exists for philosophers, and they never
seem to be bored of entertaining it, like a monk
entertaining god... but what modern psychology undermined
was what it said to be a travesty: why can't man
perpetually think! why can't we can't we create
ascriptive pathologies we best describe by zoology
in treatment?! you undermine the force of manual labour
you undermine the displeasure man has with thought
rather than god, i.e. thought implying fellow man:
the car mechanic having to think when his boss lays
him off, although enjoying his manual work, so
freely excited like a sunrise of a perfectly happy body
fully exercised in existential arithmetic counting
birthdays and the number of Christmases... huh?
a man mechanised is content with his body,
to him god is simple as god is simple to Kant...
it's thought that's not entertaining on your little
modern stage... back when God sought redemption
from the cross than thinking about giving redemption
to people, he merely allowed perversity and ****...
well, people cursed god, because thought back then
was manipulated by the dis-attractiveness of
the farmer's life... the still breathing care for adventure...
all my finer points have already been made,
the last remaining points are just written
to show you how far a rigidity of words can become
of the people who hardly read:
e.g. hallowed be thy name...
       holy be your name?
       let's say the modern interpretation is:
       hollow is your name... since we rather
       censor the word **** than make optical
       studies of the tetragrammaton,
       not inserting Adam & Eve into the equation
       we're working on something,
       it's not purposive censorship, it's
       just unnecessarily necessary to see things:
       the tetragrammaton is a tool, like a hammer,
       or a nail... it's not necessarily
       the person using either.

I pour a basket of chances to cover all your unjustifiable actions

As poets we paint pictures of death and war,
We capture the essence of poverty and hunger,
We sing of the fiery hell that singes souls,

But...

We also express love and romance,
We instil the message of family unity,
We draw upon scenic routes and beautiful sights

But...

We never captured the character and nature
Of the black rose creating justice
Through unjustifiable means.
We never talked about Batman.

Gaslighting: creating a false
Narrative in order to make
People question reality--
To change what's true into what's fake.

Trump, for example, has perfected
The art of gaslighting to a T
When he wants us to believe
That what's really there is NOT what we see.

Take January 6,
The day of the Capitol insurrection,
When thugs violently rejected
The results of the 2020 election.

Trump and his supporters are saying,
Oh, it really wasn't that bad.
It was merely some patriots
Expressing themselves because they were mad.

Or look at all the lies being spread
That our elections are not reliable.
Faulty machines…election fraud…
All of that is unjustifiable.

Gaslighters deny wrongdoing
And love the tactic of shifting the blame.
Immigrants are responsible for
Spreading COVID, gaslighters claim.

Lying, distracting: those are their tactics.
Erasing the past is their major goal.
They'll wear us down with their lies and do
Whatever they can to stay in control.

-by Bob B (10-8-21)

How should I feel?
What rhyme scheme is it this time?
Is it generic and overused?
Or unexpected and real?

Should it be anger?
Or sadness and regret?
Wait, aren't those the same?
I forget

Should I be happy?
Or too scared to be sappy?

Someone tell me the emotion I should feel today

The thing that made me feel anything left
The day she sent that stupid message
The useless hours spent at the mall
I despise it all

Was it the comparisons to other people?
Or the unjustifiable denial I had?
The solution was inconceivable
At least when I was mad

But now, there is nothing at all
Just all laid out on the wall
Taunting me with every sleepless night
So someone force me to laugh
To cry or show my wrath
So I can feel human and then I just might

Learn my rhyme scheme again

Often in your life of days
You’ll hear them
With that speech they say—
*You are not the mistakes you’ve made; Troubles you created;
Your hope that has faded.
You’re beautiful; of that, do know.”
But here I stand, still transfixed
On the self-inflicted hurt
I couldn’t care to mend—
But why?
Needless pain, so superfluous and gratuitous,
Yet, still ceaseless, interminable—
Hopeless to change

Why are we so set on punishing ourselves
When really that defeatist inclination
Brought us pain from origination?
But who am I to say?
What have I done,
In my self-inflicted grief

Know, that if you committed the unjustifiable sin
Lost what your strong will or your whole life has brought you
Kept that one quality, so awful and deplorable
You will still be loved.

Have peace of mind,
Your cherished life has only begun

"You're insane!" she screamed, the darkness emphasizing the exclamation point on a two lane country road with the headlights turned off. At 60 miles an hour, the moon mocked her hysteria illuminating only white lines on the asphalt resembling heart beats on a hospital monitor. If the blips stopped, so did our lives.

I laughed believing no one can die at 21. The difference between terror and confidence is a little circle. There is unjustifiable bravery if you hold the wheel in your hands. Begging was followed by crying (which was usually my role on earlier dates) where somehow I found joy in the cruelty. I had driven the road a hundred times before and knew the "Humpty Dumpty" **** and when to hit the gas to make her stomach leave her mouth. Each curve had its own reward and unforgiving consequence. I was sure I smelled ***, but that was okay. It was her car.

Years have past and those memoires had been filed away until I spoke to her the other day.
"When are you going to take me for a ride?"
I should have been torn for a meaning. I'm sure she meant both.
"Lights on or lights off?" I quipped.
"Surprise me."

Lights off.

She screamed twice.

Try and succeed to relieve all that is needed from need and all you shall receive from life is but a dream, yet painful sorrows and melancholic mellows show true despair in the form of shadows.
To what do I deserve this existence fated, shall I remind you of how we were created and bated into believing there is a reason for life's unjustifiable treasons or do you merely conceive this dimension of its meaningless meanness. For it is despair that intertwines convoluted parallel exultancy. That and the indulgent parade of unmistakably acceptable pleasantries that life's joy brings to me.

the flag proudly walks in the wind
with the unjustifiable justice
that it seems to portray
freedom no longer lives
within this symbol for me.

stars and stripes
became criminal power
and death for all
as the flag walks proudly in the wind;
but it does not walk for me.

i always seems to find too little falling stars'
worth of poetry in the night -
the prolonged tedium of day -
given to the challenge of the night -
sometimes leaves one less observant
of the actual night, and sloppy in observations
during the day...
   i took to the second liking of e. e. cummings
today - mind you:
only the selective poems from years x
through to years z -
   but then he's much more than ted hughes,
even with his crow...
              never quiet the τετραματια fiddling
of the glass marbles -
                of both huginn & muninn -
        like the graeae: the three blind witch sisters
sharing a single eye -
so unto odin - the eyes of huginn & muninn -
in the cauldron of odin's empty socket...
  the τετραματια feeds the paganistic observation
of the gods, of the one they call the
demiurge in human tongue -
            and since there's talk of twins -
as akin to h & h -
                                or rugby goal posts -
           the τετραγραμματoν is best exhumed,
best seen, with half of one sense missing -
for one eye for the graeae to share -
   four eyes of huginn & muninn share gouged
eye of odin...
     that eye surfaced in greece, while from
farthest north came the perplexity of
the merged four.
               yet i still can't believe people could
establish e. e. cummings are writing
orthographical poetry - by sImplY writing
like: and not like, what otherwise is
orthography (i.e. the need for diacritical
marks) -
                   **** in slavic, i.e.
the proper orthographic is: gówno -
             it's not guwno -
that's orthography - but nonetheless i like
the quirks of these poems, hidden, sometimes
lost, most of the time uncherished.
nonetheless, less observant during day
makes for a cul de sac of what is to be written -
unlike, say, spending the night
backwards & forwards between future-present,
future-past, past-and-present,
    future-and-the-immediate-past...
to bewilder myself, as any theory might
allow -
       to travel at the speed of light -
well, for one thing light is not a propeller -
at this stage of our understanding it's a storage
component of energy - hence speed of light
square -
               squared meaning it's vast in expansion,
but not in being contained and allowed
to trickle out of its storage unit of speed of
light cubed to perfect a source of stable energy,
and, from what i gather -
it's not a propeller, because the equation doesn't
treat the speed of light in linear terms -
        and light is not a propeller, since the object
is dragged by a solar-sheet of panels -
it isn't being pushed!
     can the speed of light become a propeller
if someone managed to mingle the speed
of gravity into an equation, that begins with mass?
back to the future are always the films to
watch over and over again -
for any insomniac - who decided to not do
a 32 hour stretch of being awake...
        as is this other bewildering fact:
if time is linear, it can only be linear
   in a converging parallel linearity -
       perhaps best represented by 0 & 1
points of origins - sine & cosine (can't
remember if respectively) -
    but to enforce a time travel concept where
the two expressions of time do not
intersect at certain degrees - converge
and then diverge - well, would we be given
the concept of choice, with only one choice
to be had? in fiction time travel is
           represented by some sort of rigidity
of a never converging parallel linearity (=),
and given this model, a single convergence
of this model is represented by (≠) -
      which means the beginning of the end -
as they say: waves... waves...
              this travels in waves, this doesn't...
then of course there's already talk
of matter, and antimatter -
    as there was in the early church by someone
with the same prefix -
        but if the two personas didn't
exist simultaneously in the same pocket
of time & space -
   then they could only exist in the same pocket
of time, but not space -
and if they could have existed in the same
pocket of space,
                       they'd be family;
history is a straight line, history is a singular
timeline, but even then there's the
dimension of: with or without hindsight -
the what if line of history...
                and they never run in a = parallel
fashion, nor do they meet in a ≠ fashion either:
for that sort interaction is a dead end
upon their first and only convergence...
       much like vita coeo mort...
  and only then - only then does this concept
of time work...
        space travel is impossible,
for the other already stated reason in trigonometric
terms of the continually interchanging
   parallels between the sine dynamic and
the cosine dynamic...
but enough science fiction,
  they gave this other movie only 3 / 5 stars,
billy lynn's long halftime walk -
now we all know the classic military movie,
the gruesome reality of warfare,
     the blood, guts, swerves of shaken nerves,
the barbarism, the madness,
   the unjustifiable motives...
  not this movie...
      this move was worse in reality,
to any platoon, full metal jacket, saving private
ryan, apocalypse now i've even seen...
it's precursor? american beauty and
colonel frank fitts...
                  these movies are stepping stones
to a movie they should actually make:
24 hours in a slaughterhouse -
i'd love to see humanity humanised a little
bit, by first watching about a dozen cows
get slaughtered: after all...
cows don't cry mama, they're poker faced
when addressing pleasure, and more so
when addressing pain, poker-faced tsars...
      but this movie, mmm hmm mmm...
absolute horror...
notably when they get shoved and punched
off the stage,
   and this guy being persuaded to by his
sister to ask a doctor for a notable discharge,
and almost doing it,
    prior hooking up with a cheerleader -
the ******* she says about god, jesus,
"connecting" - and then at the last minute
he says: let's run away together!
  and she replies: but you're a war hero!
you can't quiet the army.
   to be honest, no military movie can provide
the absolute horror of a soldier
returning from war for a brief spell between
tours... but at least when they fight
adrenaline does the talking, returning to
a police state where any violence is condemned,
after these guys just shot a *******
bazooka into a building?
   strange realising that p.t.s.d. is not actually
concerned about what you saw in battle:
but that you didn't realise you had it in you
to do what you did... to then expect to
go into a mental institute that society has become...
honest to god,
they can give this movie 3 stars out of 5 -
by far the best military movie i've seen -
        like i said - no point glorifying war
and engaging in solely the graphics -
                after all, the berserkers were real -
and making **** jokes in the army like
they make shower jokes in prison?
                 plus, the farce of the entertainment
industry is masterfuly attacked -
then these 7 guys are given
"army instructions" on how to become props on
stage, and they're like: what did
this choreographer just say?
  i can't explain it, you just have to see it -
the real horror remains back home -
      the real home remains in the horror;
i guess the only soldiers that will ever fit
into a snug place in society are the ones
   used for state functions, like funerals of
politicians, or the ones that have their pictures
taken with tourists...
       paper soldiers...
      met combat soldiers once...
drunk like skunks and outcast...
          one thought i looked at him funny when
he recanted a story of being *****
by a massive arab...
                 but yeah... the queen's guard:
take the tallest, the most handsome,
   and you have yourself an army of pedants.

Never Acclimate!

~

For Mr. Keith Wilson, an Answer...

from the British Isles to the Shelter Island,
a former colony, a scion of a special relation
a question arrives, wind wafted, upon wings of bytes
it is not an inquiry of heated
weather

rather,
an inquisition question of heated
whether

will we grow acclimated to the heat
of impossibly unjustifiable man murdering himself?

by acclamation!
we announce
not ever

you stand at the doorway of my heart
far enough for me to long for you
close enough to make my crying unjustifiable
and you knew what you were doing
everything was just so
you were not mine
but I was yours

I watched you sleeping, you looked so beautiful.
The moon lit through the room providing some light to your beauty that's unjustifiable.
You had shoulder length hair.
You were lying down so fine, so fair.
Your eyes are shut showing your long eyelashes.
I am completely defeated, melted, reduced to slushes.
Your lips are not tightly shut rather showing your front teeth.
I listen in silence to your faint heart
beat.
You caught me staring and you break a smile.
You're here with me makes my time worthwhile.
You form a hug and wrap your arms around my neck.
You pull my face to yours and give me a sweet peck.

Eight shots hit Stephon Clark.
Once again the news hits hard.
Eight shots out of twenty or so
Brought him down in his grandma's backyard.

Helicopters circled above.
Police officers on the ground,
Suspecting Clark of a crime yelled out,
"Gun! Gun!" before he was downed.

Clark was holding NOT a gun
But a mobile phone. Officers said
The suspect charged at them before
They hastily shot the unarmed man dead.

But something is fishy: Six shots hit
The man in the back. By and large,
People do NOT normally
Rush backwards when they charge.

In retrospect, as we piece together
The flash of events that transpired,
We learned that after Clark had fallen,
Even more shots were fired.

Stephon Clark is another name
To add to an ever-growing list
Of unarmed black men killed by police
Whose actions cannot be dismissed.

Appropriate use of force is key;
But one thing is undeniable:
We simply can't allow ourselves
To justify the unjustifiable.

-by Bob B (3-31-18)