Husks of graffiti-covered factories
melt into the industrial wasteland
like dried-out scarab beetles clinging to the Sphinx.

The pioneers who pushed up the buildings
might have believed in a limitless potential for the city as they applied a dream tourniquet,
then injected their sales pitch
into the collective stream-mind:
polished rims, leather interior, dual exhaust,
the rumble of supercharged hormones
awkwardly fumbling with buttons, clasps
and zippers in the back seat,
while drive-in speakers crackle; the sunset
is crimson-cheeked from watching how unashamedly night spreads herself open,
showcasing the void between her thighs,
and how cold the stars can sometimes seem

from a distance.

Fate was reflected in the rearview mirrors of cars named after the city's founder,
who, 200 years prior, had been called a scoundrel and, "...the most wicked man in the world."

The vehicles helped propel mass ambitions  
towards highschool romance, employment at the factories, 2.5 children, electric ranges, flamingo lawn ornaments, Sunday drives after church, followed by an afternoon cocktail,
two for the Missus;
all of it made in America,
by Americans,
for Americans.

Then it stopped.

The ghost of that energy can still be felt
haunting buildings left hollow by the foreclosures and bankruptcies
of cursed business, haunting litter-strewn streets that resemble a shanty found in any nowhereville, anywhere, third world conditions wedged into the first.
Do the addicts in the crack-shacks,
or the johns who prowl beneath a burned-out neon moon that hangs above a doorway on Clark Avenue,

feel the ghost of that energy?

Sometimes it is barely discernible
as it waits to puncture veins
and inject its poison—
a redesigned drug
made from ancient origins—
while motor-music echoes
between lithium-grey walls,
ears weighed-down  

with memories of chrome.

This was meant to be a haibun. After the
first sentence, I folded the list of rules into a sparrow.                   I go for a walk,
pass by the place where people write haiku
and roll juxtaposition into irony
as they eat their meals with the wrong
ends of their chopsticks.

he lifts gari with his left hand—
a slot machine jangles

A patron’s nearly full dish of wasabi sits amongst sushi platters that, except
for the left behind rice-explosions,
have been emptied. Around the corner,
a shaman stands near the clocktower
where the grass has died from a winter’s salting. The shadow of a ginkgo leaf flutters on his face like the wings of Buson’s moth. I want to turn off all the lights so that it can see.

The systems are broken. ****. The systems are failing.

Further up Beverly St., an autistic boy
plays with Lego on a front porch. I try to remember his true name, and hope that
he can help break down the foundations, raindance his mind around the blocks’
angles and lines to solve an equation with a variable that is the shaman understanding
why the boy pretends to not see us.

Turn off the lights so that we can see.

Write some fallen leaves
without overly detailed imagery

and place them
in catchy hooks
on a non-descript lawn

Construct a rake
from unused punctuation

and use it to gather
the leaves into a pile
under the guise
of poetic license

Record the crunching noises
while stepping into the leaf pile

and turn the sounds into tracks
that are played on repeat
until the soundscape inspires
more fallen leaves

Then share the loop of fallen leaves

In that direction
don't worry about limited métier
or imagism
or geography
or that pixelated
worms are numbers
Interpretation will take care
of the wormholes
and the melting iceberg theory
will make sense
in the imagination of people
who include climate change
in the worlds that sprout
around the fallen leaves

There will always be a place
where evergreens grow
in a soil enriched by earthworms
that churn ornamental detritus
into beds of gut feelings
and blood mixes with sap
when fallen needles pierce the skin

It's a place
where the tops of river rocks
are bleached bone-white
when water runs low
because the sky rests for no one

It's a place
where it's difficult to discern between
the dried veins of fallen leaves
and moth's wings
shredded apart
on the deciduous bark
where you called her name
to only hear your echo return
that day

It's a place
to repetitiously re-learn
our contradictions

and where breath
erodes the anxiety
that clings onto
unconscious summits

until the reasons for being
are revealed

It's a downer to express the largest-scale tragedy of my lifetime

over and over again.

I've combed through 10,014 medical malpractice reports of young people who had been strong and without complication up until receiving the one-eyed technocratic snake bite that supposedly has nothing to do with their suspicious deaths,

I've gone through 25,117 autopsy reports (not every report: I scanned bunches of 250 reports in 10 groups of 25 reports or 25 groups of 10 reports at a time for very specific details, though I've read some of the reports 5 or more times) of elderly people who had survived world wars, epidemics, pandemics, and many outbreak and spikes, only to succumb within 72 hours of receiving whichever junk SGT inoculations that have nothing to do with their untimely deaths—

that occurred in North America
over a 2 week period.

I'm not supposed to talk about it.

I'm not supposed to express anything
other than expressions of agreement
that Delta variants and the unvaccinated
are killing the vaccinated

or express nothing at all.

I'm not supposed to express that I know the ingredients, and the processes involved to source ingredients, on chemical, molecular, cellular levels; that I know the MSDS and LCSS documentation, and patents, involved.

But, I do express it, just as I did again above.

When someone claims that their significant other didn't die from the shot that they had received within 24 hrs of dying,
I'm supposed to agree with the cheap, disloyal, dumbed-down, brainwashed, bootlicking, unscientific, pseudo-intellectual, spineless coward

who is hurting from losing a loved one.

I'm sorry.

I'm not supposed to express that we've known since 1991 that the synthetic chemical digitized mRNA, that isn't really mRNA, causes the host to spin-off variants of multi-drug-resistant and multi-vaccine-resistant super microorganisms—subtype variants of virions and bacteria that are often variants of variants of variants.

I'm supposed to stay zipped-up
or—encourage!—offer support
and congratulations to people
who are suiciding and committing
****** and euthanasia

without proper informed consent.

Be positive about it. Smile. Nod.

Have it be whatever you want it to be.
Use mockingbird skills to make it real— abracadabra!—it's en vogue, all the rage
to parrot percentages of efficacy,
to virtue signal over standing with
trillion $ industries and special interest
against Earth and humanity.
Insert cash money and mirages
into the soul-******* jukebox, baby.

Rage With The Machine.
Rage For The Machine.

Yesterday's false-positive
is today's false-negative.

Thomson Reuters will fact check you
into a cancer case to vindicate delusions, stubbornness, and negative pride.

I'm not supposed to express that within the principles and disciplines of medical ethics and the Hippocratic Oath, it's ethically corrupt and illegal to use political and emotional coercion, especially while simultaneously dangling fear over the intended target, to enforce/push any drug treatment, regardless of situation.

I'm supposed to use dope and *****
and a movie
to switch tracks
from my passionate obsession.

I watched a movie that included
a medical health scam to entrap the people
in a fashion similar to when the Germans believed that they were receiving vaccines
that helped to defend against typhus.

If we ever find ourselves in opposite sides
and positions as we are currently,
please offer proper informed consent
to the people.

Snowflakes drape the violets—
a splash of how the human spirit
can be, personified.

The pale faces and minds dangle
on the precipice where the lost begin

and end themselves.

I sense their impending strokes,
aneurysms, Myocarditis,
failing immune systems, acquiredautoimmunodeficiencysyndromes,
sterilization, and aggressive cancers
loom on the horizon
of the frozen ground of their minds.
I sense the digital serpent coiled
in their ribosomes and nuclei.

"Which brand did you choose?"

Choose? A momentary inner wince
is contained in polished discipline.

"I don't need to take your shots,
I've been selected to slither through
the polygon window."

Lackluster irises reflect the violets
that bounce to hits of heavy, wet snow fall,
their petals open to the waning light

in defiance.

"You rolled over like *******,
brag over begging for more."

It soars over his head like the dark,
pregnant snowclouds roiling above
us.

Hopefully, only 7 years remain
of watching people **** themselves
and their loved ones in denatured
cowardice and mindless obedience—
enough to appease the hyper-capitalist
bloodlust for progress and ignorance.
I can survive 12—7 years will be
enough horror and tragedy
to fill lifetimes.

Don't speak of that for 14 years,
and don't speak of this for 7 years.
Don't ever mention OPERATION F,
and only mention Project D
without disclosing Appendix A & B. In
3 years, that is.

Yes, Master.

Hopefully, enough of the cowards
and mindlessly obedient **** themselves
and each other during the next 7 years

in order for the poor and the meek
to inherit the Earth—push through
the snow in defiance,

sow the spark and glow
of human spirit and nature
in the garden once again.

Water has memory
Give it to others with
Good thoughts.

God, I cannot understand you..

You exist in the very tongue

that shouts  you do not exist!