punto / contrappunto (patty m /nat)
(on the why of messaging, on the Underground HP)

none can fly,                          all can fly
except in words,                   in deeds, indeed,
yet others turn                      those who believe turn
lead into gold,                       golden faerie dreams real,
penciled in the salvation     hints inked upon the skin
of the host, the blessing       are the blessings of the host,
of solving great puzzles.      deeds of salvation solutions.

Yet unbeknownst for many.  known to all
its jiggling all the quarks,      the clashing of the neutrons
spinning electrons that          within all of our protein protons
affect many,                             effected upon each,
invisible all is hidden.            where all was hidden, now visible

the message that isn't             let our acts speak ever louder
transmitted,                             realized,
holds no power, yet it             a time for action
remains a black screen            for each message, now an action    
in the catacombs                      in the clarity of daylight
waiting, waiting there,            no longer waiting,
millions of little pieces            each action a deed
when finally viewed                the summation total
                 
                                 grows gargantuan
                               funneling radiation
                                     from the sun.

Climbing roofs,                       to the streets leaping
sliding down drainpipes       knocking to open all doors
to the street,                             filling the stadiums & squares
I'll wait with you,                   no laggards, all in attendence
            
                                         they will come,
                                         poet after poet,
                                    spreading the word,
                              words to deeds, each of us
                           a messenger and a conductor,
                            orchestrating the symphony
                                        of revelation.
              Patty m.                                                       Nat

numbered , for perpetuity
slid into an array
that parses my habits
fetishes
bank account name

my googly habits
every mouse click
archived
recalled remembered

so I am again the whole
of data bits bytes
the last site
I accidentally

clicked on where
naked gnomes
did unsightly things on the lawn
after dark

I must live up to it all
can't hide now
just tell me
it is not

gonna be shared to
my ole mama
in Michigan
who goes

by the name
of old hot mama!
like she did back in the day

when CB's ruled

style; perhaps my frenzy unedited
kind of poetry contrasts with
those whose whims are more whimsical
a four line acbd or my liberal taking of conjunctives
and splices my way
contrasts ;
tell a story is my parody
give a scene make it half real at least give character
with ambiguity, let the reader finish it:
prose a theory argue it halfheartedly
when the theme is never that ,
between lines is much of
the daily things, so in my poetry.

Amen to that, be gone you fool,
back to your ivory, gold plated,
tacky palace condo in the sky,
with your iron curtain mail order
bride, dumb and dumber sons
and the allegedly quite embarrassed
by their father, attractive daughters.

The wrongly booted former
head of the FBI, Sir James
may hold the iron truncheon needed
to batter down the House Of Trump.
Sir James the hero deserving of our
respect and lasting admiration,
the man that may free our nation,
from the fool that would be King,
the imposter sitting on the throne
of the Kingdom of America,
a clown not fit to rule, more fittingly
cast as the lowly Court Jester.

The wheels of reason and justice
will be slow to turn and no doubt
Trump will do a good deal more
tap dancing on his own male member,
to shock and amuse us and of course
continue to scare the living hell out
of the entire world.

While giving the press field days of
never ending "Special Breaking News
Reports" to frighten and blow our minds.

Yes indeed, the Circus has truly come
to town, and the petulant corpulent clown
with the orange fright wig and baggy suits,
he's the star attraction in the center ring.
He lacks a funny repertoire of "Clown Stuff"
but he sure can lie, and his slight of hand
and patented brand and ******* walk and
talk is completely beyond historical compare.

Hurry, hurry, hurry folks, step right up
and get your ticket, the Circus is in town
and sadly in full public view.

“...Your words were found and I ate them.
They became a joy to my heart. In my mouth—
a sweet delight, but in my belly—bitter...”
                                                ­ --Jeremiah


...But that night
by dim background of next-room light
I could not see your face
just feel your hush of shadow words
on spine of shudders

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!

...And I was sure?
that it was right?
because...because....!
Their eyes were slanted!
So they could not see—
the “Good Guys”
VANISH—
WIDE-EYED—!
in its TOO-MUCH-LIGHT

Still your voice insists
in pause and fissioned hiss
that I MUST KNOW
in tender half-life
TRUTH
too pure
too deadly white

I swallow lethal glowing dose
HOW CAN YOU SPEAK
SUCH WORDS SO CLOSE!

EXPOSED!

“...in mouth sweet—in belly bitter…”

Stories? and the Grandma Song
rendered tender—lull of voice
Soul’s cabinet cleared of venial sin
Last of all—the tucking in.....

They say you first get sick....*

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!
And I am invisibly ill—with truth
approaching critical mass

Will angry rads incise their ways?
Will leaden swords of angels drive them back?

In this night—
my bedtime stories fainted at your
whispers...whispers...WHISPERS—

fusing an oblong fear
that I MUST NOT DROP!
but I cannot hold!

Fetal-folded
frail and freezing
under covers— just barely peeking

“Jesus hanging on the cross…Tell me-- was it I?”
Jesus hanging in the cross
TELL ME! IT’S NOT TRUE!

"Tell me, mother
Were you God talking?

I could not see your face
by the next room’s light..."