Respect people, but not necessarily their ideas. Treat others well, but never accept  fallacy by virtue of politeness, indifference, or short-term gains.

Do not reward bad behavior.
The squeaky wheel gets the grease. The crooked wheel, screeching and locked in place, needs to be be held accountable for its own failures and not be allowed to punish the wheels willing to roll.

Fight for what you believe in, but do so honorably. Have hills worth dying on, but  choose the tallest ones you can.

Seek always to better the world for yourself and others. Be willing to endure temporary disadvantages in doing so.
Do not be willing to accept permanent disadvantages in doing so, unless you are in love, and you are sure.

Seek to understand the impact of your words and actions upon the people around you and the greater world. Run simulations in your head. Weigh the perceived consequences with compassion, but do not allow yourself to be rendered frozen or silent by the threat of Future.

Everyone takes the short cut - and in doing so, renders the path congested, impassable, and ultimately unuseful.
Take the longer distance, do so quickly and with nimble but steady gate : hinderances fall away as you refuse to suffer fools and you will know the nature of ways.

Aim to be be patient on a geological scale-but never tolerant of cruelties.

Even if there are no absolutes in the taxonomy of good and evil, try to find and be what feels like good.  Don’t worry if that doesn’t bear aesthetic likeness to that which is commonly marketed as “the right thing.”
In so far as can be sustained, be a force of protection for those around you.

Know the difference between nice and kind. Nice is polite but allows for cruelty. Kind allows for rudeness but suffers no cruelty.

Take agency. Know your limits. Always seek to push them carefully, but deliberately - it will reduce the risk of being broken by them when your agency is removed later.

Expose yourself to things you disagree with. Disagree with things you are exposed to. Unconscious and non-critical engagement with the principals behind group polarization is what creates the vast  majority of humanity’s self-inflicted problems.

Tribalism is not always good.
Tribalism is not always bad.

Know the rules of the big invented games. Play these games to the extent of necessity only. Engage in critical thought like your life depends on it. It does. Know that the virtuous rule-followers of these games are food and fuckdolls for the gamemakers in the end.

Respect people, but not necessarily their ideas. Treat others well, but never accept  fallacy by virtue of politeness, indifference, or short-term gains.

Do not reward bad behavior.


Fight for what you believe in, but do so honorably. Have hills worth dying on, but  choose the tallest ones you can.

Seek always to better the world for yourself and others. Be willing to endure temporary disadvantages in doing so.
Do not be willing to accept permanent disadvantages in doing so, unless you are in love, and you are sure.

Seek to understand the impact of your words and actions upon the people around you and the greater world. Run simulations in your head. Weigh the perceived consequences with compassion, but do not allow yourself to be rendered frozen or silent by them.

Everyone takes the short cut - and in doing so, renders the path congested, impassable, and ultimately unuseful.
Take the longer distance, do so quickly and with nimble but steady gate

Aim to be be patient on a geological scale-but never tolerant of cruelties.

Even if there are no absolutes in the taxonomy of good and evil, try to find and be what feels like good.  Don’t worry if that doesn’t bear aesthetic likeness to that which is commonly marketed as “the right thing.”
In so far as can be sustained, be a force of protection for those around you.

Know the difference between nice and kind. Nice is polite but allows for cruelty. Kind allows for rudeness but suffers no cruelty.

Take agency. Know your limits. Always seek to push them carefully, but deliberately - it will reduce the risk of being broken by them when your agency is removed later.

Expose yourself to things you disagree with. Disagree with things you are exposed to. Unconscious and non critical engagement with the principals behind group polarization is what creates the vast  majority of humanity’s self inflicted problems.

Tribalism is not always good.
Tribalism is not always bad.

Know the rules of the big invented games. Play these games to the extent of necessity only. Engage in critical thought like your life depends on it. It does. Know that the virtuous rule-followers of these games are food and fuckdolls for the gamemakers in the end.

i see you,
from flesh to your fantasies-
working towards muted cadence and clarity,
though choice and change-
dog-dare devilry and always the moon

and if i could stand to see you crying,
i would tell you
not to care at all

it doesn't mater
which of our fantasies fall.

As the gun
Rolls of the countertop
In the
Cyber cafe

31 is the new dead
I’ve had a glas of *****
And the only promise I’ll ever ask of you
Is to play iron and wine - trapeze *******
At my funeral if I die before you

P.S.
Promise 1.5 :
Slap anyone who is not listening and just talking, right in their useless open eyeballs

Until next time,
Signing out-

The bad good kid,
The one who almost found home

the dreams you have when you fall asleep (specifically) before the movie is over.
[like feeling safe enough to do so.]
like
winding up with cloud cover
and
summer, here already
like
no garden again this year -

waking on the couch
in the early morning
suddenly        and to
relative
                       silence





                                   .

i take my socks off.
i see
on her dusk
a crown of young birches rises up like spindled lines of pencil.
they don't prove their permanence to the old soil>
missing the big trees that used to grow
here.


her body,
like wet leaves burning. the paper bark peeled back from
her forehead
reveals the colony within the soft wood.
down where the air is
as
still as the inside of a halloween
mask,
the fingers of her evening clam up likewise-
and all that it touches
is damp again.

and as i lay my dead smile in her's
,our teeth rest together in
bliss

the blue bamboo print on your white shirt
wrinkles me in to
home

i rake my hands across your heavy thing
you shake like eons in passing
you quake my heavy thing
you real my fake away

curl


and you're
mine.

like years of church functions
rocking back and forth on chair legs-
******* the back against the corner
shoelaces stained by the summertime.
lock limbs in search of abandoned public restrooms
windowlit  and forgotten planter pots

legs shaking inside.. for want of dog teeth
flaking off. white as oxidized lead
beds. graveyards
for
generations of guilt titrating out of the skin hips

    out
of us like sweat
that iso-stains
precipitate.
your
sashimi eyelids_
my
diorama for you.

We cook slowly in the dusty window light
Splitting apart as we dry out, [denaturing our lignin ]
As the hazy rays sweep up

They will be scrawled across the floor and our bodies
Like the thin pencil marks of man made gesture

In the shapes cast about us
Wheeling
As
Only
We can

home
     is
     a dark forest
     by the sea
heroism
      has
      been bred out
our hearts
       are
       next :

is a flyswatter kind of love.and i am the unread newspaper pages wrung out before the casualty of your tightening/grasp.

gooey paladin you in gun powder real.like bucket like helm.scooping into pieces i can be soup.i can loopdy-loop
lemme show you my favorite
piece
of
meat

you ink whalebones in your smile, the sea-dark swarms
  up upon your palate
rushing back again in ruin
                           in a gulp
                           from deep tidal wants.

my hips lament your passing.as i wick away into the finger
numbing mist      lapping at your knuckles

you clothe your small shoulders
                                          with a shroud
every thread tries to hold on to the air that claims them
                                                                ­                      away
                                      ­       from brothers and sisters
                                             that all want the same for themselves.


they are vapid.


each breath is an arrowshaft cloven in two        off-mark

                                            ­    biting me.


i am not the currents dreaming of ******* you down
i am not the wind rubbing cuticles against your back
i am not draping you in
sawdust
.
as i press my thumbs up to ribs i dont
recognize
the feeling passes


dripping inside
presh ******* baby.

bitter but better is the sunshine of never
all over
her body
are dead things and dragons
spiders and stabbers and
ink thorny anklets
calf-twisting vine lines
and thigh wanting roses
fingers paint black tips and
lovers cross black lips a
body
lain naked
her lies of love broken
her eyes leak of lust rust
a bat on her breast
she rises from rest
she sits up
and pulls  
a black SG onto her lap
and whispers
"more"

A man in a mad world who refuses to go insane with rage
Does so unjustly,

As he sits on his hands
and waits to die.

I have been that man , seeking only sedation.

I come to find that I must face myself
And the injustices of the world

a cosmic message in a bottle:
and all its ever been is the same as now .
all mythos and religion;
all cult kingdoms; all god-kings

it’s not about what’s out there-
it’s about what’s in here that we’re trying to save.

i want fingers that trap you inside minuscule breaths.
the
shorter the better-

dragging down the seconds like shoes on in the lake water.
these
that threaten to tear off with each pump of the legs.
as the arms stay thrashing unawares, as they reach for a hand-hold that isn't.
as the ring around your mouth spits across the magazines on the coffee-
table, leaving marks.
as the pillows on the couch come misshapen to the point just outside of comfortable.
as the moisture gathers in the armpits.

dawn breaks.

heat rises from the roofs of automobiles.
eyes readjust to light that puts gunk back into them.
the city is like orange glass.
your hair
is hair.
i let drool slip across your ****.

free.pop
picnic.punk
polish on a broken nail

hope is a checkered story of
homewardliness  - whatever that may come to mean

moves like
the dusty, irradiated world
between
Us

seven days a week.and
a quiet honor amidst the
loss

sad sisters
sad Sis  . /

the falling
is all too
easy

the sphere of the electron cloud
steps down

into

release .


this will fit into the corner of the basket of my words ,
but is not exhaustive
of

work

if you want to know what love feels like
then you know what love feels like .and if you find out that everyone feels the same way too_you will come to know how to love

up to
a mouthy gauze-
a minnow's fate-
a dawnless gurgling-
Minoa-
skin caught in the zipper-
someone else's house-
melatonin-
outdated documentaries-
spilled -
actual bronze-
plexiglass tables-
vocaloid

where morgoths and mongrels
i misss my monsters
thrown lead (sculptures)in the shape of you
scripture breaking off where you
ransomed
beggars cant be choosers but killers can get you
if they want

caught top



World holder!

the lenths at wich pragmatist go to **** eachother
you make getting offended an art form, all the while calling out others as you please

it's the aftermath of a change and the street is
quiet.
you look at your old favorite shoes and in the
last minute_pull them out of the trash and into
the trunk of the car.

the basement is full of jackets you don't
  remember.and some you do.

morning is a cotton sheet over
itself.

diffused, you notice storefronts
that  
you never felt like going in

i see the dull ingots upon your brow. they,
meant for melting down into
treasures

have               been
laid to rest in a casual pause
the master never returns.the
line has ended
the people, vanished
and the mountain claims them back

stepping soft by the pads of my feet
***** water pools around the ***** of my heels. as i dig into the moist earth
as i leave holes in the mud as i step away.
and
a bitter gurgling sound crept out of your mouth
your lips burnt open and split apart from the things bubbling there-
from the back of your throat

.

We walked up and down the driveway

Each pace, a page turn
Bringing distance : One dog-eared creasing, by one

Sharp stones skittering bird-like and brittle

We speak
My un-doctored photos

Hanging beside

We swing, as juniper
We shuffle

Caught in a barking fit
As the trucks roll by, rumbling up dog feelings.

Hands clasped together in mutual observation

As the moon swallower slithers legless    in its embryonic mess

Nothing more to addd

Of passing down the most important things you need to stay alive

It is the easy communication of cultural knowledge

It prepares us to live in that world.
Our world, the one around US!

It is folklore and fable
It is all the moral lessons
The anecdotes, the advise and stories of failure
It is core and integral to the dna of humans

It is knowledge transfer down
Through generations

Telling our tale
Our histories- even when they are interrupted.

Music is the human tapestry itself
It is the first form of writing, the first language.
The reason for language

Each thread is woven of all our families together

Always mixing lineage forward
Always remembering its past

Welcome.learn. Speak back to me
Speak back to me.
Speak back to me
Speak back to Speak back to me
Speak back Speak back to me
Speak back to me

Speak back to me
Speak to me

Speak
To

Me  .


Call and response.




The snow will be here soon.

25, feels like 16
[just as long as there ain't no wind.]
i could love you
but i'd need to. crush your head
it took my blood thumbs
it took my best smiles

left me home.

honestly, i would be there
                                  for you
                              if i
                 
,  miss you but my bad knee's
acting up again.
thought of you again,
saw you standing there.
daughters smoking on the front porch  
while mothers die of cancer. upstairs in their beds
breathy weeks went by,
saw your mother-
left a stone upon your grave.
it was 25. felt like 16
got my jacket

got my blood deep inside. my thumbs

no
better muse
.

on the street where this  summer's hippest martyrs rot away
the sidewalks question their sexualities as the sun burns them into
flat .  s l i c e s .   on phonescreens   
//words are my pocketknife in your hand-like a fool trying too hard at someone else's party.
[] as you slide across the polyurethane
holding brand-new hostages at your waist_ trimming them down to swimsuit-season size
                       and style.  
   the air quakes though the [youth like bent corners, ruining photos in ] old magazines .
shivering at the lakeside in full attire
i tank
,having enough of it.


we are seizing_
a
day
    other than this
//

I have only the touch of my hands
Left -
And the muscle memory of
Something  
That almost became
What it was
Supposed
To be.

gravity found me inside you,
owning up to decisions.and outliving bad ones,
playing down my own involvement in the desecration
of your religions  
we fell through each other’s cuticles like grass-clippings torn from the earth while sitting-
so with one bad earbud you pinned me down to time and place,

we made drawings again.
we pined by windows.
we pinned up our papers in the kitchen
made islands out of our voices-
let go with soft vigor.
tried less than as hard as we should have

It seems we often find ourselves,
entering
into animated conversation
at inconvenient hours.

And this is best.

That
which compels things to happen.
which lets all of their motives and passions slip through.

There are subtle diamonds
woven into the patch-work mystery of the nighttime,
the stitches of which,
we unravel
and
let
drip
into our open mouths
in eager anticipation,            
of sedated


excitation.

Than grabbing


each other’s wrists

not a hunter. a feeder of mouths.

not a coward. a feeling. a hope.

She shook like a leaf
And she rolled and she slid.

Now we woke up to the sound of that
Now we cool to go around like that.

Now we laying down peace bricks one-by-one,
Red
Clay of the earth
Well-nourished .

each day lasts forever.but the weeks are forcibly torn out.crumpled into the void like unwanted notebook pages-the years are the most frightening-just to slide by them.folded over like the rolled edge of a dull pocketknife. imprecisely honed. imperfectly lived. [memoirs of a boy scout drop out]there's something suffering (in the way you do those things) stumbling into the musky, razor-blade winters of jack london's finest fantasies.like a ghost seen walking in circles around the perfect spaces in-between the empty moments of gentle speech.mumbling softly over the warm murmurs of crackling embers delicately pacing distance between themselves(so as not to burn so quickly.)the hot tangy slurs of blood dripping from downward facing fingertips.teeth gnashed together, translucent grey flint-wheel sparks springing from the shadows-flaring nostrils coupled with rapidly expanding lungs.breathing in the ferrous red-a single hammerfallpulsation. arms interacting with the bitter indifference of the cold that snaps open the veins throbbing wildly in clumsy hands-letting the animal spirits trickle out unrhythmically-into jackson ******* droplets.
onto the pristine snow.

the galleries of independent machines
are put onto display in the gilded halls of long corridors
bleached away by
anti-
bacterial soap.
and we say that we are the universe.
and we are the ones that tell you what to do.
preachers of mephistopheles,
creatures of indetermination.
and indeterminate
origin,
the goat-footed gargoyles treat us as play-things.
and the winged seraphs as day-things.
but we know that we are night-things.
and night-things fly away.
she wrote her number in red-lipstick, hit the high-notes like a whisper,
and whispered.
she got under my skin
and she crawled around while she was in.
she bat her lashes
and bit her lip,
she tasted her painted
fingernails
as if licking her claws clean
and threatened -
to swallow me whole.

give me this and no other,
slender golden instants of splendid earth's living,

i shall return,
not to take the mystery out of loving,
nor the mastery of perfection,

but to bask in their
Unsubdued.

what have you done

with your world in one hand and the worlds of others in the other
teach us something before the summer
drys up the river
and delivers us from our hearts

Another
Hangs like the
Increasingly average protests of
Virtue in man’s sick pantheon

Just east of
Dawn’s gurgling last breath,
Choking in
The steaming *** load of
God_

Staining white,  these
Vast
Echo chambers of the cyber cathedral


No greater
Panopticon.

What is satan,
If not the very concept of accountability, itself?
It would seem that those who are opposed to satan are opposed to accountability - seeking to claim the mind of god as their own.
In essence, they systematically claim godmind in all of their dealings, while supporting the veracity (and therefore, the justice) of these claims on the presupposition of a necessarily true external force.

It is the same circular definition which serves as the root to all of mankind’s greatest failures.

It is to say :

“I must be good because I invoke the name of god, which, by definition, is the very concept of a necessary, predefined good”

“Therefore my will and subsequently willed agency must also be good”

“As such, I should (and should be allowed to) do what I want, because I am good and my will is the will of ultimate, predefined good”


On satan, they say :

“My sins and failures are not my own, but rather the result of an external rogue agent who has influence over me and others via an unjust extension”

Going one step further, we may say that those who then rally against works of satan in this world will fundamentally make the following statements by doing so :

“I will seek to punish the punisher, as I myself am an extension of the agency of god”

“As I enforce the will of god, so too, must I become punisher of all sin-source”

Thus, in a uniquely poetic way,
These minds take on the supposed role of
Satan, himself -
In the name of god and in direct opposition to their own self appointed roles :
  


A true work of
Art.

on the authority of an open window to the driving rain .
dog heads stuck out and
biting at the
drops .

people l[i/o]ved
for a time
         _
and that was
  [enough]