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Mar 28 · 36
My kisses are hungry
Ryan P Kinney Mar 28
They start slow and methodical
You wonder how a man of such overcharged energy can be this still
until you realize he's analyzing you
figuring out how far he can push it
to take you completely apart
then he unleashes that energy
you realize where it's been hiding
you wonder, “can this man completely consume me”
as his well-crafted hands begin to explore your body
figure out your every piece
you realize, “yes he can”
God I want him to
Feb 21 · 91
Sugar High
Ryan P Kinney Feb 21
I just want your sugar high
Saccarine sticky love notes
Tender, with your honey milky scent
Just love me, like the sucker I am
And let me swallow you whole
Feb 2020 · 170
AntiHaiku
Ryan P Kinney Feb 2020
Do not show your dog
On your dating profile pic
Not dating your dog

Sometimes, I think
I love coffee more than *****
It’s still there in the morning

Your love lights me up
Like a neon sign
But it seems, I’m just the moth

(by Douglas Aucoin and Ryan P. Kinney)
If I promise you the moon and the stars
Would you believe it?
I gave a woman this once.
She left me for her own universe.

What if I’m ****** up beyond repair
When the sky falls
And the world crumbles
And I wonder why I still get to wake up

You will just have to learn how to live broken
Make the flaws part of the story
And seal in the cracks with precious golden moments
Feb 2020 · 142
It’s Not Real
Ryan P Kinney Feb 2020
Let me tell you the thing that keeps me up at night
I’m manic
So I have a constant stream of vivid thoughts running infinite channels through my head at all times
What I fear most
What I am forced to watch in my head daily
Is losing those I love
Of again being that scared, alone, desperate little boy
Of being exiled once again to that slow drip drip sound echoing off the empty room of my vast universal mental prison

Every single day
Automatically
I run scenarios of my son’s death through my head
Every parent worries about their child
Most are paranoid of such
I have it played before my eyes in realistic detail
I am forced to continually watch the most tragic moments of my life on a big screen in my head
None of which have ever happened

Everyday, a different death
Just once I wish it would be me
Why can’t I protect him?
From myself?
And once again I reaffirm
That his end, will be mine

I am so terrified that one day I am going to wake up and he won’t be there anymore.
That the only good thing about my life, will be gone.
And it will be my fault.

My son is my redemption.
Without him, I’m afraid I’d have to admit I’m just a terrible person.

I have to close my eyes
And repeat this mantra
“It’s not real.”
“It never happened.”
Am I real?
What is the dream?
What is reality?

What I fear the most?
That one day I won’t wake up
Jan 2020 · 165
Nightwish
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
My Dad used to say to me, “One day, kid, you’ll understand.”
He was wrong.
I never did.

God, I wish she was real.

Nightwish
by Ryan P. Kinney

I wish my covers would cover me
And hide all the pain
And blame and guilt and shame and blood
And tears and filth

I wish I could still pretend to be a good person,
A worthy one
This unfathomable loneliness
Peering into the void
And finding nothing within myself

I wish this bed was not empty
Like me
I wish the darkness would just finish with me
And take its crimson penance

I wish I got what I deserve
All dogs go to heaven
But this hounds hellbound
I am meant to suffer and break

I wish this song had rhythm and beat
So someone could dance on my grave

I wish I didn’t hate everyone
Almost as much as myself
I wish someone would touch me without recoiling
Without fear and dread

I wish someone some would say,
I love you
And were not lying
I wish I believed them
In anything
In myself

I wish there was a reason for all of this
But, I wish, more than anything
That I had the courage to make this poem better
Jan 2020 · 224
The End of Monsters
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Ryan P. Kinney, Aaron Shinkle, and Ohayocon Jigsaw Workshop attendee

The fall of man

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of the insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

How did we let this happen?
A new era begins
For the worse
I will not be silent

The seventh gateway opens
All the trumpets sound
Clamoring in the hallway.
Truth is subjective.

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face

Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could the master hope for survival.
Jan 2020 · 160
Ohayocon Patchwork
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Elements
by StuGLyfe, Evan Spooner, Callan, Lauren, Michelle Galimarini, Fiaura the Tank Girl, Amy C. Smith, and Anonymous attendees

The sun
Sets and rises
For them
And nothing more

Bang. In both my ears.
Drip-Drop, Sweat in both my eyes.
Burns, against my face.

It builds inside, deep in my gut
Rapturous, *******, delightful.
Roasting me alive, torturous.
Everything burns away

People are like Molecules.
Pinging against each other.
With Every Action we take,
Ripples form around us
A smile here,
Encouragement there,
And the world becomes ever brighter

It wasn’t the wave of water that got him
It was the twenty small baby crocodiles
Carried in the wave.

With the wind blowing harshly,
I will sleep like a glutton sloth
Nothing can get past me, but the breeze
Even time will halt at the flick of my wrist.
Nothing, but cool air, I know this
Will penetrate through my concrete spirit.

I run you through my hands
You were once solid
Then you were mine
Broken down to bits and pieces
And reassembled
Into something new

Hello mother
breathing under
me
I see
you all around
comfortable, beautiful, magical, round
The cycle of life
it must be nice
for you
but for me
I must go now

The light of the moon is so bright
It blinds me.
Sometimes the day rushes past me
And before I realize it, it’s night

We recharge everything
Our cars, our phones, our gaming consoles
When the battery is low
But we won’t recharge ourselves
When our energy is drained
And nothing is left in our hearts and souls
Jan 2020 · 136
Ohayocon Jigsaw 25
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Evan Spooner

There was nothing
you could do
there was no way you could
stop it

Memories come flooding back
Nothing, but ***** water
Something to filter out
Recover from
Start anew

That doesn’t stop my feet
Sloshing through the muck
The sickening suction sounds
As I try to pull away
Moving, but staying in one spot

Surveying the damage
What all is there to save?
Funny how one flood
Sick inches of remember when
Can destroy so much

I’m still plodding on
One foot in front of the other
One step at a time
Each moment takes an eternity to feel

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 141
Ohayocon Jigsaw 24
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Can You See?

Whose soul your steady breath does reward
For but only existing on this heavenly plane
I wish you would open up to me!
See all I can as well?
but you don’t see it this way.
as most probably not.

If so Maybe I can convince you,
Maybe I can show you,
how true I could possibly be.

Unfortunately, you will not hear me out,
it seems I’ll have to forever shout.
but please,
believe in me

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 110
Ohayocon Jigsaw 23
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by C

When you’re buried
You see the face
a mask
i spit blood
when things were trying to hurt us.
All I know how to do is Here
It is my job to be God
Live like you might as well be dead

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 119
Ohayocon Jigsaw 22
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by C

Down to the soft earth
for no greater inner rapture
as the sight of you sleeping

Together, we can face anything
Life throws our way

then that joy is not one known by me
forcefully ripping out my raw emotions,

i spit blood

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 124
Ohayocon Jigsaw 21
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
The Traveler
by C

I like to play on the relationship between color and perception.
I find that it brings
a subtle emotion out from within.
Like a woman looking to hitch a ride.
“Might I please step inside?”
The woman asks as she stands in the night
“You may have a place here, if you so inquire, but you may find it a clearer journey if you cross some other way. I have nothing, but hate inside this place here.”
“Do not worry about my being,” she says solemnly as she slowly walks through my door.
What is she after?
No one could possibly find it here.
She’ll probably come across it.
Long after she leaves this place.

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 114
Ohayocon Jigsaw 20
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Evan Spooner

I am talking with my friend
Saying over & over
to join me

but my mind told me
at the end. there was only space

for thoughts.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy



by Evan Spooner

approach
ask
without a word

by Evan Spooner

These people call this Faith,
bring them to my table
the next bit of gospel
I wrote on a napkin.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy

by Evan Spooner

I’m dying the other five
Quite possibly
It may hide all
it’s a mask My head
modified,

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy


by Evan Spooner

Sometimes
I never really expect anything
In return


Nothing
Left
Jan 2020 · 98
Ohayocon Jigsaw 19
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
I can’t handle all these choices.
like wishes of dandelions
“Please pay attention to me.”
“These can’t be saved.”
Here and there,
Nowhere.

If there’s a reason
It’s lost on me
Let this run its course

When I found the one dark road
a knowing glance

You’ve reached the deepest part
The splendor of the stats.

Moonlight floods my window,
I shouldn’t be so tired

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 94
Ohayocon Jigsaw 18
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
I will love the idea of what I will be
“I used to believe that I could find the light in anyone;
In me I lost the ability to see the light.”

I love and hate me

BUT

There is a time to let go.
Humans are also stardust.
Wrangling all the stars into our own constellations

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 88
Ohayocon Jigsaw 17
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Arthur  B.L. FOP

Looks as though the heavens have finally released the weight of the stars to the ground
As I marvel at this, a twinge of fear arises. In this modern age I warn humanity to not let the computer think for you.
being murdered by a knife is more painful than any other weapon
tools to assist in our quest for knowledge, but in a culture of instant gratification they can be easily abused
Essentially if people do not sufficiently exercise their own mental capacities mangling nuance out-of-order

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and from the second Jigsaw Workshop
Jan 2020 · 95
Ohayocon Jigsaw 16
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Chapter 3
Positive Reinforcement
by Johnny Utah

bio of human development with a theory vocabulary
Timeless COGNITIVE LEARNING of God and without pretense,

Long live Capitalist
A rusty blade to the King
& don’t save the Queen
need more pennies
Jan 2020 · 85
Ohayocon Jigsaw 15
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Observation #2

I was wrong. I’ve become a monster.
They live in the battlefield.
Hiding behind real American faces,

I spend most of my week
In the back of a factory
Where I sell my free time
Now all I can feel is scorn and hate.
We are a world of truth benders
Rule breakers

Remember this the next time you try to make an angel into something it isn’t. They, and you, are the imperfect remnants of an arbitrary undertaking.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 84
Ohayocon Jigsaw 14
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
How did we let this happen?
A new era begins
For the worse
I will not be silent

The seventh gateway opens
All the trumpets sound
Clamoring in the hallway.
Truth is subjective.

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 99
Ohayocon Jigsaw 13
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Michelle Galmarini

I fear cold
but the wicked journey on foot is nice
strive
drive
Hiking a detour in life
The world and its polar opposite wrapped up in dumb splendor
Jan 2020 · 144
Ohayocon Jigsaw 12
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Michelle Galmarini

You will be seen

Even your side that’s mean
the one that screams
the one that’s hiding behind the scene

the one that’s quiet
the one that’s cringey
the dumb-witted one
that’s sloth-like and bingey

but you have a team
the rest of the world
that’s been

Be proud, Be seen…

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 87
Ohayocon Jigsaw 11
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Conflict

Grow up
It is something people tell you to do all your life
Grow up and act your age
Even when you are supposed to still be a child
Grow up

But I don’t know how
When everything I love belongs to youth
And the youth says I’m old
And my peers say I’m childish

I am a maniac,
I am sane.
I have been strong and weak.
I can keep it together,

But I need help
I need a guide book

A quick read-through of the rules:
- roll the dice
- score more victories
- draft your hand

If only I knew
What victory looks like

I am scared and lonely
I am going to succeed
I am not lost
I am here

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 84
Ohayocon Jigsaw 10
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
I usually think about my life
And how much of a loser I was
Living under my brother’s perfect family home
Like a troll under a bridge
Distracting myself with Call of Duty

I keep playing pokemon, as well
Pikachu is my favorite
He is so small and cute
But he loves me

There is no such thing
As having too big of a heart

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 75
Ohayocon Jigsaw 9
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Iven Idaho

Autonomy: Let’s be honest, I can’t wait for self-driving automobiles; You **** as driver
So don’t be late, Learn to be a self-driving automobile
PLEASE RSVP BY MAY 1, 2091.

Additional content assembled from works in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 86
Ohayocon Jigsaw 8
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Cam

I often welcome sleepwalking through most of the week
But today I will not let you be a zombie
But You’ll never be rid of this poison

Additional content assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney
Jan 2020 · 84
Ohayocon Jigsaw 7
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Fiaura

Six bullets to the heart, six separate, devastating phrases that brought about Armageddon. I gave her a decade of my meager existence, nearly half my life. She threw me away like garbage, and I couldn’t have been happier.

For I am like shattered jasper.
In briefest moment of rapture
An insight to the soul one cannot rapture
The ending moment so fleeting
The clarity when the heart stops beating
A rush of air, expands my mind back to this planet

I have been broken, then fixed,
Stitched, yet glitched,
Whole yet scarred
I am alive.

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 88
Ohayocon Jigsaw 6
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Finish
by StuGLyfe

I destruction of the self is intolerable,
Everyone tells me
To destroy myself is acceptable,

I have enough to finish it all now
But myself and my self will be finished

I see a weak and pathetic child
Terrified of the ever changing world around them

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 72
Ohayocon Jigsaw 5
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Under Steer
by StuGLyfe

I don’t usually mind the winter; I try to imagine who is the boss,
Sick satisfaction knowing that I am the most macho
“You press that button kid, you die today.”
The car slides and spins around
Crunch
“Everyone feels that way sometimes.”
The car is stuck.
lamenting the pain as my mind expands
Looked like the thunder god had an ******, then set the lake on fire
“DIVORCE!”, the boss exclaimed.
as I dreamt of my relationship with my father.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 74
Ohayocon Jigsaw 4
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Fiaura

My ex-husband, his name is Gary
I still have his last name; never say it publicly
I’m publicized in the furry community yearly
Now working side by side with talented murk suited dancers
Because I’m honestly addicted to their hip huggers

Their suit-stuffs stays
The people leave them as strays
I’ve been given too much to even array!

Gary lived in the same house I had to leave
One day, I followed a dancer to the place my heart grieves
The outside the same, the inside a total change
The question is do I stay and heal or do I leave and deal.
Jan 2020 · 105
Ohayocon Jigsaw 3
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
by Amy C. Smith

A calm,
Comfortable spirit
Blew around him.
Her hands,
Strong at his back.
Whilst Amber feathers glowed from hers.

The Angel:
Strong,
Pure,
And True.

With just a hint
Of the impending Autumn.

Additional content assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy
Jan 2020 · 243
Ohayocon Jigsaw 2
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Dead Love
by Amy C. Smith

to you
I was a footnote
a rat
a witch you failed to burn

Grant in me the chance
to push the boundaries of my limits
into
infinite
eternity
the harvest of imagination.

And you,
sweet baby,
will take nothing.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH;
Jan 2020 · 107
Ohayocon Jigsaw 1
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
Ripples
by Amy C. Smith

With every Action we take
Ripples form around us.

A smile here.
Encouragement there,
Even something as innocuous as love,
for a show or game or film,
makes the world even brighter.

Gathering together
Dancing
Laughing
Loving
Is what it means to be truly human.

assembled from works published by Beautiful Blasphemy and in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH
Jan 2020 · 388
Lords Temple Basement Men
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
The first Holy Book of The Word
In Nonsense we Trust

Assembled from pre-existing works by John Burroughs, Ryan P. Kinney, Jack McGuane, Cee Williams, Don Lee, Susan Grimm, Joe Roarty, Russ Vidrick, Dianne Boresnik, Mitch James, Tanya Pilumeli, Julie Ursem Marchand, Vicki Acquah, Terry Provost, Adam Brodsky, Lennart Lundh, Raymond McNiece, Hannah Williams, MaxWell Shell, Tim Richards, Ayla Atash, RC (Bob Wilson), Chuck Joy, Katie Daley, Solomon Dixon, Mary Weems, and Gordon Downie
Mostly taken as quotes during live poetry readings. Some stolen from other sources.
Additional content from predictive text by JM Romig, Linkin Park “Powerless,” “Saga of the Swamp Thing” vol. 1, T.S. Eliot, Amalgam Mythos, Kurt Vonnegut, Kevin Smith, and Psalms (chap.):13
Added original content by Ryan P. Kinney, Lennart Lundh, Barbara Marie Minney, and Gabriella Ercolani

“Lords Temple Basement Men,” it says on the door in a badly photocopied sign, replaced freshly each week. The original was built from torn up pieces of bootleg band vinyl stickers left plastered all over the windows of some teenager, surely passed into decaying adulthood long ago.

They gather in the bottom of an abandoned house in the heart of mostly warehouses. Something, someone long ago forgot to bull doze in the wake of morbid industrialization and the zeal to just get more men more jobs while giving them no life, no place to live. They built in their own obsolescence

A Man stands outside; half catcalling, half showman barker; daring, tempting, bribing people to worship with him. In paint stained torn jeans, long shaggy hair with the bald spot landing pad directly in the center of his head, and shoes barely hanging together on his feet, he bellows out The Word. Somewhere between slam poetry performance and theology lesson, he entices and seduces people to enter. Here, they do not call him Father, or Brother, just person:  Man.  “Hey, Man,” is how they great him.

“This is the original Church of the world's scraps.
The body of the body of the body.
Burning in the sun.
‘Me and my son were born in the sun,’ They say.
He is willing to do it.”
The Man says, in a soothing voice.

People enter a crooked doorway. The Man pulls the peeling door behind them, scrapping the ground as he does so, and leads his flock down the concrete stairs to the basement. They come to a dingy dirt gravel floor and spread out; filling the space like gas expanding into a cylinder.

Background chatter already fills the room with low whispers before the performance-service,
“I am happy to hear that you are safe”.
“I am not sure that you are”
“You will be missed.”

The Man steps upon his usual milk crate to open the service. He intones the Capitalist Mantra,
“God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies”

And the people chant, “I will not kiss you. I will not bow. I will not bow. I will not be moved.
I love the idea of what I have to be”

Mama Evil steps forward to explain their purpose here,
“This is a strange, mad religious service. Everything is out of place, nothing and no one seems to fit together. We all gather here, but no one seems to-gether. This is less a sermon and more a discussion where the gospel is debated. The Word is critiqued, modified, disputed, and changes between its members at each meeting. At any time for no reason, people can interrupt The Man to deny, confirm, suggest, or challenge his statements. The group then decides on the next bit of gospel to be made up on the spot or if what has already been said is still the current phase of perspective. There is no central thought or plan, just a plan for thoughts. We, people, call this Faith. Our membership makes up a multitude. There are Baptists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, Satanists, Buddhists, Capitalists, hippies, goth kids, Starbuck’s sipping bloggers, just plain weird kids in the back working on their latest D&D campaign. We are just people. And he, is just a Man. The only interconnecting philosophy among us is, ‘Anything is possible at any time for any reason.’”
“As the recovering Catholic Kevin Smith wrote, ‘It’s not important which faith you are, just that you have faith.’”

The People are ready to receive The Holy Spirit and his unique brand of performance poetry,

“In the beginning, there was only The Word, a word. And then more. Which were collected into a story; The Story. And from The Story came creation.
And then came the questions. And The Question was man. Who are we? What are we? Why? Who am I?”

The Man explains,
“The whole point of The Word is to make up new ones. To defy God’s Word by creating ourselves.”
“Do you see the animal’s asking questions? Wondering who they are. They simply know that they are.
There are no fish in Purgatory. Only us.
The Garden of Eden is colonized by serpents
There was no place for the demons to go, but further in.”

A Hindu Yoga instructor rights himself from walking on his hands and decides to take the first initiative, “Puff the Magic Dragon says, ‘Jesus loves me, but I need to talk to a human.’”
A furry cosplayer responds, "I need to talk to a human."

A Wiccan Princess retorts, "Nature is not as inventive as she thinks she is; Neither is God"

The Man answers,
“We are a beautiful blasphemy to God’s word (because we question).”

“Heavy is the crown that wears the head,” says the child prince.

The Drag King quotes, “Psalms (chap.):13
You will tread on the lion and the cobra.
You will trample on the great lion and the serpent.”

"...And God teaches the cricket how to play his music," says the bookish-looking woman sitting in the corner, trailing off as she adjusts her literal Coke bottle frames.

A gym rat, wearing a holey muscle shirt, extends arm to point as he says,
“Humans begin as *******.”

“Humans are also stardust.
Which means we are golden,” replies the scientist

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust,” says the derelict businessman hobo hero,
“God made mud in his own image and we are the leftover **** that rose out of it.
And if all life is really God’s sacred mud, then every **** storm is God’s Wrath.”

The Man quotes T.S. Eliot,
“What are the roots that clutch. What branches grow out of this stony *******. Son of man, you cannot say or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images.”

"The grapes of wrath transmuted into the harvest of imagination,” illustrates the painter

The automaton states, “**** the earth, to make a certain sense of it all.”

The Man attempts to regain control,
“Some future digger after truth,
alien or human, kneeling with
trowel and brush at this grave,
will note in clear, careful script
the wonder that a people would
be so deliberate with the smallest
of their gods' creatures,
and so careless of themselves.”

A soccer Mom asks,
“They say I shouldn’t be so tired.
They say I should get a job.
They say I should get off this couch.
They say I shouldn’t be a blob.”

“It takes but one step to enter the grave,” says The Man.
“So much can be lost in crossing that threshold. How did your grandparents, born in separate countries, meet? Did your mother kiss your father first, or vice versa? These are questions we don't think to pose, but without the asking or other evidence, Death will redact the list of begettings. Are you prepared for that void in memory? Or have you made notes for your children to leave theirs?”

"My Dad keeps their honeymoon receipts in the family Bible,” says the Unknown.
“After Mom moved on, he would take the Bible off the shelf every evening after supper.  He would first stare at it for what seemed forever while pouring himself a huge tumbler of bourbon and lighting a huge cigar that smelled like month old underwear.  Eventually, he would open the gold clasp and raise the deeply cracked leather cover of the Bible and first look at the family history written inside the front cover in the delicate and intricate handwriting of Mom, before pulling out the well worn honeymoon receipts, which he would shuffle through like a deck of cards before spreading them out on the worn and scratched kitchen table like a kind of dead man’s hand.  Sometimes, he would weep quietly.  Other times, he would pound his fists violently on the table shaking the cans of beans and potatoes on the shelves above.  That is when I knew it was time to make myself scarce.  He never ever opened the Bible any further than the front cover, which made me wonder about the nature of the book itself.  I always pondered the same questions over and over.”  
“Is Bible a filthy word? Is it the animal? The Man, The Woman? Should we burn the book?”
“Is the Word filthy?”, asks The Man, “What are the filthy words? What are the power of Words mired in ****? Who do these words define? Who are you?”

Mama Evil commands a presence,
“****? ****? ****? *****? Broad? *****? Are these the words you use to define me? When that which defines me is the holy chalice, life's catalyst, mia figa, my ****: stand us all on our heads and we all look the same. Regardless of our skin color, or the shape of the bones in our face or the skin around our eyes or the texture of our hair, those folds of flesh, that tunnel to the precipice of the universe, that little happy happy joy joy button, these are what we all have in common and what the whole world simultaneously wants and reviles. It has that much power. A lexical reclamation is taking place. One that will lift up the collective feminine spirit instead of dragging it down to the depths of all pejoratives. ****! The taking back of all pejoratives is an essential part of the reclamation of the collective self-esteem of woman kind! She is a Hindu Goddess! She is the Roman Goddess who is the protector or newborn infants. She is cunctipotent. She is all powerful and creates and destroys the world with her blood sugar **** magic. She is the princess and savior of the Mahabharata, renowned for her hospitality, who willingly receives any traveler who requests food and lodging. She is that benevolent. Durvasas bestows upon her a powerful mantra as payment for that hospitality and with it, Princess Kunti has the power to call on any God in heaven to lie with her and she will bear a son then by the next day. When her husband is rendered sterile as punishment for shooting the Stag King as he mated with his queen, Princess Kunti bears three heirs for the kingdom. She saves the kingdom. She saves the day. She is **** magic at its finest hour and she dwells in all of us who have ever been slandered. So go on, you ignorant *******. Call me a ****. Only you in your infinite small stupidity are skint the knowledge that you have just called me a princess and a savior.”

A comic nerd asks, “What of Power? What is power?”

Mama Evil holds up a single flame, spewing from a cheap blue lighter in her hand. She asks, “What is the power of The Word.” Is it in the book? Or in the air.”

She answers, “The power to choose. Do I set the world on fire, or put out
the flames?”

The room goes dark as she abruptly steals The Man’s usual send off,
“The Word has evolved, my friends.”
Jan 2020 · 162
Lords Temple Basement Men
Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020
The first Book of The Word
In Nonsense we Trust

Assembled from pre-existing works by John Burroughs, Ryan P. Kinney, Jack McGuane, Cee Williams, Don Lee, Susan Grimm, Joe Roarty, Russ Vidrick, Dianne Boresnik, Mitch James, Tanya Pilumeli, Julie Ursem Marchand, Vicki Acquah, Terry Provost, Adam Brodsky, Lennart Lundh, Raymond McNiece, Hannah Williams, MaxWell Shell, Tim Richards, Ayla Atash, RC (Bob Wilson), Chuck Joy, Katie Daley, Solomon Dixon, Mary Weems, Cat Russell, and Gordon Downie
Mostly taken as quotes during live poetry readings. Some stolen from other sources.
Additional content from predictive text by JM Romig, Linkin Park “Powerless,” “Saga of the Swamp Thing” vol. 1, T.S. Eliot, Amalgam Mythos, Kurt Vonnegut, Kevin Smith, and Psalms (chap.):13
Added original content by Ryan P. Kinney, Mitch James, Ellie St. Cyr, and Evan Spooner

“Lords Temple Basement Men,” it says on the door in a badly photocopied sign, replaced freshly each week. The original was built from torn up pieces of bootleg band vinyl stickers left plastered all over the windows of some teenager, surely passed into decaying adulthood long ago.

They gather in the bottom of an abandoned house in the heart of mostly warehouses. Something, someone long ago forgot to bull doze in the wake of morbid industrialization and the zeal to just get more men more jobs while giving them no life, no place to live. They built in their own obsolescence.

A Man stands outside; half catcalling, half showman barker; daring, tempting, bribing people to worship with him. In paint stained torn jeans, long shaggy hair with the bald spot landing pad directly in the center of his head, and shoes barely hanging together on his feet, he bellows out The Word. Somewhere between slam poetry performance and theology lesson, he entices and seduces people to enter. Here, they do not call him Father, or Brother, just person:  Man.  “Hey, Man,” is how they great him.

“But when your empty heart is weighed”
"What are you really worth?
These people call this Faith,
bring them to my table
the next bit of gospel
I wrote on a napkin”

People enter a crooked doorway. The Man pulls the peeling door behind them, scrapping the ground as he does so, and leads his flock down the concrete stairs to the basement. They come to a dingy dirt gravel floor and spread out.
The people in the room greet one another, then swarm around one woman,
“You will be used to the treatments.”
“I am not sure that you are.”
“You will be missed.”

The Man steps upon his usual milk crate to open the service. He intones the Capitalist Mantra,
“God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies”

And the people chant, “I will not kiss you. I will not bow. I will not bow. I will not be moved.
I love the idea of what I have to be”

Princess Mommy steps up to explain their purpose here,
“This is a strange, mad religious service. Everything is out of place, nothing and no one seems to fit together. We all gather here, but no one seems to-gether. This is less a sermon and more a discussion where the gospel is debated. The (holy) Word is debated, discussed, dissected, compromised, altered, changed, shredded, reused, updated, recreated. It is burnt to cinders, then rises as a phoenix, built out of the broken pieces of all that was said before; what used to be true, but is now casually agreed to be fallacy. This Faith makes up a multitude. There are Baptists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, Satanists, Buddhists, Capitalists, hippies, goth kids, Starbuck’s sipping bloggers, just plain weird kids in the back working on their latest D&D campaign. We are just people. And he, is just a Man.”
“As the recovering Catholic Kevin Smith wrote, It’s not important which faith you are, just that you have faith.”

The People are ready to receive The Holy Spirit and his unique brand of performance poetry,

“In the beginning, there was only The Word, a word. And then more. Which were collected into a story; The Story. And from The Story came creation.
And then came the questions. And The Question was man. Who are we? What are we? Why? Who am I?”

“I am the mask wearing the man of eternity. In me, you see the face of history. A history we make up as we go.
The God of fallen leaves, leaves us... waiting for eternity to begin.
The Prophet Vonnegut says, ‘The question echoes back through time and disappears.
History. Read it and weep.
Tonight is a verb.”

From the crowd come the First voice, reading from his screenplay, "I was the table of contents, a footnote... running away from the beginning of the book. Perhaps no one knew we were living happily ever after until the book was over."

The Mallrat replies,
“Of all the words of Mice and Men the saddest words are ‘It Might’ve been.’
No need to despair
It was
It has
Somewhere else
Your soul is saved
All that Might’ve has already happened. ‘

“We are charming little liars,” retorts The Man, “We are a beautiful blasphemy to God’s word.”

The comic nerd slowly whispers, “All is truth, but every man is a liar. Sell me another artificially-derived slow suicide.”

A scientist cleans his glasses as he recites, “A world full of smoke and mirror nonsense -
It’s a religion of smoke and mirror nonsense
Only The Word is true and we make it up as we go.
In Nonsense is strength”

“So it is spoken, so it is true,” The Man energetically agrees.

An alien voice asks choppily, “Touch me
if you want to
believe in me
and the nothing I know”

“Sing the praises of the Holy Unknowing,” croons The Man, “We know nothing, therefore, we know all.”

And then, he drops into a haiku,


A bi-gender beauty asks no one (for permission), “Let me sling a little freestyle verse,

I'm steeple chased because some animal church wants to make me foxtrot in tempo with the braying boy
Pinnochio wants to make me hog its slops like Pigpen McSomething grateful and dead.
A fountain of youthful talent chemically imbalanced.
...with a grey skull full of He-man."

"Look at him!" they say.
"Give him a gun!" says another.
"A bomb!" a third spurts.
"Shows us your trigger finger!" they yell.

"My little boy," Princess Mommy whispers below the rush of gruff voices, her words staccato.

They answer her, "So I CAN taste the infernal darkness,” as the crowd falls silent

Princess Mommy chides them, “We know there is a sweetness in that which we cannot see. We know there is danger in that which we cannot hear.
Our bodies shake, our minds quake in anticipation of his words. It is almost time.”

The Man speaks again.
"Surely it is known, my brethren, that we are the Third Coming, the Breaking of the Seventh Seal that will signal the end of our oppressors. When we emerge victorious from the fires of battle, there will be no value left in the binary. No twos, only two or more. The Old Ways shall perish. We will shake off the chains, pull out the nails from our hands and feet, and the world which rejected us will rise anew under our leadership. Surely, it is known. Surely, it has been spoken. Jesus themself is at our back, and therefore we shall not fail."

“What a wealthy country, but no one’s coming to pay my bail,” sings the rainbow man, “They’re bragging they own my soul.”

"I don't want to bother anyone with my prayers,” prays the bi-gender person, secretly proud of leading the riot.

Sensing it is time to take to the streets, The Man closes the meeting with the same send off,
“The Word has evolved, my friends.”
Nov 2019 · 74
Heartened
Ryan P Kinney Nov 2019
People say…
My heart needs protection
Save Me
From myself
I’m too fragile
Too shattered

I say…
Let it be broken
And mended
And broken and mended and broken and mended….
Until there is nothing left
But hard, tough scar tissue
A beautiful intricate spiderweb of past mistakes and triumphs
Of the ones who stayed awhile
And those who fled in terror

Make your heart a labyrinth
That only the right river will flow through
And the left would leave

The one who thought it was worth navigating each jagged corner,
Scaled each wall
Took that leap of faith

You don’t need protection
You need strength
Nov 2019 · 113
Days
Ryan P Kinney Nov 2019
These Days
by Ryan P. Kinney

I was a Victim of these days
You can’t say things like that these days
These days, they walked me out the door
Because an opinion means my son should suffer for my mistakes
These days intent does not matter
Because Words hurt
And we deal with them more militantly than the military
We treat words like weapons
And guns like toys
Words **** people
Not guns.


Back in the day
by Ryan P. Kinney

If it was back in the day
Maybe I would have gotten away with it
Maybe I could afford healthcare
And food
And shelter
To raise a son

Maybe I would be judged on the content of my heart,
Not the mistakes of my mouth
Ryan P Kinney Nov 2019
I am the one you are ashamed of
Afraid to love
I was never anyone’s first choice
I was always second best
Last picked
Bottom of the barrel
Desperate enough to take anyone’s love washed into my sewer
After their first choice threw them into my trash
And I’ve always been one to grasp at the scraps no one else finds beautiful.
I cannot be loved
Because all of mine is second hand
Recycled
Never meant to be mine
Only space for rent on their way to their next misfortune
Waiting at the depot in the rain for them to return
When we were both broken enough to fit our pieces together
Torn pages of a battered, ****** romance novel
You can’t be abandoned by someone you never wanted.
Oct 2019 · 153
The End of Monsters
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
by Ryan P. Kinney and Aaron Shinkle
With additional content assembled from Eli Williams and Lennart Lundh

The fall of man

It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy

Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of insects

There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not

Truth be told
We did it to ourselves

Some future digger after truth,
alien or human, kneeling with
trowel and brush at this grave,
will note in clear, careful script
the wonder that a people would
be so deliberate with the smallest
of their gods' creatures,
and so careless of themselves.

One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face

We walked upon the new Earth
Like we did on the Old
Tugging along our gravel hearts
On broken asphalt
Our eyes slowly
Moving towards the new sky
The clouds, like curtains, unfolded
Our feet freshly cleansed of old
Traditions and assumptions that we
would never make it to this moment
But no one knew what was past
That port of no return
The ship sailed away,
Faded out of view

Another layer chipped away like
Hardened clay
The people here aspire to be
Nothing more than alive
The lives of the New World
In the hands of strangers
Coexisting within each other
For fear of never existing again
This is their lifeline, their blood
They are all in this repopulation
Together

we see others as they are
we see ourselves at every age
and all at once
supplicants, praying for tomorrow.
Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could we hope for survival

The lights one by one dim
The music softens
The actors bow,
We close the curtain on this world
Oct 2019 · 151
Lords Temple Basement Men
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
Lords Temple Basement Men
The first Book of The Word
In Nonsense we Trust

Assembled from pre-existing works by John Burroughs, Ryan P. Kinney, Jack McGuane, Cee Williams, Don Lee, Susan Grimm, Joe Roarty, Russ Vidrick, Dianne Boresnik, Mitch James, Tanya Pilumeli, Julie Ursem Marchand, Vicki Acquah, Terry Provost, Adam Brodsky, Lennart Lundh, Raymond McNiece, Hannah Williams, MaxWell Shell, Tim Richards, Ayla Atash, RC (Bob Wilson), Chuck Joy, Katie Daley, Solomon Dixon, Mary Weems, and Gordon Downie
Mostly taken as quotes during live poetry readings. Some stolen from other sources.
Additional content from predictive text by JM Romig, Linkin Park “Powerless,” “Saga of the Swamp Thing” vol. 1, T.S. Eliot, Amalgam Mythos, Kurt Vonnegut, Kevin Smith, and Psalms (chap.):13
Added original content by Ryan P. Kinney, Dr. Benjamin Anthony, and Ayla Atash

“Lords Temple Basement Men,” it says on the door in a badly photocopied sign, replaced freshly each week. The original was built from torn up pieces of bootleg band vinyl stickers left plastered all over the windows of some teenager, surely passed into decaying adulthood long ago.

They gather in the bottom of an abandoned house in the heart of mostly warehouses. Something, someone long ago forgot to bull doze in the wake of morbid industrialization and the zeal to just get more men more jobs while giving them no life, no place to live. They built in their own obsolescence.

A Man stands outside; half catcalling, half showman barker; daring, tempting, bribing people to worship with him. In paint stained torn jeans, long shaggy hair with the bald spot landing pad directly in the center of his head, and shoes barely hanging together on his feet, he bellows out The Word. Somewhere between slam poetry performance and theology lesson, he entices and seduces people to enter. Here, they do not call him Father, or Brother, just person:  Man.  “Hey, Man,” is how they great him.

“Come in and be amongst our broken people (pieces).
Mingle with our shards.
See which cut is the deepest”

People enter a crooked doorway. The Man pulls the peeling door behind them, scrapping the ground as he does so, and leads his flock down the concrete stairs to the basement. They come to a dingy dirt gravel floor and spread out.
The people in the room greet one another, then swarm around one woman,
“You are a good worker.”
“You will be missed.”

The Man steps upon his usual milk crate to open the service. He intones the Capitalist Mantra,
“God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies”

And the people chant, “I will not kiss you. I will not bow. I will not bow. I will not be moved.
I love the idea of what I have to be”

The woman swarm, Mama Evil, pushes her way to the front to explain their purpose here,
“This is a strange, mad religious service. Everything is out of place, nothing and no one seems to fit together. We all gather here, but no one seems to-gether. This is less a sermon and more a discussion where the gospel is debated. The (holy) Word is debated, discussed, dissected, compromised, altered, changed, shredded, reused, updated, recreated. It is burnt to cinders, then rises as a phoenix, built out of the broken pieces of all that was said before; what used to be true, but is now casually agreed to be fallacy. We, people, call this Faith. Our membership makes up a multitude. There are Baptists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, Satanists, Buddhists, Capitalists, hippies, goth kids, Starbuck’s sipping bloggers, just plain weird kids in the back working on their latest D&D campaign. We are just people. And he, is just a Man.”
“Dual Spirituality is a possibility. In fact, it is encouraged. Multiple realities are possible. Poly-spirituality is acceptable. The only interconnecting philosophy among us is, ‘Anything is possible at any time for any reason’.”

The People are ready to receive The Holy Spirit and his unique brand of performance poetry,

“In the beginning, there was only The Word, a word. And then more. Which were collected into a story; The Story. And from The Story came creation.
And then came the questions. And The Question was man. Who are we? What are we? Why? Who am I?”
The Man explains,
“We are a beautiful blasphemy to God’s word because we question.”

Let me start with a parable,
“Once upon a time…
There lived a shy little boy and a chatty little girl. Though the two lived really close they never knew each other. That was until one day, the girl entered high school. They met for the first time on the school bus. The boy eavesdropped on her and for the first time spoke to her. Although she was especially irritated, the boy responded. It was with those words that a lifelong love blossomed…
‘You love me, you just don’t know it yet.’

Through the many trials and errors of high school life they grew together. And so, They lived happily ever after.”
“…Except, she didn’t. In this reality, she ran off with a rich older man while taking care of his dying wife, 5 years after those high school sweethearts were married.”
Years later, he would lament,
“It started with a broken heart. Through the crack seeped liquid fire. It engulfed me, burning away all that I was. The flames shall purify me. Boil me down to my base components, and then rebuild me. From the ashes will rise a new entity.
Who am I?”

“What can we learn from this,” asks the Man.

The first interrupter states matter-of-factly, “You are fire. You are love.”
A tie-dyed burnout rants, “Love is fire, Man. It burns. But it also warms and protects… Praise Allah.”
“Amen.”
“Bless you my son.”
“Hail Satan.”

“The last time I hear my heart…” says the bookish-looking woman sitting in the corner, trailing off as she adjusts her literal Coke bottle frames.
Now with ignition to her words, she quotes, “The last time I hear my heart was like a galactic ******. The ****** that made you and touches everything you made. Faith is attempting to live as though we are loved.”

A Drag King high fives her and says, “I liked the galactic ******.”

A torn up, steel-studded, leather clad punk continues, “Promise me you will live…
For nothing…
But the next moment.
No forgiveness, no damnation, only the match I strike on the heel of my boot.”

And then the automaton asks, “What of the devil: the original corruptor, the source of all evil?”

A gym rat, wearing a holey muscle shirt, extends an arm to point as he half sings, “The devil is a wicked man and wears a suit and tie. The devil checked in at noon and asked us, ‘What is the sleep of reason?’ You woke the devil I thought you left behind.”

“The Devil is due; the Devils do,” coos his boyfriend, the semanticist-*******.

The Man answers, “Is not the source of evil the same as the source of creation. Is it not evil to be so selfish as to create, with no concern for how creation will change everything.”

The Wiccan Princess retorts,
“Creation can be bought and sold.
Motherhood is a commodity.
Venus is for sale.
The nativity is shrouded in black.

We've streamlined your desire.
She was only offering an apple anyways.
And filled in that hole in her heart.

Here, we give her to you totally domesticated.
This one is costly, but so worth it.

You never will be worth it.
Earn enough
Be enough

Taste the salt of her tears on your tongue;
the salt of the earth.
She refuses to wear this crown of thorns.

In the eyes of your maker.
You should be ashamed.
To look your Maker in the eyes.”

Mama Evil attempts to chill her blaze, “Dear, the Anger is caged. It is the custom to call children who go to war, men…children of war die like men.”

Their daughter, the littlest girl in the world, coughed. A runny nose explained it, she had the sniffles. Nothing to worry about normally, but here, now? Right now the end of the world was in front of her. Flying saucers were floating down to slaughter the entire world with burning laser jelly. She coughed and picked up a remote with a wheel shaped dial.
“i drank too much pop and i gotta ***.” She said to no one in particular.
She turned the wheel shaped dial and a chorus of voices sounded. The chorus formed itself into an immense wall of sound made of bureaucrats, lawyers and politicians from another dimension. The littlest girl in the world kept turning the dial and saw the bureaucrats wash over the saucers, sending them back into space. The earth was safe, the littlest girl in the world smiled in relief.
And coughed.  

“It seems where demons fail and monsters falter, angels may prevail,” her mothers laughed.

Still incinerated, a goddess queen shouts, “We are the granddaughters of the witches you failed to burn.”

The crowd jostles and pulses like a living being. They are moved by the words they have heard. A chatter rises from them, much like the midnight sounds of the forest. "Who does she think she is?" "She said it. She sure said it." "I'm going to tell Moira all about it." An old woman near the back takes a swig from a bottle of wine she carries under her coat before passing it to a young woman in front of her.
"From fire, new life is born, too," she smiles, a crooked twist of the lips.

Rendered speechless and impotent, The Man abruptly closes this meeting with the usual send off,
“The Word has evolved, my friends.”
Oct 2019 · 123
Lords Temple Basement Men
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
Lords Temple Basement Men
The first Book of The Word
In Nonsense we Trust

Assembled from pre-existing works by John Burroughs, Ryan P. Kinney, Jack McGuane, Cee Williams, Don Lee, Susan Grimm, Joe Roarty, Russ Vidrick, Dianne Boresnik, Mitch James, Tanya Pilumeli, Julie Ursem Marchand, Vicki Acquah, Terry Provost, Adam Brodsky, Lennart Lundh, Raymond McNiece, Hannah Williams, MaxWell Shell, Tim Richards, Ayla Atash, RC (Bob Wilson), Chuck Joy, Katie Daley, Solomon Dixon, Mary Weems, and Gordon Downie
Mostly taken as quotes during live poetry readings. Some stolen from other sources.
Additional content from predictive text by JM Romig, Linkin Park “Powerless,” “Saga of the Swamp Thing” vol. 1, T.S. Eliot, Amalgam Mythos, Kurt Vonnegut, Kevin Smith, John A. Kinney Jr., and Psalms (chap.):13
Added original content by Ryan P. Kinney, Eli Williams, and Kadie Good

“Lords Temple Basement Men,” it says on the door in a badly photocopied sign, replaced freshly each week. The original was built from torn up pieces of bootleg band vinyl stickers left plastered all over the windows of some teenager, surely passed into decaying adulthood long ago.

They gather in the bottom of an abandoned house in the heart of mostly warehouses. Something, someone long ago forgot to bull doze in the wake of morbid industrialization and the zeal to just get more men more jobs while giving them no life, no place to live. They built in their own obsolescence.

A Man stands outside; half catcalling, half showman barker; daring, tempting, bribing people to worship with him. In paint stained torn jeans, long shaggy hair with the bald spot landing pad directly in the center of his head, and shoes barely hanging together on his feet, he bellows out The Word. Somewhere between slam poetry performance and theology lesson, he entices and seduces people to enter. Here, they do not call him Father, or Brother, just person:  Man.  “Hey, Man,” is how they great him.

"God not only loves a sinner, he prefers them.”
“Come to my parish. Sinners only”
“The lostness of the found, the blindness of the seeing, the spirituality of the atheist, the silence of the spoken.”
“The Covenant of the Sacred Heart.”

People enter a crooked doorway. The Man pulls the peeling door behind them, scrapping the ground as he does so, and leads his flock down the concrete stairs to the basement. Some newbie looks nervously into the stairwell.
From the rear, a maternal voice coos,
“You will be used to the treatments.
Don't worry about it.”
They come to a dingy dirt gravel floor and spread out; filling the space like gas expanding into a cylinder.

The Man steps upon his usual milk crate to open the service. He intones the Capitalist Mantra,
“God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies”

And the people chant, “I will not kiss you. I will not bow. I will not bow. I will not be moved.
I love the idea of what I have to be”

The maternal voice steps up to explain their purpose here,
“This is a strange, mad religious service. Everything is out of place, nothing and no one seems to fit together. We all gather here, but no one seems to-gether. This is less a sermon and more a discussion where the gospel is debated. The Word is critiqued, modified, discussed, and changes between its members at each meeting. At any time for no reason, people can interrupt The Man to deny, confirm, suggest, or challenge his statements. The group then decides on the next bit of gospel to be made up on the spot or if what has already been said is still the current phase of perspective. There is no central thought or plan, just a plan for thoughts. We, people, call this Faith. Our membership makes up a multitude. There are Baptists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, Satanists, Buddhists, Capitalists, hippies, goth kids, Starbuck’s sipping bloggers, just plain weird kids in the back working on their latest D&D campaign. Dual Spirituality is a possibility. In fact, it is encouraged. Multiple realities are possible. Poly-spirituality is acceptable. The only interconnecting philosophy among us is, ‘Anything is possible at any time for any reason’.”

The People are ready to receive The Holy Spirit and his unique brand of performance poetry,

“In the beginning, there was only The Word, a word. And then more. Which were collected into a story; The Story. And from The Story came creation.
And then came the questions. And The Question was man. Who are we? What are we? Why? Who am I?”

The Man explains,
“The whole point of The Word is to make up new ones. To defy God’s Word by creating ourselves.”

The first interrupter asks, “How do you say No to God.”

The Man answers,
“You don’t like The Question. You are The Question.
We are relearning how to get lost, hoping to return to the birth of The Word.
Worship yourself and serve only humanity.
No one made you.
You created yourself.
It’s all the same story. The Story of I.”

“We are a beautiful blasphemy to God’s word (because we question).”

“How do you say No?
You don’t.
By understanding there is no such thing as,
No, I can’t. Only I won’t.
It was.
It is.”

A torn up, steel-studded, leather clad punk responds,
“we see others as they are
we see ourselves at every age
and all at once”

And the Man once again responds,
“All that we can think. All that we can imagine. All that we can write, paint, create, feel. All of this is real; somewhere. Depends on which universal perspective you are tuned to. Don’t like the current program playing. Change the channel.”

The professor sitting on the floor, shoeless, begins to riff,
“Yes, this is like that piece about imagination being the genesis of other worlds. About how imagination, all thought, is really tapping multiple frequencies from other universes. Our imaginative creations spawn, tap into, and play back all alternate universes in a non-linear time sense. Cause and effect are not in sequence. All that we think, all that we can come up with creates new worlds, but also accesses those already in effect and plays them. We create worlds that already existed by the time we come up with them in our imagination. They were already there and human minds are organic quantum analog receiving-broadcasting devices. We randomly switch channels with nonlinear frequency, simultaneously, and with varying signal strengths of each universe. We receive, but also feedback into a greater signal. So, we unknowingly create these universes, while also being fed from our own creations. Never, in order. We are the Father and the Son. Our own creators and creations. Our words are the genesis of all the other worlds, but also speak the gospel of the programs already in progress. All that we can imagine is as real as we can conjure.”

A black goddess queen asks, “Then, what do you call God?”

The Man retorts,
“You don't need his name, because you remember the man.
The idea of a memory of a man.
Perhaps the idea is better, stronger, more important than the man.
The idea of a man.
Sometimes, people are the absence of themselves.
And the absence of man is God.”

The semanticist-******* unzips its mask and chimes in, “When you name something you separate it and take ownership of it. We never name ourselves. So I ask you, what is your name? What do you own?”

A tie-dyed burnout rallies a battle cry protest chant,
“Who's the Boss?”
“You.”
“Who's God?”
“You.”
“Who are you?”
“I am (me).”

Another voice screams from the crowd, "I'm a monster, I admit it."

Like a rolling wave, the chatter once soft, “I’m a monster” becomes a chant. Faster and faster the adrenaline rises up, the voices rise up, thunderous shouting fills the room, threatening to burst through the walls and escape into the sky. No longer fearing what others might think they raise their fists and beat their chests, unleashing the monster they tried so hard to hide. Shrieks and guttural instinctual roars, animalistic crawling and seething anger, move through the crowd like a pack of wolves ripping apart a coyote.
The screaming voices spill out,
“God has left long ago and has taken no pity on the lonely wanderer.”
“We are not Abraham or Jesus. We are forgotten.”
“We are the forgotten demons pushed out of Heaven.”
“Or maybe we never belonged there in the first place.”

The maternal voice returns, feeling the scorch of the unrequited emotion, seeks to soothe, “Thus mollified she goes, harsh words forgiven, down highways in the dark by demons driven.”

The Man, the original instigator, adds more fuel to the fire,
“And what drive does she possess that we do not?  To seek out, to be blind to the trapping of the darkness within this corridor? We must look and see how we too can move past the shame and blame of others.  To move past the trappings of our own guilt.  To take within ourselves, our demons, true, but take and guide and build the new.  A new life that we can’t ignore, and when we fall, we feel the scorn.  We feel the bad faith and lies that keep us entangled in the want-to-be-with, the fear to be-without. But we also have a fear to be, to exist in the place of a true “self” and live out our dreams. Though time keeps happening, we remain stagnant, we remain in the place of an inauthentic being, a being-for, not a being-with.  We must seek to be-with.  To be-with our demons, our past, and our temptations toward the dark, toward the place in which the I becomes.  To be. To exist. In this.  That is the place where the divine can breathe.  Though we must remember to always embrace change, for everything is temporary, including our own pain.”

Having spent all his feeling and words carelessly and frivolously, The Man abruptly closes this meeting with the usual send off,
“The Word has evolved, my friends.”
Oct 2019 · 276
I.B. Me
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
by Divine, Kadie Good, Bambi Cruz, gimad@mail.com, Mar Del Sol

The protruding odor illuminated my existence.
A stench to verify that I was there.
Smell me. Smell me.
I have a scent. I do not lament.
I reek not of recompense.

I am scared and lonely
I am going to succeed
I am not lost
I am here

The sum of our world:
Candle flames and forest fire
Thailand and Belgium
Public and local
All of our experience
Your tears from afar
The red sunset of a lake
Erie and Huron
World War to some peace
The world around shaped me
Like rocks to the rain.

The soul stands in a loud mind
Trying to listen,
but the ideas are listless.
It wants to be something.

Blank, without definition
Trying to understand being –
But failing, with each whim
Nothing, Trying, Coping
Lost and Without.
Oct 2019 · 107
Jigsaw Nyancon 9
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
The Only Thing You Taught Me
I can never be you, because I am me.
Duplicity of the self, the doppelganger
Is not me
A trial in accord with the laws of decrepity
I am a little broken
but time really will heal these wounds.

-by Divine
Assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney, Dr. Benjamin J. Anthony, and Mark Fleming
Oct 2019 · 115
Jigsaw Nyancon 8
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
The Who Am I quest, the purpose of life, hinges on this

I find beauty in everything. I see beauty in things that most people find disturbing and ugly. More so, I see beauty in the potential for beauty, the ugly duckling trapped inside a shell, the someone who has something small that is waiting to amaze the world.

Your trash is not only my treasure, it’s my sustenance. You may see garbage. I see endless possibilities. I am very resourceful. I can turn almost anything into something useful. I love found objects that have traveled and are weathered.

Try…                 So you might ask what does that mean?

reach Out      strive to         create better          hopes and dreams         be satisfied.

you're not alone
The coy


Bambi Cruz, bambicoy5878@gmail.com
Assembled from works by Chris Franke, Ryan P. Kinney, and Unknown
Oct 2019 · 98
Jigsaw Nyancon 7
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
Chloe-
“He’s a fun-having, fun-looking ***** boy.”

When you don’t look at the facts of
How he exists
Solitude, pensively
He tends to fall into one of these
Categories.
And when I lost myself
In his reality,
There was an Air of wanting
with Lust and Lost opportunities
He wanted to be everything he wasn’t
Portrayed himself as more than he was
Took with him no lessons
No learning.
He wasn’t Being.
He was Drifting.
And then without.
Distant. Disappeared.
And now I’m the one.
Who exists in solitude,
Pensively,
Still,

When you’re gone
I will love you more everyday


Original content by Kadie Good
Additional content assembled from works in The Lakelander, Lakeland Community College, Kirtland OH; and Ryan P. Kinney
Oct 2019 · 94
Jigsaw Nyancon 6
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
We will be naked and bare
Ugly and beautiful
Out from under the covers
Out of control
And into the light

You will be seen
No where to hide
Be proud, Be seen…

Your clock is ticking.
So do it,
Or do me.
Too many are lost.
Go find yourself.
Or go **** yourself.


Original content by Bambi Cruz; bambicoy5878@gmail.com
Other content assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney
Oct 2019 · 87
Jigsaw Nyancon 5
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
there was a bathtub of fantasies, assumptions and intuitions, a kitchen table you might want to give a good scrubbing before setting down placemats, if-onlys, and always alone when the pup wakes me up

The phantasmal words never spoken,
for the table is empty,
the chairs never bare,
The house is hollow

I will miss the conversation
flowing smooth and easy
like blue notes through
the scratched brass trumpet
that birthed the cool


- Original content by Divine
Additional content assembled from works by Cee Williams and Mark Fleming
Oct 2019 · 94
Jigsaw Nyancon 4
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
This is how we lived:
Dancing without invitation and warning
At a local food store grand opening.
It’s what we felt like.

We kept rhythm,
But I was falling behind.
I stopped quickly,
But I stumbled.

You’ll figure it
The same way you always do.
Trial and Error.


-Original content by Divine
Other content assembled from works by Lennart Lundh and Ryan Kinney
Oct 2019 · 103
Jigsaw Nyancon 3
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
I used to play hide and seek
with the truth
Seven knocks up front
The hidden man from the back.
now I’m just waiting to die
like everyone else
I hear the bad voice
My nerves take another hit
she moved my waters
and I took her virginity.
Ours was a love of necessity.
So please plug my ears
I didn’t live like she wants
Here’s to vices and virtues,
To living without apologies or regrets,
I can’t say goodbye
But his knife beckons me to
And somewhere in Arizona
in a box she never opened
is the rest of him.



Original content by Mar Del Sol
eggmanequine@gmail.com
Additional content assembled from works by J.M. Romig
Oct 2019 · 91
Jigsaw Nyancon 2
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
my oblivion
Beautiful humanity
the heart on fire
The **** is personal identity
In the hell of dusty memories
He created the Wasteland

by Mar Del Sol
eggmanequine@gmail.com
Oct 2019 · 96
Jigsaw Nyancon 1
Ryan P Kinney Oct 2019
like a paper ball,
I am better than anyone I have ever known.
I think,
Therefore **** the Earth
Punish me.
The lump created my throat in front of the E-MAIL



by gimad@mail.com
Assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney, Predictive text, and Unknown
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