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Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Warning: Use dis list in context.*

You decide on which side you fall.

disappear
disregard
disaster
displace
disqualify
disrepair­
disturb
dissipate
disability
dispose
dismal
distribute
distrust
­disturb
discriminate
discuss
disdain
disguise
dishearten
disinher­it
disown
disparage
disagree
disgruntle
disclose
discolour
disput­e
disarm
discover
disassemble
disadvantage
disallow
dispossess
di­scontent
discontinue
disrespect
disincline
discomfort
disrepute
d­ishonest
disillusion
dishonor
dismiss
disobey
disjoin
disappoint
­discipline
discord
discern
discrete
disfigure
disconnect
disappro­ve
discharge
disbar
disease
discord
disfavor
disengage
disassocia­te
discipline
discount
disembody
displace
dissaray
disembowel
dis­combobulate
discredit
discourse
disentangle
disenfranchise
disemb­ark
discard
disburse
disbelief
discover
disable
disagree
disinteg­rate
dismay
dispense
dislodge
disclaimer
disapprove
dissatisfy
di­srupt
dispel
dislike
dismantle
disloyal
disbatch
disrobe
disperse­
display
disaprove
disciple
disavow
disconcert
disinfect
disorder­
dismal
dismember
displease
dissemble
disunity
dislocate
distort
­distrust
distress
dissolute
disassociate
distill
discect (?)
distemper
distain
distasteful
distraught
dissolve
dissonant
d­issuade

And dis isn't de end.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2014
What I seek here is as a writer astutely commented “it was the pure breath of God playing on
Human heart strings” where better to start than an instrument that is played in such fashion
Solely by the wind its name is from ****** the Greek god of the wind my changeup calls for the
Wind of the one true God my line in lost friend not a person but a great black oak that grew on
A California ranch for over a hundred years in a storm it was destroyed the lines read this way
Two divergent seeds the ground did divide one of wooden grain the other flesh and blood
Their branches throughout the community do abide as charming as church bells ringing touching all the
Flesh and blood pertains to the ranch family that was so honored by this majestic guest all those years
That’s what I am speaking of bells are associated with the Aeolian harp because their sound is carried on
The wind crisp and clean without contamination this is written that we might prepare ourselves and
Have the pure spirit blow across our souls and from it have a better year ultimately a better life first in
These examples we will move closer to the Aeolian harp you will see this isn’t just living but its
Excelling in the richest spheres our lives can and must strive for this magnificence we are not
Just here just to expend time and enjoy ourselves we are to be in pursuit of a great and eternal
Reward there are many stratus of life others are in earthy terms more advanced that is only on
Social levels in the spirit we truly are equal each according to their gifts will answer on a same
Plane fair and honest judgment so that alone should birth passion in each one I want to be the
Best I can be not to out show another but to present our selves honorably and show we put in
The same effort as others first know all are not chosen to have such dramatic tunes of the harp
To drift across life’s varied landscape ours still will be unique and the highest tunes possible and
Will resound with glory we ourselves to a degree will be pleasantly surprised truly so it will be
Determined on the closeness we have with His Holy spirit when I first heard the harp was in
Hannibal Missouri I was in this rich place of American story telling the boy hood home of
Samuel Clemens better known as Mark Twain I was on the river frontage road the great
Mississippi was to my right but I wasn’t thinking of Tom Sawyer my thoughts weighed heavy on
My mind I was far away up by Chicago at a church where brother and Sister Willis was pastor
Then back in the present here in Hannibal this was their home town a beautiful blonde eight
Year old was their pride and joy life was full she had a older brother who was ten it was a
Musical joyous life and then dark ominous clouds rolled in one so filled with life small and
Gentle it was one of the cruelest and terrifying cancers sorry even her death was terrifying in
The midst of tears and anguish they prompted the Aeolian harp to play they brought her home
To this historical place that became so much more rich and sacred when they lay her in the
Cemetery it came as a rush it over powered my emotions in my mind I saw her waiting for that
Great call the dead in Christ will rise first and meet him in the clouds of glory then those still are
Living will be caught away with him this young heartbroken father and mother with
Out hesitation or actuation by faith and trust they continued and shortly thereafter they started
And completed a larger church the richness of the harp reached across the lost community
Families in peril confused and lost had their ears and hearts opened by the lives of these
Faithful Parents it’s not just about making heaven but look around you at the great and terrible
Day of Judgment the great white throne and He who sets there once the savoir now the judge
Of the world you have others standing there with you as you look at them you can’t help to
Look Beyond His great light and see out in the darkness the deadly silent crying trembling lost
That no one reached or worse they wouldn’t listen the next story of the harp is about Frank
Bartleman the great man God used to bring modern Pentecost to America through the gate of
Azusa St Los Angels he arrived in Los Angeles with his wife and two young daughters December
22 January his oldest daughter three year old Easter was seized with convulsions and passed
Away he echoed the word from Ester little Queen Ester seemed to have been born for a time such
As this Esther 4:14 “Beside that little coffin with heart bleeding I pledged my life anew for God’s
Work In the presence of death how real eternal issues become of all the music LA has produced
None comes close to the sounds made by the Aeolian harp that day all the days since and all
The Souls whose shouts resounded then and now what joy bells are ringing throughout the
Years you read this the harp cuts thorough every excuse every denial we make when His love is
Calling over pastoral fields over head white clouds azure blue sky a single white dove the son of
Man personally calls to you I love you you’re missing so much following the false and deadly
Trends of this world come let me pull you close your land a waste land of just material things in
My presence unquestioned exception hurts carried for years will be healed only as a father can
Do your guilt will be forever cast away moral purity that your soul cries for will be heaped in
Your life no longer dark shadows that haunt but real true life that satisfies to the uttermost it
Will heal bring new understanding addictions are flimsy bindings that hold only because you
Seek all things that are rooted in disfavor my favor knows no bounds and you will be free I will
Breathe my spirit and you will know the Aeolian harp tunes and breathtaking wonder will swirl
Through your mind heart and spirit Heaven will displace the black strangle hold of this world
Centered anew the rays of the cross and my love breaks every yoke true freedom is yours for
time and eternity
Spectrous aberrations of youth
Surround him, embrace him
Leaving him disoriented, dismayed
Amidst sultry belongings
He’s tethered to that pole of vicissitude
Draped by disfavor
Postmarked Valhalla
Addressed to Folkvangr
Teased by irreverent lovers
In pursuit of contentment
His chronicles restart
In an unpublished testament
Bound by leather, cows unfettered
One lifeless body stationary
Crimson streams part chalk-dry lips
As love’s guillotined victim drips
His future’s fortune forsaken
Willingness to triumph in battle
Leaks from this dimension
With each fluxing discharge
Of her stream’s outgoing apathy
And his fluid permeates alluvium
In streambeds near life’s summit
softcomponent Feb 2015
What made Anthony so elaborately cold in those early autumn months? What made him glare so sourly at my exhaustion whenever I slithered past his adonis figure in our overwhelmingly ***** kitchen? Was I the quintessence of a terrible roommate? Irresponsible? Ditzy? Was the kitchen—in its pig-trough pig-sty bacon-grease glory—tacitly my fault, despite the observation it'd been I who had purged the mess last? Or was it my drug habits and the fact that on the night Anthony returned from his impulsive trip to Alaska, I was with Chris—blasting Bob Dylan and the Tallest Man on Earth—cradling my chin on the jean-sand islands of my cramping knees, high as a shuttle in the ketamine nebula? These were all questions that stoked the fires of internal doubt whether I liked it or not. People pretend to talk themselves out of status anxiety as if it were possible to entirely neutralize such a natural reaction—as if it were possible not to wonder what earned such irrational disfavor in the eyes of another. Especially when “another” is a roommate, an almost omnipotent staple in day to day life even if efforts are taken to ignore or avoid—a constant weave of growing atmospheric pressure and a pang of anxiety at the sight of his shoes or the sound of his grunts and clangs while at work on a meal in the kitchen—of course, as is obvious, I can take things far too personally. But there were points in which his silence or indifference would scare me—as if he might've wound up a psychopath and broke my neck in a fit of overboiled passive-aggression.
To be fair and give the reader a clearer picture of Anthony, he had—historically—been an incredibly generous fellow and a relatively close friend long before we approached one another on the idea of potential roommates. He was large in build—not overweight in any sense—but incredibly fit with an active agenda to exercise and eat right, both habits of which I had never had the stamina to maintain. Girls loved him. Physically, he was gorgeous—puffy curled hair deliberately stylized into a modern European pompadour; dark hazel eyes with a constantly evolving dynamism in the way they gazed... and a masculine stubble that seemed to naturally grow-out to look as posh as David Beckham, just without all the effort and pomp. Mentally, he was the perfect synthesis of adorable geek, thoughtful philosopher, and strikingly suave, dapper, athletic, and goofy 'good-guy'—he was always out with his friends or at home reading Terry Goodkind's fantasy novels, and on occasion I would see that his looks were almost burdensome to him. As if they were a superfluous gift and a personal curse—constantly forcing him into social over-exertion as an extrovert when he, at heart, was a closet introvert unable to disentangle his self-reflective image from his internal reality. As if he were unable to process the amount of attention he received.
I had tacitly wondered, at times, if he was also in-the-closet regarding something else as well, though I had always admired his effeminate qualities and mannerisms as he never once hinted at a negative self-consciousness about their strange manifestations in open view of the world. Externally, at least, he never acted like they were problems or indicative of some internal lack of found-definition, even on the comical occasion when I walked in on him bathing on his lonesome, quietly listening to Miley Cyrus and playing with a troupe of three rubber duckies—the bathroom light off and several candles burning in aesthetically strategic corners of the room. He also constantly brewed tea using an adorable teapot designed to look like an elephants head, with the hot liquid pouring from the Disney-like characters trunk. This—I reflected—was most certainly connected to his love for the 1941 children's classic, Dumbo. It was a movie he and I held in common, having watched it together on multiple occasions before our cohabiting turned sour. Of course, what was most indicative of this private wandering judgement of mine was the fact that he worked at the city's only gay bar as the youngest bartender employed. At 1 AM every night, all the bartenders (whom were pre-screened eye candy for the patrons' sake) would peel off their skin-tight neon tops and romp around shirtless, shouting last-call through the bright-eyed frey of top 40 hits and cannonading flirtations.  
Not that I wish to put him under the microscope, as if any feminine qualities in a man were something strange or problematic to me—nor do I wish to study his mannerisms like a condescending anthropologist of imperial Britain, establishing pathological definitions for what was never an illness to begin with. No... I ask these questions because he decided, one day, that he didn't like me. I ask these questions because I came upon him in the living room multiple times listening to Alan Watts's lectures on taoism—a strange anxious-emptiness behind his eyes—and when I began to worry he was dipping into some sort of existential depression, I approached him with an Alan Watts book—The Wisdom of Insecurity—in order to make a recommendation and strike up therapeutic conversation on the basis of  a philosopher we had in common. As I did so, he would frantically nod and avert eye-contact, hiding any perturbation well enough for me to assume he was still with me as I spoke. I later found the book on top of the fridge and placed it back on my shelf thinking, 'he probably has a ton to read as is.' It only became apparent when I finally decided to ask him if he was unhappy with me—this was about 2 weeks before he finally moved out—and he responded with, “I've definitely been annoyed that you use my stuff and eat my food all the time without compensation or asking,” which I understood at first until I realized I only did so because he did the same—constantly eating my cereal, using my milk, reorganizing my couches in the living room—but I didn't mind because I assumed it was a reciprocal arrangement and thus took his eggs and his bacon on the assumption (and belief) in pooled communal resources. But he continued: “And you talk at me all the time about things I have no interest in which is kinda frustrating,” which confused me even further when it was only friendly concern I was tacitly attempting to translate into his feeling wanted and liked by the person he lived with. These words, in the end, released the built-tension between us like a bursting pressure valve. He eventually apologized for how he'd behaved, and then largely disappeared from my life.

Sometimes I'll be brushing my teeth, and I'll wonder if he's doing alright. I'll wonder if he found his taoist balance in either silence or speech.
originally written as a personal assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class.
Mark Lecuona Dec 2014
Our world has become a mistaken image
Our bones buried in common rage
We pray to God our souls to keep
And judge ourselves by our favorite page
But what sin has retained our disfavor?
You are of this land, in which you take stock
You know its pain but give it to another man
Because he was born a flower and not a rock

¿Por qué se le tiene miedo a su corazón?
¿Por que hombre?
¿Por que?

Did God give you a sword
Or send a dove?
Was his strength for oppression
Or compassion?
Was every soul made for hate
Or for love?
Is vengeance yours alone
Or nailed to the cross of passion?

¿Por qué intentas daño a tu corazón?
¿Por que hombre?
¿Por que?

Do you wish to rise holding their chains
Or to give them wings
Do you wish to be buried with armor
Or with good deeds?
Do you wish to close the gates behind you
Or bring them all?
Do you wish that God would set fire upon us
Or tear down the wall?

¿Por qué están tratando de matar a tu corazón?
¿Por que hombre?
¿Por que?

We must exist together
Though we may not understand
We were taught to love one another
And to never raise our hand
We must use rocks to line the garden
And not destroy what grows within
For what another man may desire
Only God can comprehend

¿Por que hombre?
¿Por que?
The town where I grew up (Laredo, Texas) was recently outed as being extremely homphobic. I was disappointed to hear this new though I was not surprised. This is my response...
J R Cramer Nov 2018
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.

I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.

I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;

How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.

That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.

My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.

My dad was still living.

That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.

I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.

I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.

I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.

The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.

I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
~~
Cloud seems sky height tall
Still limitless,
To remove from the bean
Need to stand up once again
Sometimes might be disfavor
A little away, a purple garden
Rather you hold a dream poem
For the New Sunshine
Somewhere Someone preparing
your birthday cake in the oven
Off course to bring a new day
yet there, a night of moonless May
~~
********
**********
Marigolds Fever Sep 2018
Snow cone twists
Far ivory countryside
Season’s change exists
A stern mother nature’s pride
Foothills that resemble cream pies
Coating pointy flakes a mile high
Birds take cover
To find a feathery mother
Try to resist nature’s feverish fight
And hide from the silvery night  
Moon beams its pearly opals
Thru rainbow colored window chapels
In the nest
Little birds try their best
Huddled up
Till daybreak
They might delight
In the white sparkle sunlight
Snowy course
A bitter adventure for the strong farmhorse
Powder puff
It kicks it up like dust
Spring a strong sense
With snow that is no longer dense
Temperatures waver
An ice storm disfavor
Crystal drops
From frozen tree tops
The chirps begin
With a little more earthly spin
Melting snow
Begins to flow
Moving water a strong force
Becomes quite the
Snowy watercourse
shåi  Apr 2017
lost identity
shåi Apr 2017
'what do you
want to be when
you grow up?'

'what do you plan
to do with your life?'

'you can't make money
doing
that....'

this age old question
acts as
the intersection
between dreams
and reality

people ask this question
and i am rendered speechless
a voice lost in the
howling wind of promise

their piercing,
expectant gaze
like paparazzi
cameras

i put on a mask
my own shadows
loom in the night

'oh maybe,
i'll be a nurse
or a pharmacist'

i am safe
as warm approving
nods beckon

'oh i want to be
a writer'

nods turn
to disfavor
like a star
falling out of the sky

when has
authentic happiness
become a servant
to dishonest disinterest?
(b.d.s.)
follow your dreams
Onoma  Feb 2015
Beauty's Sitters
Onoma Feb 2015
An aesthetic storm settled in the
wee hours of creation.
What of it strikes favor or disfavor?
Beauty's immediacy comes with
fatalistic sweep--demanding
principle, demanding ground.
Unveiled beyond time constraint
all over our world--in praise, in
revulsion, eyes score the gamut.
As if image begs love, to be so...
or unrequited.
What's plain of light exposes all
flaw or beauty in a single sitting.
The sitters vary the material world,
with eyes creation asks us to paint
what we see.
The eyes paint the sitter if the sitter
be deemed beautiful, instantaneously
sight's canvas may be left cold...
burdened.
Beauty aspires to affirmation of being,
to have it echoed.
Beauty's lain raw, holds what's held it--
as such...desolation is easy.
Eyes bespeak their volumes...beautiful
or ugly?
A sightly, unsightly moment given to the perpetual.
Epidemic pageantry--ordered by creation
make due...irregardless.
If beauty--eyes are for you--if ugly...eyes
are not.
Thus...of being, of affirmation, of visible,
of invisible--you...beauty are.
Andrew Thomas  Jul 2011
My Paths
Andrew Thomas Jul 2011
If I said that I loved my life that wouldn't be the truth,
but if I said that I hated it, I'd still be lying,
it's not what I wanted for myself when I was a youth,
**** it, I don't care, I'm gonna keep on trying,
to get with this dream in which the means stay unseen,
to do what I want and and still fulfill what I need,
to get to the top and still remain humble,
to catch my happy ending no matter much I've fumbled,
I'll go through the trials, I'll pay all my dues,
and I won't just be another of the million ******' yous.
I'll stay strong even though I have substantial weakness,
I'll keep positive when it seems like naught but bleakness,
I can have my cake and eat it if I pick a different flavor,
One step at a time, walk the line, out of my own disfavor.
My life is my own, no matter what you have told, just need to find a new perception,
Though it's drastically altered, the life of the father does not end at conception.
When his mom left, I lost my son in my mind,
in dark times, I went out in public to hide,
the drink was my best friend, my lover,
I couldn't tell one day apart from another,
when I went to bed every night, my thoughts were the same,
what's the best place in my house to tie a rope to hang,
Then I wanted to just leave, go Californi-way,
but my sanity resurfaced, begging me to stay,
told me I need to stop thinking just of what I want now,
get this veil in front of my eyes to lift somehow,
I need to fight for what's really important,
and I can't do it all, I'm not omnipotent,
but the worst fear that I've ever ******* had,
is my son to not know me, not recognize his dad,
so no matter what, that's objective number one,
and for once in my life, I won't hide, I won't run.
Rap's not my career, I’d like it to be,
but the eight ball says, “Outlook is bleak”,
So I went back to school, to get a degree,
cause sometimes you gotta tie yourself down to be free.
Not what I dreamed as a kid, but I'm not a kid anymore,
I'm getting with the idea of being a capitalist *****,
The great thing about dreams is that there's malleable,
I don't have to give up if one goes unfulfilled,
A fork in the road is not a dead end,
and my soul's not yet so broken that I can not mend.
So I'll walk this path, doing what I'd rather not,
so that in the end I'll have what I really want,
the respect of my son, and life free of poverty,
a home on the water, whatever body it may be,
and when I close my eyes for my final rest,
to review my life with minimal regrets.

— The End —