Listen up, caviling charlatans.
Forgo the sporadic rebuff,
luminous is the dark
and shaded is the light,
the path to endless days.

If the vagabond's respite
is fraught with retribution,
why continue in shambles,
instead, covet his ways.
Don't lament the shadows,
cry for illuming rays.

This is the other side of sanity!
I think to myself,
a riddle in the middle of chastity, vanity?
what is it that I have to say?
Is this not another day or is it a play?
Vaguely we are tossed into this
post hence I have seen the other side-
this day with you...this day that never came.
I will not be able to tell the difference of pleasure
or pain.

I am still lost dreaming on to the memory,
you stood there in the middle of high school square
doe-eyes intent, hidden behind you're intense
endless hidden truth, your boyish youth.

A dream of gazing into those eyes some day,
I never wanted to say goodbye or go away,
this world carried me to the "other side" and it was
"too late," I was unable to "succeed." Who am I
to seek this "other side?" In the sky?
What we never do? Call this "side" what you will,
but in the end I would have gladly battled madly
through hell for a chance to share your world with you.

Oh, here I go again, blithering sadness, sad poem!
Look to the skies when you're alone, then maybe
on the clearest of nights when this whole world
they've built of stone is gone you will finally find out
how beautiful you are so.
Even if I never got to see you understand this or
spend another day with(out) you...you are all
I can't get off my mind no matter how hard I try
I will continue to see you can't forget you
Even in my wildest

A blithering fool I am. I bring some more tasty, poetic food to a full table of empty people again.
The smell of decay is swept over, with a savory draft of nauseous meat.
Close that fluttering trap, sit the **** down and warm your seat.
Here's a bottle of whines for your *******. Eat, meet and greet, and please, this Filet Mignon is too tough for my teeth.
Seething in impatient anger, Lisa demands another plate. Complacent waitress Marie patiently escapes the bubble of her "high class" greed. She then tells the cook for another steak, medium-well please! Geez, what a smile planted on her face, while she comes out to face the *****, condescending looks of a rich, shrewd couple that doubles a shroud of negativity, which makes poor Marie's day an even more stressful activity.
A chest full of kindness she displays to great lengths, but the couples' stuck-up, ******-up attitudes stinks worse than a pig pen in May. Paul and Lisa brings **** to everyone's fun parades. The stakes are high, while the next course swings by. Bring us some cookies, brownies, and ice-cream cones pronto! Not a smile, but smirk, as she rushes to grant the picky requests from rude folks. She looks dazzling, even amongst the mess. Then she trips and falls, hurling a tray of glasses. A swirling disaster, shards of glass spray everywhere amongst the upper-class masters. A blast of laughter erupts from Paul and Lisa's direction. Sitting smug, they look the happiest they've been in months. Quite the ugly reflections, marriage fights, and failed Republican elections. Careless customers rush by and look down dirtily upon her inspection. They just continue on their way to their seats of self-destruction. Waitress Marie brings herself to her knees, no helpful hands to her silent pleas. Co-workers agree that this couple is a messy infection. Marie finally stands and rushes to a bathroom to medicate her bleeding arm. Her charm dwindling away, as a swarm of classy critters, with dresses that glitters, shove her out of their important way. Feeling dismayed, she wraps up her ****** display. Great, she awaits the end to this hellish day. Amazed, her courage to carry on this shift of the shattered positive arrays is swift. She gracefully drifts out and back to her table of dreams. Amidst two faces of schemes, Paul and Lisa want their checks, with upset eyes that traces the lines on her worried forehead. A smile brings light back to her face of beauty, the couple continue to be snooty, making rude comments on her round *****. Marie rushes to get their expensive checks, and comes back with pen and paper. She gently begins to lay them down on the table, but instead, they're snatched from her grasp. Taken by surprise, she gasps. Her hands clasped, she smiles thinly at half mast. She says she hopes they enjoyed their meal, but they just laugh, leave their seats, and storm on past her in a flash. The waitress looks down at the checks, inspects, and feeling dread from within, as no tip lines we're filled in. Brimming with fury, she blinks away her frustration.
She then decides to go clean her station. As the night comes to a close, I'll finish up this crazy poem. Here's some food for thought to swallow. Be careful not to choke.
I hope this satisfies you, so wish Marie luck, for a brighter tomorrow.

each day is new.
each life is measured re-ified or ified,
--- but 1.0 can't think past named things and their uses.
--- 2.0 must have an intuition of good begetting
that includes 1.0 gnosis of aim in an immediate way.

Oh. Here's a map.
Like Disneyland as a mall...
or DC with the alu-mini-um pyramid on top.

A schema instantiation, says the blithering flow
charting our course to
sapins sapiens augmentatious
It's obvious,
the children shall all be 2.0 in 1.0 mechanical material;

the tree of knowledge was all inclusive.
hence, the POV development circuits
are cross sired-wired dialecticalishit

seen innerish, not clearly but
seen, men as trees sorta thing.
not blind
but not visionary in a professional
TED talk worth
attending to after eight straight.

The time on earth is variable.
The cost/value of a duration is perimental,
be
coming here
being still
unborn in silken wombs
--- chirp

there are ground squirrels in California
which chirp
incessant chirp chirp chirp with

enough variety in volume tone and frequency,
to make old Morse Code five-letter code groups
come rattling through the radioman's head.

killit.
no, focus, do some meditatishit mind over world,
silken swaddles to moth or...

squeeking wheel gits the grease.
grease it, no, go to the squirrel and trigger its
cog that has no
cognition save intuition. Click.

look it in the cute little squirrel eye.
see it see you, say to it, shut up.

it don't blink. it don't shut up.
bold rodent,
I AM MAN. I shout, it squeeks,
gnoshit,
no cognitive over ride of intuition to fear the man,
is thinkable.
It is a squirrel.

It don't mean nothin'. A curse o' apophrenia on ye.

Bubbles in bubbles, foaming Being
Thoughts resolve to gearish
imaginations
cogs and gears and wheels whirling through some
filtering of needless data informing points
big
number
dimensional, scale and distance, durational
direct
measure in systems
for value and balance,
with no true vacuum, but the idea,

the null-set. Where never happens and nothing is.

We twist hard here.
The torque is what jects
the ob at the sub, via a
mechanical cam-shaft, pusher-puller-twister system
mit ein trigger, which we
click.
Think.
Who is writing my part in the book of life?
I asked me, you are not here, but
in my mind I hear replies more wise than I was
inclined
to imagine
a common man of common gifts can be for
believing
magic has always been
what magi know how to do for goodness sake.
Magi. Heros.
Not a no knack common man, wombed or un.

Peace nullifes any reason War-corroded minds can
calculate,
the numbers prove it all. Count the stars.
Use your augmented eyes, search your global memory,

run the numbers, nullify time with eternity,
subtract the works of darkness,
(don't delve into the details, you can imagine hell some other time)

----
A Valis idea, stuck between my chew-eschew-awarea
P.K. ****, trips, bags, and scenes
as became the cliche'.

Let 'em imagine any thing, define the terms and force
agreement for access.

Insider wannabe, do you agree, come and see? Or
do you dare to challenge

the common sense of all man kind as represented in Christ
of Nicea and Abeka Books, from Pensacola, Florida,

Whoa, rock the box, make bubbles cavitate the prop,

spinnin wheels like the Bismark's final bow.

--- i'm un comfortable and I don't know why.
--- a feeling
--- those are mocked as meaningless, by apathetic slobs.
--- so easy being a ***, ethos pathos logos, ***
--- comic relief
--- in mortal moments of turmoil and confusion as things are stirred.

All that could be shaken, was shaken.
All that could be strained, was strained.
All that mercurial messages could mean, was meant.

We lie in wait, wishing cogs and cogitate was as symbiotic
a thought as we thought while thinking

earlier
Art is artificial intelligence. Imagine that. A.I.

Demiurge, my cultural osmosis of vocalizings,
left me thinkin' a demi urge
is a little urge, a diminutive urgekin,

urging me to be
creative, let that lil' light shine, Marjoe

these being public displays at the edges of some of the bubbles,

bubs, some kid just shook my bottle

to pretend the wine was moving of itself, making turmoil

careful as in accurate art-iculation, this is not realist materialist
gasping
grasping for
dignity, stalwort, courage, responsibility

we are yet legions, industrial models
used to build swords with motors,
when we come to America, we join the unem.
We, the people's industrial war complex, merge
with the abandonded gods Neil Gaimon pointed out,
formin a loose unity of spirits, engines and factories and artisans

self-defined, an unum from many, on a national scale,

Da deme demotic da-emonic conspiracy of steam, incorporated
with dwarven knackeristics of old,
fur usin' Hermes as a river to call gold to our rule maker,
food bringer, h'laf weard, Lord of the loaf.

Listen,

illiterate heathen, my Grandma said we'd be if we did not know the story
after hearing it told three times.
Third time's the charm.

We were weighing your worth,
got hooked on a breeze from the broom sweeping this
pile of parts and pieces of what you imagined being worth

that's not much more worth than one in eight millions of millions,
of you kind, unless you earned admitance to the inside

externalization of imagination
pro-ject that on next---
stop. Imagine all that
and guess... ob or sub... its your roll.

I'm the door, says the door. I have no key, it says to me,
come and see,

the progress regress con tro tra la la la

That rascal who just wondered by on Youtube

com a part mentalized, an urge to count the cost

ungrateful and thanksgiving
curse and bless
sweet and bitter from one fount, that ought not be, but
it is possible, all things are,
it can be evil, but
on
discovery
such a curse is not worse than miss fitting a taken point,

we ethos pathos logos ourselves, we say, my domain,
bad
poetry can have good ideas in it. Ah, I see.

Humble your self under the mighty hand of that which has been
given the joystick,

eh, what if a lie is running your ranking order?
careful articulation?

Jackson Pollack step up, this carefulness of art,
answer that for me.

Ah, the hero, around whom thy sun wraps, what haps ever after,

you get old and the world changes against your wish.

do you believe in God.
I do, the one Jesus believed in,

by my leave, my letting a true thing be

happily, after a life of seeking for another path.

The earth is round.

Are there ideas that cost, in the use?
Is there an ancient of days account
of idle words

verbs given for acts, as seen done, from an earthling POV
idle verbs that call no act
lest the cost come clear, daemonitic tech that seems magic,
blessing cursing and claiming to heal, all
mere art... the ability to be like Jesus, that knack

there was a wise man, as he was sweeping his way one day,
his daemon, who had the assignment,
reported finding meaning
in being filled
to over flowing, have you boasted that? Never?

Did you ever shed a tear for another's pain?

You know, pathos, commonality of us all, or you know
not
and the sufficiency of evil is calling you to be the inner hero,
making room for truth
in a heart fed lies from the womb.

After all is said and done. Believe the truth makes free
upon the point of knowing the story.

Love is a verb I seldom use. I dared redeem it for future use.
It cost me dear reader.
there are verbs we abuse at a terrible price. Paid. Not by me.

Show's over, Radioman morphed to Grandpa and Oliver
watching the real world turn beneath the sun,
relative to an earthling POV. The day's sufficiency of evil all swept away.

There is no safe place
No where to hide
No where that feels safe inside
There is no safe place
You can’t run away
When it’s your own mind that drives you insane
There is no safe place
When the panic penetrates your soul
When there is no where left to go
There is no safe place


They follow me everywhere, whatever they are. They whisper things in my ears; evil nasty things in the breathy voice that only belongs to dying men. They scare me; telling me to **** people for no reason, planting evil thoughts like that in my head, I hate them. They tell me to hurt myself badly; they tell me how much better the world would be without me. They told me once that I was insane. I questioned them, why would I be insane? You’re talking to the voices, they cackled at me. Only one thing came to mind in response to that, *******. Why do they have to be so evil, so scary? Are they the voices of the Devil? Is this like in a T.V. show when you have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other? If it is, then where’s the angel’s voice? Maybe the devil already owns my soul, Maybe I sold it to him in a past life. Or maybe I’m just insane. Yeah…they are right. I am insane. I should be locked in an insane asylum somewhere and never let out. But the government banned those years ago…Guess that puts a damper on that idea.
Did I mention? They aren’t just voices. Oh no, no, no. They have shapes. They are people. Evil, malicious people. I call them the devil’s people. They only find me at night, after all the voices of dying men have gone to sleep. That’s when the people come. They come every night, whether they stay for a moment or remain long enough to move towards me, bringing forth the suffocating smell of sulfur and death. Sometimes they’re small, harmless. They took on the form of a baby once. He was lying on the floor one second and was gone the next. He hasn’t come back since. There are a lot of them that come once and never return, but some come again and again. There’s a man, a rather large man. I have never seen his face, only the shining knife in his hand. Sometimes he’ll move from my open door to my bed where he’ll lean over me, knife in hand, whispering, you’ve been a bad boy. A very, very bad boy. The knife will rise up, pausing in the air for suspense and plummet down towards my heart. But it always disappears just as it grazes my sweat-drenched skin. I can’t help but fear for my life when I see him. If these people or spirits or whatever are real, then I can’t figure out why they haven’t harmed me yet. But then again, they’re probably just hallucinations. The voices speak truth, at least some times.
The man’s presence is definitely the most threatening, but it’s not the most frightening. The little girl is the only one who has disturbed me so badly that I had to flee from my room. There is something about her that is just not right. She always appears kneeling on the floor, face held in hands, and sobbing heavily. She wears a white dress that flows around her as she shakes and her undoubtedly once golden curls hang lifelessly behind her shoulders, appearing more gray than golden. She never does anything but sit there on the floor crying. She cries so much that I have at times feared that water will seep through my floor and drip into whoever’s apartment is beneath mine. Her tiny hands always clutch her face, I’ve no idea what she looks like, and I’ve never seen her face. On her pudgy arms there are numerous bruises, cuts and scars. I thought at first they were self inflicted, but they were too numerous and the wounds seemed far too severe for a young child to have done. Perhaps she was abused. That would make more sense, but why anyone would ever want to harm a girl that was once so beautiful. I’ll never understand.
When I see her kneeling on my floor, it’s almost as if she radiates the extreme pain that she is forced to carry for all eternity. She ***** the life out of you; she makes everything seem so pointless, like no matter what you will end up battered and bruised just as she is. The sorrow she brings upon you is enough to make you jump out the window even if your life was going just fine, no not just fine, if your life was perfect, she would still make you jump. Every time I see her, it feels as if she takes a little more of me away. The fear, the depression is so intense that the feeling will never leave you. It may hide in your subconscious mind, but it will never ******* leave!

My apartment is a whole different world at night than it was during the day. During the day, all they could do was talk to me, make me go insane. (Even more so than I already am) But those are just voices. They can hurt sometimes, oh how they hurt you so bad sometimes. But pictures are worth a thousand words. The figures will scare the **** out of you. They could easily turn even the strongest of men into blithering idiots.
I was dreading whoever was coming to visit me tonight already as I splashed cold water onto my face. I could already tell that tonight was going to be hell. My day hadn’t gone well. The voices had been speaking to me constantly. They wouldn’t stop. They all spoke at once, yelling over each other, fighting for my attention. The one that was loudest was shrieking, Insanity! Insanity! You’re a mad man! Lock yourself in the closet before you ****…before you ****….My heart would take off at amazing speeds after those words, but I gave it no more consideration than the others received. That doesn’t mean it didn’t send chills down my spine though. It definitely did that.
Before you ****…The voice echoed once more in my mind as I wiped my face off with the towel. I immediately glanced at the mirror to see if maybe someone was standing behind me. I saw nothing but myself. I saw my grayish eyes staring right through me. I saw the heavy wrinkles and dark circles around my eyes. I haven’t slept a whole night through in years, no matter how many sleeping pills I take. They always come….No matter what.
No doubt about it, they would come soon. I climbed into my bed and wrapped the sheets around me. They smelled of freshly washed linen. They were soft on my skin and a comfort to my heart. It feels so much safer when you’re completely covered with pillows and blankets. Maybe if I fell asleep before they could get here I would be safe…Yeah then I’ll be safe. Just relax I told myself, relax and rest, the sun hasn’t even gone down yet. You’re safe. At least I am for now.

I woke up trembling from the cold. I was afraid I would be able to see my breath soon enough. I reached down towards my feet only to realize that all my sheets had fallen on the floor. That couldn’t be good. Goose bumps crept all over my body as I dared myself not to look down. But of course, curiosity got the better of me. That was when I saw her. She was kneeling on the floor cradling her head in her hands. I stared only long enough to see her shake violent and gasp for breath through her tears.
I couldn’t look any longer. I rolled over and faced the wall. My heart was going a mile a minute. I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples; I could hear it in my ears. I was shaking uncontrollably, not from the cold but from shear terror. If she would only just leave…Why does she have to torture me? Can I not sleep a single night in peace? Why me? Why me? Is there anywhere I’m safe? Anywhere I can sleep in peace? Undisturbed? That would be lovely. But I gotta be realistic here, it just isn’t gonna happen. Hasn’t happened since I was five years old.
Wait…? What exactly am I afraid of here? She’s simply a little girl. She’s sad but only a little girl. She probably just wants help right? She’s not gonna hurt me. She isn’t like that man. I took my eyes away from the wall and turned towards her once more. What I saw made my heart drop through the floor.
She was still sitting there. Sobbing into her hands. But this time I saw blood. It was on her dress. I realized that tears were streaming down my face, flowing like a river. I felt empty, like the depression had taken my mind over completely. I was simply a body, nothing more. All I could bring myself to do was stare at the heartbreaking sight. Whether it was the fear that wouldn’t let me move or the sadness of it all, I’ll never know. But I kept watching.
Her body stopped shaking so violently and her sobbing ceased for a moment. I was breathless. She had never stopped before. She sat there for a while and I stared, afraid to move, afraid to blink. A drop of blood fell from between her fingers and landed on her silky dress. I took a sharp breath in and whimpered like a frightened puppy. She was bleeding; I’d never noticed that before. She’d never stopped crying before. And here she was simply sitting there holding her face.
Until she heard me. She whipped her head in the direction of the sound like a hunting wolf would at the snap of a twig. I swear that on that moment whatever sanity was left in me completely vanished. I was drenched in sweat and my head throbbed with every frantic beat of my heart. I might as well have been holding a pistol to my temple in a game of Russian roulette.
Her face had undoubtedly been beautiful at one point. But now, I wouldn’t even recognize her as human. Her lips were the grey color of a rotting corpse and were chapped so badly I’m surprised the blood wasn’t leaking from them. There was plenty of blood but no from her mouth. It was dripping off both sides of her face, coming from her eyes. She was crying blood. But even more disturbing than that were the eyes themselves. They had rolled so far back into her head that you could only see the whites of her eyes and the blood vessels in them. She was not human. Maybe she had been but she no longer was.
Choking noises came from her throat as she gasped for breath. Her delicate chest heaving up and down with such effort. I could do nothing to help her, only stare in disbelief. She was dying. An innocent child dying before my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it. Dying? She’s already dead isn’t she? I couldn’t sort it out, was she really there dying or was she a ghost or even more disturbing was she just a hallucination that my own mind created? I couldn’t answer my questions, I could only stare.
I watched as her whole body began to shake uncontrollably as if she were having a seizure. Her eyes rolled even further back so that I could see the thick red veins creeping up her eyes like snakes. Tears were pouring down my face.  I couldn’t watch yet, I couldn’t not watch. I was compelled like a small child peeking through their fingers at the scariest part of the movie. For a moment she became still. My heart pounded against my ribs, threatening to burst through my chest. Her body fell to the floor like someone who was shot with a .38. Her body was limp and lifeless. But her eyes were not. They darted back and forth making the veins slither just like snakes. She began gasping for breath again as she mutter the words, “Help me.” Her neck was thrown violently back and the subtle crack of the bones rung over and over again in my ears. Her body was twisting itself in ways any human being could never dream of doing. Her limbs bent at awkward angles, her body was literally twisting around and her head dangling as if it were merely attached by a string. She lay there writhing on the floor like a dying beast. My heart was going at an unbelievable rate; I was almost to the point of suffering a heart attack. Less and less air cam into my lungs with every breath I took. The last thing I remember seeing was her face. Blood creeping out the corners of her eyes, the deep brown, almost black eyes filled with such fright and desperation. Those eyes I will never forget.

My head was throbbing. I was no longer on my bed, I was on something hard. I tried to move but could not. My wrist and ankles were tethered down. I opened my eyes but for a second and saw the bright light that was coming from above. Men were all around me. I knew not what they were doing. All I knew was that the Men in the White Coats had finally come for me. Come to lock me in the rubber room where I belong.

Poets are a common breed,
they're a dime a dozen;
my uncle was a poet,
as was my second cousin.

Some are mad romantics
some are crazy, like a loon;
they write at all the odd hours,
morning, night, and noon.

The good ones leave you gasping,
at each turn of phrase;
you envy their technique,
strive to learn their ways.

The bad ones leave you laughing,
as they offer empty blithering;
you tend to scratch your head,
is there such a word as glibbering?

But, bless them all for trying,
to say what's on their minds;
it only goes to show you
it takes all different kinds!

Dare I, I ask,
Place light there‘pon
The glare of eyes?

Dare I disturb?
Dare I, remote,
Make time for life,
No absence moaped?
Dare I define
And be r’fined?
Timidity
Not be for me?

Dare I select
Many a dress
All for brides
Who count down time?

Dare I, dare cough
Within your cup?
Dare I, dare kiss
The tender cheek?
Dare I, for sickness
And for health,
Put off the flames
Of blithering?

this is not your typical cathedral
hurling damnation and touching you
this is the gristle of igneous rock
grinding your wings to an absolute stop

bad things have shadows that would rather fall
than never leap in the first place

this is hard to understand but i forgive you for keeping me alive....

this bright spot
that follows rabbits into new holes
churning the placid Samadhi
to favor the whirlwind
of a stillness

you are one of those things-    
all impossible

between dreams.

handing me volcanoes
and ice screams

i'll just die if i live through this, i'll be one of those blithering kisses
affixed to scarecrows of dead laws !
i'll  have the moon enslaved to vigils of contempt
to fibrillate  the zombies in my Disneyland

but you will have to  confiscate my happiness to spite your grace