The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation

I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride

Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables

You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.

Oh, amazing language
I thank thee
for my ability to be the thesaurus
my understanding of my native tongue
the masterful way in which we all express ourselves
through the bastardization of 100 cultures
stealing the noises we enjoy and casting the remnants
to the void
set up shop next to Sanskrit or Latin
death to Elizabethan *******
only Ebonics and Mid-Alabama mush mouth
sprinkled with a little Boston soft “R”
paak da caaa in da yaaaad
like a mad ****
disjointed Caucasians
desperate to steal the next black vernacular
nothing beats a middle-class suburbanite
expressing their feelings about broke *** hoes

I create poetry
by the car crashed juxtaposition
of thought and language.

I create poetry via metaphor,
metonymy, a slight wit.

I create poetry by the
beating and bastardization
of word until the line
breaks just right.
It never truly does.

You create poetry
in your every movement.

You create poetry in the
interaction and absolution
you carry within every waking
moment.

You create poetry only
by opening your beautiful
eyes each morning as
the sun rises eagerly
to see you.

You create poetry.

This, my pale
imitation.

When we arrive at the beach, the oppressive sun has
begun his slow, creeping descent towards the gap in
the dunes where, if one stood at the very crest, he
might see the swampy bay, tufted in tall, thin grass
and dotted with ospreys and cranes. I carry a bag
depicting a bastardization of the American flag, and
he tugs the narrow mesh cart with cartoon wheels across
the flesh-toned sand. The crowd of hungry beachgoers
is thinning, and the lifeguards have just begun to lug
their tall wooden stand back from its perilous proximity
to the gentle breakers. I walk just a few paces behind
my father, until he stops, asking, “Is this a good spot?”
I nod, never before remembering a time when he
sought my approval for a seaside roost. After ******* our
umbrella—blue-green, as though reflecting in canvas
the fluctuating shades of the mutable Atlantic—deep into
the cool sand, and setting the two chairs firmly in its chilly
shade, he asks, “Wanna swim?” Again, I nod, stripping
until I wear nothing but a mint green bikini and sunglasses.
Leisurely, we stroll towards the small waves and wade into
the just-right water gradually. Subconsciously, I am again
just three or four footfalls behind his frame, as if I cannot
continue any deeper until he has tested the sea, and each
step forward is a promise that everything is okay,
and I may proceed with caution.

Our steady immersion suddenly releases in me a torrent
of memories. I see myself, maybe seven, planted next
to him on the beach, where the sand is only just damp,
digging holes with our hands so that a small pool of
icy liquid slowly emerges, and then cupping the sand
and carefully dripping it along the edges to create a
system of fortresses and castles melting in the breeze.
I see him explaining to me, age nine, the proper way
to bodysurf, and I feel once again a sudden fear that
the salty water will fill my nostrils and cause that
choking burn that I detest to this day. I remember
him laughing that hearty guffaw as I was, invariably,
thrown from my boogie board in the aftermath of a
particularly large wave, skinning my knees against
the broken shells dotting the rough ocean floor. I
hear his careful instructions about the proper and
improper behaviors when ****** into a rip tide—
swim horizontally, he’d say, and if I didn’t understand
the word, he’d clarify that it meant to follow the beach,
because following the sea was certain death.

When our waists have just begun to adjust to the
temperature, I overhear the father of a girl who is
about the age I was in these memories exclaim that
a pod of dolphins has come quite close, and upon
looking, I see their gray bodies slithering in and out
of the deeper water. I nudge my father and point, and
we both marvel at this rare occurrence. Thousands of
seconds pass, and this time he is pointing off in the
distance, saying, “They’re still hanging around. Must
be a school of fish or something.” When I ask him if
he knows why they are within swimming distance,
he tells me confidently that it must be due to the
water’s unseasonable warmth, and I know in my
heart and in my brain that he is correct, as usual.

After the dolphins have disappeared, I say that I
am done swimming, that I want to start the Marquez
tome weighing heavily upon my conscience and that,
besides, we shouldn’t leave our valuables alone for
too long. He simply shrugs, as if to say, “Why would
you want to get out of this ocean?” almost as though he
didn’t realize thievery is such a common occurrence
at the Jersey shore. From my haven in the shade, I
feel goosebumps emerge as my father’s shirt deepens
from heather gray to taupe. Before leaving the
house our family has visited every summer for over
a decade, I borrowed his brand new headphones—he
was so excited to tell me that they don’t knot—and
their bulbous coverings, when stuck in ears on a
windy beach, create the sort of howling found in
1970s horror movies, my own personal FX. Despite
the fact that I have just surpassed one quarter of a
century in age, I still see him, a few years past the
half-century mark, turn around, squinting, until he
sees me safely planted in the plastic chair, as safe
as a father could hope his oldest daughter to be.

Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

Wedgwood blue , ethereal body of    
my Spring temptress  .. Sacred byways of her southern lacustrine dweller
Mourning dove wail , Muscovy duck banter
Shore cherubs prattle in the cattails , zephyrs filled-
with lake whispers
Smooth stones skipped over the kelpies
looking glass
Invisible helpers slay the lunatic bastardization
of day

The bastardization
of our language
continues apace.

Consider the word

wonderful.

It originally meant:

amazement just beyond
comprehension.

Now we use it to mean nice.
That's a wonderful dress;
She is a wonderful person.
We had a wonderful dinner.

When I call you wonderful,
I mean that even in my arms
you are a mystery
I cannot quite solve,
amazing beyond my knowing.

Remember that Love.

You are the lock I can
fiddle with forever
but never quite open.

The bud I cannot
tease to blossom.

The meaning in my heart,
I'll never know for sure.

Love was meant to be
eternal mystery.

That is why it is *wonderful.

What folly , this masterful deception of a life we lead
Bound to government , religion and money
Following trails built by those before us , tethered
by the chains of 'leaders' , our true potential
regulated by the state ,  a lubricated part of the killing machine ,
a three headed serpent coiling within deception and greed* ..

Poetry has no rules
anything can be a poem
im all for dolling it up
Oh boy its like a picture with words
but when u just try to fancy it up
strictly for fanciness' sake
all that ends up is the bastardization of poetry