There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government

mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts

degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed

protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia

bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,

opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination

and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.

the only shame i feel: muslims hold a single book to be synonymous of a library.

apologies, this is why i wasn't fully integrated,
i hold enough respect for the English ethnicity to keep
the reins on my Slavic origin, and its ancient history,
i want to see the Graeae cauldron
of multiple-ethnicity and culturalism:
what with former slaves learning
rap to topple the slavish shackles?
no one ever heard my story under
the Germans, Russians and Austro-Hungarians,
all those to topple Israel already toppled me
to migrate and leave my mother *******
toward an an export: until the black gold runs
out you sand-******... until the oil runs out...
until the oil runs out...
you're the one abusing it because you have it...
until the oil runs out sand-******...
you gonna take the slang out of me?
what is it now? global or feminist tactic?
Chine ain't about to give Dagenham back,
like they're not giving Ostrowiec Św.:
first division in 1997.. extra-class...
yummie piggies at the trough:
money was created to pacify and let
rich boy girls' spend...
      Lwów / Lvov was still in poker hands
of Roosevelt... so much for ******* H'america...
     biker-clan-glandular-rhaps (or plural of odes):
****! i hate belonging to come or some thing...
i always thought about comedy prone enlarged *******
for the geography between left ****** antarctic and
right ****** arctic in tune with the jiggly fatty-bergs..
no... factual-bergs...
but you'd never disintegrate into a 0a.d.
given the colonial history narrative that doesn't
involve the old testament and ***-kissers and
hefty conservative ***-pleasers like the book
of Antioch proposed... made that up...
got mixed up thinking on the necromancer of
the year that was actually 1997-8
17th *KSZO Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski, tablature
pld.     pts.        w.   d.     l.    f.      a.
         34      24    6   6 22 24 47...
piggie piggie: got the giddy giggly ***** ****-a-doodle-do...
and i know i would too...
small town Polish town, a big Russian
would-be clever-pincer attracted to ******-pinching,
and all the milky drools, down the Nile toward
Cairo, so long as you wife is an Oasis of hamburgers and
strobe-berry epileptics, i.e.: blink 182's what's my age again?
i speak the ******* sprechen and i don't even belong
here... it's like i'm apologising for something that
was coming... thankfully i'm resolved to integrate cognitively
but in the domestic realm have nothing to do with
this language...
     i don't want to speak it to my mother,
i don't want to speak it to my father,
i can't afford to rent a house and prolong a university
bachelor lifestyle, the arabs and nigerians bought
all the flats out and are renting them out...
hopefully to Somalian pirates for: essex tan orange
sake in terms of: if i figured my tongue was an
axe in the first place... i'd lace my life with
many more people applauding...
i never understood this desire to integrate without
having the right to censor what i'm about to
embrace... a contract, much of smallprint readied
on the fidgety hand...
       it's not that i suddenly chose to
ethnically suspend my origins for a need to respect,
i kept my mother tongue for times such as these,
when i can't be approached as white and as inheritor
of colonialism... if i say i'm German they'll *******
clap, i remember once they asked me as if i were
going to do an app. for the caliphate asking me:
you German? no... Polish... huh? what's that?
somewhere in between Germany and Russia...
now i can't claim the ethnicity that my's right hand
of use with tongue... and now i can't claim the
tongue that isn't the ethnicity but is otherwise my
limb-for-limb... 5p.m. tea 100 years later is
a hijab on the streets of Birmingham...
no secret... i just see why i need to be involved like
some James Dean "wannabe" schizoid spice...
there will be no news from Poland concerning
the migrant crisis, no talk of a Muslim takeover...
ironically, as Monty Python would have said:
everyone was expecting a Polish Inquisition,
or as the crowds chanted: Evangelism! not the Quran!
happily are those: seeing America involve
itself in this slogan... me? as ever, the Pontius Pilate:
i said it once, i'll say it again:
panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
you don't expect panic, hence the beasts' stampede
in urban areas... fascism? you know it's
coming, and you know it's not good...
             fascism is panic realised too late,
fascism is panic organised... you knew it was coming
and you did nothing to prevent it...
  the only thing that could have prevented Trump
winning the presidency was acknowledging an unequivocal
membership of the union... Cracow wasn't built in
one day... trigger ******* happy panic button: press!
press! oppress! that special relationship of yours?
yeah... ye'ha! rear 'em in with that quiff of yours, cowboy!
ye'ha!
please don't get me involved, i know how to
impale a turk on a rotten wooden stump, rather than
crucify a Syrian on a geometric of mahogany
amid sacred words: so descended onto a mosque's minaret
and the hippy-hair-debate, and no hair and the hajj.
i know, people are apprehensive you're not a businessman
employing 100 slave Mongolians enlisted to blowing
up 1000 helium filled balloons an hour for birthday
party contracts... and none of them are properly trained
in ventriloquist's chipmunk!
              james dean was the original schizophrenic...
who treated society as an asylum,
and the asylum as a garden of Eden...
                                       lucky him: mono-linguistic...
   i sometimes wish i had that luxury on inherent
cleansing of ethnicity, so i could be left with only
a culinary boasting akin to the Persian quote on
falafel... but then you never know who's side you're
gonna be on...
i might as well quote him akin to j. franco post-doppelganger:
you're tearing me apart!
                                   and they say people think...
nonetheless: whether thinking or not,
they are... a welcome aversion in finding pleasure in
zoos; esp. the times when they're sweating like sardines
stashed in vulvas on underground trains: ventriloquists'
suggestion? moans: foetal moans... get me out of here...
otherwise groaned? harder... mm... deeper...
make your pelvis kiss my pelvis! mmm... baby!
first your read the Marquis to get a hard-on,
then you ****-off that hard-on...
and then you do a hand-job to someone else
and pass on the Oxfam motto to some other "hungry" Afrikaan.

as a usual Saturday, a sniff of whiskey left
from the previous night -
that'll do - it's not much, but it steadies
the nerves and handshakes with ghosts
of dead writers and poets -
but then the paranoia kicks in -
this isn't the same utensil as a fork, or a typewriter -
this keyboard is attached to a matrix -
it extends far and wide,
i don't know... you can get paranoid
after writing at the height of your drinking
the previous day and wake up the next day
and consider it as nothing more
than diluted prose - which it is, a snapshot
of Joycean ergonomics - but you then
by accident hit the F5 button, yep, the one just
above the 5% button: are there poets
out there, still writing as if they are holding
quills and their fingers have ink stains
and they're airing their frustrations at a blank page?
seriously? i freaked out for a minute having
pressed the F5 button, panic! sheer panic!
panic is worse than fear, i thought for a splinter
second that the government was trying to
censor me... that i was somehow in deep ****,
writing propaganda for some obscure government
that allows 12 year old children perform public
executions by shooting culprits in the back of the head...
what does the F5 button do?
it freezes / blocks / denies the laptop mouse -
a rectangle mat and two buttons incorporated into
the actual laptop - for those few seconds
i felt monitored - standard paranoia of the 21st
poet / writer / whoever, but not quiet enough
for a spy novel... just bog standard feelings... which
are very much linked to printed book materials...
e.g. **** deus: a brief history of tomorrow by
yuval harari - about how we're getting dumber
because someone smarter programmed something
and we weren't given the manual...
funny... they started selling computers like they
were selling hammers... they said: easy, easiest
thing to operate... i'm well chuffed (i guess i use
that word to replace being surprised - local
ingredient - how they bang on about organic
locally grown potatoes and beef, same thing,
only with local vocab) - but they don't sell computers
with instruction manuals - so obviously
the smartest kids these days get on the app. rather than
the mortgage ladder - but **** me! you
could have at least included a little booklet that tells you
what F5 does... i never use it! i'm one of the few
lucky ones, i have some literacy in this department,
but i'm not a techno-philiac as such -
i'm one of those people that says: well, so much
for the building, but you have to put something
meaningful and human in it for the building
to be worth something... not what it is, but:
what it's about - i once learned to use Excel...
****! gone, not coming back. i once learned to
code and build a website... ****! gone, not coming
back, goldfish syndrome due to excess drinking...
but what bothers me is finding something
interesting in that book review... the invention of
humanism as a religion in the 17th century (
funny how Nietzsche criticised Christianity when
as an academic he would have known about
humanism, but dumbly persisted to criticise
what was already being replaced... unless...
he was anticipating American Evangelism,
which might be true) - so i'm trying to look for humanism,
and i come across Copernicus and Galileo -
because, apparently, (as already mentioned)
'Christianity was gradually dislodged by a belief
in the scared status of every individual's feelings
and judgement; we became the centre of the universe,
placing our trust in an unease alliance between
science and moral instinct.'
so there me thinking: so this goes back
to what we're experiencing now, heliocentric humanism
and geocentric humanism -
like i already mentioned, what's west for
nautical calculations past the moon and where's up
or north? it's still flat, the earth, if you're
trying to get from A (Lisbon) to Rio (B) -
so it's happening now, the great schism in humanism,
one side demeaning, angry, frustrated,
the other optimistic - heliocentric humanism
suggest that humans have all the great answers,
that we're all little Louis XIVs, about to dream big
about sorting hunger with spaghetti with a chance of
meatballs machines lodged in our head...
cure for cancer, etc. but then the geocentric humanism
movement is also strong: carbon footprints being
more important than carbon dating, global warming,
you know, typical ****.
still, the F5 paranoia was great,
writing this with an unlit roll-up cigarette was even
better, puckering that luxury before
the last word, and Houston: we have lift-off.

My missionary work, to an extent,
has been accomplished under grace;
most of the poetry I’ve composed
has been shared with the World,
with the intent of drawing others
towards The Kingdom and the face

of Christ, beloved Lord and Savior.
Pushed far out of my comfort zone,
I’ve taken this notion of identity,
that’s found solely in my Christ,
and pushed bravely forward with it-
at the dismay of brethren who bemoan

the label of Christian poet and author.
I can’t and won’t apologize for actions
taken to glorify God through evangelism;
Christ is the living Word; His Truth
courses through my spirit, as I explore
my Faith and understanding of Salvation.
.
.  
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
1 Thes 5:19 and

"A life fully lived out for Jesus is never a wasted life, because in it the true reward starts only the moment one dies, and from that time on wards the  dividend for the earthly investment they made continues to comes back without limit for the eternity that is ahead of them." —Abraham Israel

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

Impression or suppression
an utmost subconscious decision
or an utmost practiced precision?
to cover her natural moving canvas
so he can see the physical bliss
never mind the festering dangers
that breed within her heart's cancers
until the day her painted face
is defied by time and space
of an old ancestral rival
time when death itself in arrival
comes and leaves none in its wake
evangelism; Cosmetics' new grace
offered at every corner and place
'that you must accept me or be ugly'
if she only knew
beauty fades like hubbly
the self conscious issues would be few.

It’s really shameful to acknowledge
the divisiveness of all denominations;
a continuing lack of understanding is…  
diluting Love’s message of Salvation.

The ongoing promotion of religious brands
has not convinced or impressed the World;
the wholeness of God’s holy Word must be
embraced by everyone, as His boys and girls.

These current disagreements and hostilities
of religious debates waste our precious time;
clearly a lack of Christian unity of beliefs
blurs the position of Faith’s dividing line.

Silly tendencies to argue, keeps us unfocused
and separated from today’s task of evangelism;
Christ died to unite us in fellowship with Him
and not vying for the best speaker’s magnetism.

Faith’s intimacy really permits us to become one
with God in times of quiet reflection and prayer;
religious brands are simply counter-intuitive,
reducing our effective witness of Heaven’s flair.
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
1 Cor 1:10; Rom 16:17

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

I do not want an old man God sat in a throne,
Judging from afar with sceptre and gold
riding on a cloud, sombre and haloed,
stern faced, woolly warm beard stroking,
Michelangelo-esque nighty clad, run of the mill deity.

I do not want a Sunday morning liturgy reference God,
inhabiting musty buildings, documented within dusty books, out dated, out rated, out of duty once a week
(twice if you include the mid-week bible study),
appeasing a sick relative, reluctant, habit God.

I do not want a jolly nodding head back shelf of the car job, kitsch icon, only when it suits me, pocket amenity,
fashion accessory, hobby gimmick God; a God modelled
from routine and agenda and TV evangelism, a convenience style digestible man made allusion.

I don’t want a controlling egomaniac parent God, bent on
setting us unattainable goals and tasks then throwing
a tantrum when the model train set breaks; or a God
who is distant, self-righteous, passive and out of touch,
an elusive, reclusive, exclusive God,

I want an ‘I Am who I Am’ God, whose boundaries are so
immense that to trace them would destroy you. A God
who is completely indefinable, that every brushstroke
put to canvas, every conceivable melody whistled, that
every imaginable word uttered, would barely compare.

I want a God who to stand before would burn my eyes out, make my heart explode; that I would be totally devastated. Yet, a God who is approachable and approaches, a God who is in the here and now, surrounding, dumbfounding, astounding, a God with promise and hope you can taste.

A God who breaks all the boundaries and exceeds every
human expectation and limitation, a God who hears and feels every longing, every desire and creates opportunity,
empowering the heart that cries out, stilling the soul when it aches, a God of promise and hope and deliverance.

I want a God unlike any parent, friend, lover, sovereign, reckless in compassion and filthy with goodness, available and ever there. So dangerously loving, so excessively wise and firm, yet tender, knowing, emotive, compassionate, A God who takes my grief. A God asking to be found and worth being sought.

her:
thin
gangly even but, frankly, perfect
perfect skin
Eve
or a cherub at the inn
(do or don't believe)
Original
with no original sin
and therein
I saw the angel in evangelism

The technocracy gathers the museum pieces categorizing ideally to undermine and de-emphasizing objective understanding for the sub-categorized priest-craft, drafting a temporal framework for God. In bargaining as it accentuates its void for evangelism.

This classification, this legal ordinance, this academic dissertation and that context of its time.

Then Mary...

© S. Wesley Mcgranor

http://tinyurl.com/ja52pq4

or some said: Lawrence of Arabia?

yeah, sure,

as long as Egypt remains Egyptology:

and the Balkans or quasi-Slavs known as
Serbs and pardoning Ottomans
do one in on the Kosovo tribalism
akin to: Albania here -
yeah, i too was going to buy
Allah-Las's third album,
but then i thought about the Napster
generation, then thought about Judas
and then thought: well...
you turn.

when Ramses destroyed Syria...
              you're?! you're a catastrophe!

second that.. never mind the ****
or the caring ***** in uncle,
great-grandchildren.... and that surrogate auntie
named Alice.

             i gave my enemy a copy of *ecce **** -
missing luck in terms of all those yesterdays -
i never had the Golgotha crowd
          to create Evangelism or Islam
which i count akin to Ma Ma Malachi's
trip to Delhi he never had: stinking Calcutta:
oh i don't mean the food, i mean the Swedes:
who the **** puts iron into their curry?