I have been left unattended for too long, in a city by the Bay
& mischief is dying to play,
I can only imagine...
As the chaos escapes from within
The beast is unable to stay tame

I AM UNSUPERVISED, IN A CITY THAT DOESN'T KNOW MY NAME....

--TO BE CONTINUED

Ah, Yorkshire, thou art purer than Coventry;
and thy promises whiter; than my fluid poetry.
Thou art braver, prudent, and all the way more intelligent;
thy lands are mightier; and perhaps in every possible way-more imminent.
Thou art sincere-and so more delicate than wine, and thoughtful;
Thou adored my words, and made everything else healing, and more beautiful.

In my heart but there might have been no Yorkshire at all-
had I attended not one Coventry last fall.
I witnessed not-at t'at time, all t'is rude twilight-and toughness and madness;
and every chapped breath it had in its roughness, and hilarious-though indeed fake, felicity.
No soul has even bits of a heart, here, to forgive others' soreness,
No being wants to share; no human lives in joy, nor simplicity.
No delight indeed; as I stream my way through every roads;
Everyone is either busy with their selfishness or their coats.
No living is cared for; for humans are phantoms at night and on morns;
Vulnerability is mocked, and demised and often slyly torn.
Ah! Coventry is but a sphere of hell!
For even hell is still lighter when has it not hellfire;
As well cities are, when there is no scoundrel nor liar;
But Coventry is not at all tender;
Its wicked gasp is alive, and never to heartily surrender.
It falls for glory; it bows to such fears for pleasure;
And wanes by the light of whose death; the end of whose allure.
But thou art true-thou art as shy as every flash of virtue;
Thou art indeed-everything t'at is solemnly agreeable and brand new.
Ah, and just now-I had dreams of a fine image of thee;
Smiling within thy fullest verdure, bushes, and lavish undergrowth.
And thy summer is but vivid and friendlier;
Healing every sore heart, and turning 'em all, merrier.
Thou adored the nouns and verbs I wrote,
and admired such simple notions I quoted;
Thou shine upon me-asthe light that shall makest me grow
and the promising dim, faraway region, that lets me glow.
O, Yorkshire, this is still but too early in the transparent evening;
But I am deeply endorsed yet, by t'is poetry writing-
And with thy soul that remains but too witty,
Tearing me away, but with loveliness-
from my cautious present engagement,
Thy charms might be just too hard to bear,
for thy tongue is too sweet;
and thy veracity too chaotic, ye' imminent.
In thee shall I find peace-of that I am convinced,
Peace whose soul is calm, neat and on all occasions, careful-
Unlike t'is bustle which is at times perpetual, and sorrowful;
Unlike t'is very city of Coventry,
Which is damp with exultant bareness, and haziness,
In many ways exalted, but indeed too proud;
And its tongue which is blurred with sin and poison-
Its all-too-loud excitement makes everything but faint,
And at times sends my heart to exile, sends my heart to pain,
In every possible way too unlike thee,
With an imagery, and coaxing voices so sweet
Thou shall leave all my poems bright and freshly lit,
Even though I am still here, even though we are still yet-to meet.

Coventry is too proud and vibrant-yes, too vibrant,
Amidst its own foolishness, which sadly made itself formerly too elegant.
Too elegant to me-in various shapes, and keenly cloaked in unseen deceit,
But only by some beings, whom I was to meet, and my breath to greet.
And as I wake up to an early morning hour,
the plain summer strangely makes me thirst for honest water.
And should I love still-one intelligence t'at is so bitterly repugnant?
I shall certainly not; I shall turn to thee, Yorkshire, who is truer ye' far above, tolerant.
Ah, Yorkshire, but honesty is something Coventry promises not;
for its soul has been maliciously beheaded, and twitched,
It has been paled, corrupted, and despaired-
by its own claws, derived from the jaws of those evil souls
Veiled by their even still inhuman, disguises,
And shall still be wicked, otherwise.
In t'is sea of hate, and these waves of despondency,
I shall think of thee with tantalising depth and scrutiny,
Though thou art still imprisoned in my soul,
Thou who hath flattered and accepted me as a whole.
But Coventry is-still, accidental with some of its bindings,
For mortal as thou art, itself, and is unable to escape its fate,
Still I canst think only of the beauty of thy linings,
And upon thy lands shall I venture to fill my plate.
Ah, Yorkshire, remember that virtue is in thy hand,
but neither is vice-thy dormant enemy, is in its therein,
Virtue who is vile to all of t'is world's inconsolable men,
like in Coventry, as deemed it is, unreasonable and ungenerous, within.
Virtue which is tragically abandoned, in its pursuit of honour;
virtue which was rich, but flattened, and dismayed and disfigured
within the course of one unsupervised hour.
Ah, York, Yorkshire, when shall I ever taste the grandeur
And the very superiority of thy dignity?
For in yon picture, thou art still but a comely neighbour,
Which endorses and attests to my mute, yet unaffected-virginity.

Ah, but Coventry shall despise thee, and with its stubbornness
and overwhelming pride, shall jostle and taunt thee;
Shall defect and isolate thee-when I am but by thy side,
But God be with me still, and blind shall not, my virtuous sight.
Detesting and confronting thee for the remainders of years-as 'tis to be,
Which for thee lie ahead; as how hath it deluded me-just now!
I, who, disconcertingly, placed my heart within its sacred vow,
hath been robbed of my satisfactions, and utmost fortune,
All were perused in centuries and gone in one moon.
Ah, Yorkshire, shall I continue my poetry here-but call out endlessly to thee?
And shall I abandon this tiny caprice of mine-which is a fine, tiny desire of glory
And let myself on the loose, and for evermore be in search
of thee, whom I shall've lost-under the very indulgence of their mirth?
O, I think not!
For I shall mount my poetry-and achieve my silent dreams,
I shall take him with me, if allowed am I-to conquer him,
And make him and thee mine, just like I hath made my poetry,
And be thy light; and thy spiritual and endless reciprocal adoration
All day and night, at the end of our quest for destiny
Wherein I shall dwell, and thrive as my intellect be granted-its long-lost coronation.
O, Yorkshire, for within thy hands now I shall lie my faith-
and trudge along thy forking paths, unto the light of my fate.

Ah, Yorkshire, I am infatuated with these paintings-
these very paintings of thy lush green lands,
And of myself wandering and skulking idly about thy moors;
With my best frock, and his fingers, the one I love, entwined in my hand
As lights procured and on our storming out of yonder wooden doors.
I am shining like a bee is-upon the sweet finding of its honey;
but in whose tale 'tis like thee-to sweet and unpardonable to me.
Be with me, Yorkshire, and be with me forever, only,
As I leave behind this faint malice and commence my journey;
I shall be with thee, and my poems shall be free,
And t'is bitterness of winds shall be no more tormenting me,
Furthermore-be them what they desire to be;
But let me write; and play my song as beautifully as yon naive bee.

Ah, Yorkshire, and wait, wait again for me;
But before let me sink again into a deep sleep,
and tease thee again in my dreams;
Read me once more-the very passages of thy indolent poetry,
Take me out of my stiffness; swing me out of abhorrent Coventry.
Coventry shall be envious, and waiting forever for thy demise;
but honesty is honesty-and one that has no lies,
for thy virtue is clear as thy Western gem,
which is to God, shall always be virtue, all the same.

i want unity
without alliegence
for once
let there be no strings attached
lets act
like we stand firmly on our feet
face our defeats
and take the blame for our actions
lets be adults
and go unsupervised
i dont need you
you dont need me
but lets drink
to our independence
faithfully

I would like to tell you a story about a soul. A soul that was as clean, pure and gentle as soul can be. Rarely in live do we meet someone or some animal who never wanted anything but to give love. This story can’t be told without talking about her caretaker and my wife.

About 12 years ago an injured kitten was released to Everett Animal Shelter. The kitten had no use of it’s hind legs and was incontinent. In those day it was almost 100% chance that this kitten was going to be put down. Don’t feel sad/mad about this, nature’s way can be very cruel. The her fate sealed, this was much more humane ending.

My wife took it home to see if the kitten could be rehabilitated. We had been fostering kittens for a while and had a safe room for her. After getting her settled in we look at each other saying without words “Now what”?

Well the first thing that needed to be done was give her a name. We talked for a bit and I explained to my wife “She needs a strong name. She needs a strong black female name. She going need it to help her through life”. The strongest black female name I knew was Rosa Parks. That became her name.

Rosa being incontinent was, well to be honest, was a stinky kitten. Stinky kitten became one of her many nicknames, HA. Rosa needed to learn how to take a bath. If you ever tried to give a kitten/cat a bath you know it’s not really a good idea. So my wife dives right in, picks her up and takes her to bathroom for her first bath. Rosa being the soul she was just sat in the sink and took her bath. She didn’t fight it, she never hissed or got angry. She just took her bath. This attitude towards water lead us to try water therapy.

Water therapy was a home job for us. We would fill a storage tote with warm water and put this rear palatalized kitten in it up to her neck. Now for first time in a few weeks this kitten Rosa could stand up with the water supporting her weight. This went on for the first year of her life. This was the start of many treatments such as acupuncture, a sling in her room and massage. She did all of it never complained about anything.

It didn’t take to long and soon Rosa was strong enough to stand and wobble out a step or two. After a few months of no more improvement it became clear that a decision needed to be made about what to do with her. Is her quality of life such that gets returned for euthanasia or is she happy and do we commit to her care. We knew that she could never live the life of a normal cat. She would never be able to go outside unsupervised, she could never be inside unsupervised except in her safe room. She was healthy and always happy so the commitment was made.

Rosa had her safe room but what to do with her when we can supervise her. Rosa needed a wheelchair. After doing some research we found a local company that makes wheelchairs for pets. After getting her sized up the day came she had her chair. We put Rosa in her chair and in no time she was zooming around the room. Rosa is mobile!!!

My wife and I would take Rosa and Cocoa (look for the story ‘Cocoa’s Ghost’) for walks around the block. Animal Rescue Foundation who had paid for Cocoa issues and Rosa’s early expenses told the Everett Herald newspaper about this and Rosa went mainstream. Look up the news article ‘Pets get a second chance’ if your interested reading it. Needless to say walking a cat in a tiny wheelchair got attention.

One of the things that was very special about Rosa was she loved being a foster mom. My wife would often bring home sick kittens, tiny kittens and just overflow from the Everett Shelter and put them in Rosa’s safe room. Rosa always excepted those kittens as her own within a day or two. I often thought it would have been funny to learn about the birds and the bees from her perspective.

Me “Rosa, where do kittens come from”.

Rosa “Well first you eat some food, then you ****, then you go to sleep and BAM kittens”.

There were many, many times a sick kitten would just curl up in her belly and sleep with it’s now mother Rosa. She was so good with the kittens. She would cuddle, discipline, clean and try to feed when needed. The kittens in her care got a family with a loving mother and bothers and sisters, often unrelated. She truly seemed to enjoy motherhood.

This was Rosa’s and my wife’s life for 12 years. Feed Rosa, squeeze Rosa, clean Rosa and love Rosa. Last night that most of that ended. A few weeks ago Rosa stopped eating and drinking. After $1000 of tests, weeks of fluids, syringe feedings and with no answers we made the choice and gave the gift. Rosa died the same way she came into our lives, in my wife’s arms.

I wrote this not to make you sad. I wrote this to share a clean, pure and gentle soul with you. Some of you reading this may have one of her kittens living with you now: a small piece of her soul living with you now.  Enjoy her gift to you.

I navigated my
way along the
narrow path
ways  that had been
forever inbedded
by the
footsteps of the
young who've
cut
their path
throughout their
years,venturing as I
once did throughout
these ruins.
The narrow trails
from brave riders
who pedal their way
through the past
and in between all that
has been ruined
snaked all around
and in between
this broken
part of the
city.

I approached the
edge of the world with
caution even though
I feared not death.
I listened to the sound
of the Grand Pacifics anger
as it pounded away
at the end of the earth
a deaths
flight  below me.
Visions of the past
when I was that
braver soul
than I am now
crept up on me.
I took them in
then
put them away
in that dark
corner of my
mind where the
good times
are kept.
I laughed it
all off
and continued on.

I made my way
past the remnants
of all that was
once here before
the sea decided to
take it away.
The only signs left
now are just pieces
of crumbling
asphalt and
graffiti covered
ruins.
These cliffs and
these remnants
of a long ago
sunken part of
this city served
as the untamed
and mostly
unsupervised
playground of
my youth.
I played hard
as that young
adventurous
boy who
I miss so much.
Drank even
harder as a
stubborn  young
and unsure
man along these
cliffs.

I stopped and
took in the
tainted
air.
The smell of the fuel and the city
for now wiped away by
the rolling winds
coming in from the west.
The night was alive
with smaller forms of life,
crickets,barking dogs,
spatting feral cats and
the moans of a beaten man
seeking shelter in a hole
beneath a
broken slab of asphalt.
  The sage bush filled
the nightime air
with blessings.
The salt from
the sea almost
tickled
the nose.

Somewhere
in the
distance a ship
sounded its horn.
Sea lions
barked
in time with the
uneven ringing of
the ancient bell
on the ancient
Red buoy
as it rose and chimed
along with  
the swells
somewhere
in that sea
of darkness.

I left the broken
ruins behind
and made
my way toward
the Park
that had been
brilliantly positioned
along the
rim of
the world.
The memories
of happy times
struggled with
my sadness.
The images of better
times demanded
to be remembered.

I started across the
tear soaked grass
as I walked beneath
beautiful ancient Eucalyptus
and Sycamore trees.
Pine trees that
stood slumped over
like the ancient old
men they were.
I stopped half way
to the middle
as a one eyed calico feral
crossed my path .

I've foraged many
a happy memory
with old
forgotten friends
and long departed
lovers within this park.
Drank when the drinking
was done for fun,
and laughed that
care free laugh
I'll never hear again.
Fought a good mans
fight when the
odds were all
against me.
Evened  it out with
a tool made for killing.
Just one more memory
I now live with.

Now after so
many years
and so much
of what this
life has thrown
before me.
I now come
here only
at night,
alone.
When its only me
the feral cats
and the
thieving raccoon's.
Often times,
I'm comforted
by the
old worn
coat I refuse
to replace,
a cheap bottle
dressed in a brown
paper bag and
a mind still alive
with visions
of other times
than these.

I forget
those horrors
that still force
me out into
the night.
And take a lonely
pull
beneath the
Moons silent
glow.
I toast the night
and those
who dwell
within it.
I worked on the
bottle
while staring
into the
darkness at
nothing.

A smile breaks
free across my
tired face as I
 look to the moon
and realize.
This same sacred
Moon light
that shines upon me
is the same
distant glow
that I know
shines somewhere
upon her.

The station wagon bounced down a dusty road toward the farm house, and Phoebe, who had just turned fifteen  felt the pit of her stomach coil, and tighten with dread. Gazing out the window she locked eyes on a bored looking cow slowly chewing a mangled knot of grass. Phoebe wondered in that moment if even the cows were more depressed in Bismarck.

Her step-father, “The Glenner”, had been too cheap to fly her back home to Oregon from a summer camp in Minnesota, and had arranged for their local minister, Cru Hayward, to pick her up along with his daughter, Lizzie. Phoebe’s sun burned skin ached as she pealed it off the sticky back seat. The air conditioner had broken down in Fargo, and the eight of them were all squeezed in like a pack of cranky sardines.  

Phoebe was going to be spending the rest of her hellish summer with complete strangers in Bismarck, North Dakota on a wheat farm complete with cows, chickens, and one grey mare along with Lizzie’s six cousins.

The car door swung open, and a large man wearing blood stained overalls with extremely bushy eye brows lunged toward them, “Why I wrecken’ it’s been goin’ on five years, Cru! Bout’ time you come home with the kids to work the farm.” He took an oily handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped the dripping sweat from his brows; appearing out of breath at the same time. Phoebe took note of how “Bushy Brows” had replaced the word “work” instead of “visit”, and suddenly felt as though a chicken feather was caught in the back of her throat. Cru Hayward looked stiff, and managed to put out his hand to shake Vern’s, but instead was pulled in tightly, and given a bear hug smudging the wet chicken blood on Vern’s overalls directly onto his brothers white Oxford shirt.

As Phoebe entered the farm-house a variety of scents wafted through the steamy air. Lizzie’s Aunt Doodie was nervously leaning over the kitchen sink peeling a large stack of potatoes so high they were beginning to topple off the counter one after another. An extremely obese cat  sat by her feet pushing them across the floor with as little energy possible.  Standing on a small foot stool in front of an old-fashioned *** belly stove stood, Trina, a small child around the age of five who was busy feeding a dog the size of a small pony. She appeared to be in her own unsupervised world; busily shoving strips of steaming barbecued  chicken from a platter into its wet slobbery mouth, and then licking her fingers.

Phoebe glanced into the nearby living room, and noticed the walls were decorated with handmade plaques quoting scriptures from the Bible along with various cheap prints of Jesus; like the kind you’d buy at a church fair. Small miniature figurines decorated the home throughout. An open bible lay on the arm chair of a tattered recliner.  Feeling self-conscious, and out of place, Phoebe tried to hide in one corner as she watched Lizzie hugging her Aunt Doodie’s belly wearing  a hand-made sweat shirt with “Elvis” on the front. Gospel music was playing loudly from the living room. Phoebe mumbled under her breath,  "Where's the donation jar?” Aunt Doodie’s eyes narrowed when she looked at Phoebe, “Did you say something, Dear? What’s your name?” Phoebe managed to croak out her name, and say she was just talking to herself.” Aunt Doodie gave her a wry smile, “Why you’ll have plenty of time to talk to yourself tomorrow in the wheat fields when we get you up to work at 4 a.m., Missy.” Her snarled lips faded, and she continued talking to Lizzie smiling big, “Now where were we, Lizzie darling?”

Phoebe already hated it there. It had been less than five minutes since she arrived. She began to think if she had a money left in her suit cases to take a bus home. She frantically dug in her front jeans pocket, and pulled out a piece of lint, and a dime.  

Lizzie’s cousin’s all stumbled into the kitchen wearing clothing that looked as though it had passed through several millenniums of “Goodwill Store’s” in the 1970’s. Their straw hats hung low over their  eyes, and  Lizzie could tell they were ******.  Lizzie’s cousins had all been stamped out by the same cookie cutter mold like twins. Their ages ranged from seventeen to thirteen, to age five. Trina the youngest being no doubt an accident.  Marty, the oldest at seventeen, wearing a ripped Metallica shirt was the first to speak, “Lizzie look at you! Why you all but growed up on us. I bet you’s the most popular girl in school with that pretty face of yours”. Marty was handsome in a Emelio Estevez actor kind of  way. Phoebe couldn’t help but lick his beautifully sculpted arms, and chest with her eyes; but when he caught her staring she quickly looked down at her shoes. She felt her face burning with embarrassment.

Aunt Doodie turned around swiftly on her bare heal with a large milk pail in her hands. "I'll be back girls. I'm out to the barn to milk the cow for supper. Don't break anything."
  
Twila was sixteen with black eye liner under her eyes, and red lipstick. She suddenly leapt onto Lizzie from behind, and covered her eyes while wrapping her large chicken fried steak fed legs around her. Her hair was curly, and extremely frizzy like it had not seen a comb in it for several years.  Twila whispered, “Hey Lizzie, who’s your dweebie friend? Don’t look like she can smile much. Maybe our cat got her tongue. She looks like one of those uptight city girls!” Lizzie couldn’t hold onto Twila any longer, and tried to drop her down gently. A loud “thud” bounced the floors as she fell. The inside of a nearby china closet rattled as she hit the floor forcing a glass plate to fall, and break. “Ahh  ****! That’s mama’s favorite platter.” Twila looked straight into Phoebe’s eyes, “We’ll just have to blame it on you, Phoebe. You just keep your mouth shut about it!” Ignoring that Twila had just accused her of breaking a platter Phoebe heard Lizzie mumble, “Oh, this here is my friend from home. We both went to summer camp in Minnesota together, and we’re her ride back home to Oregon.” Phoebe at this point was already imagining a large pig shaped nose on Twila's face; and not the kind that was cute. Twila glared, “Looks like you in lots of trouble now city girl”, and walked away with her cousins leaving her to stand alone in the decorated gospel room near the kitchen.

Phoebe wondered if she landed in some kind of Twilight Zone episode that had not been written yet. She decided to go for a walk all alone on the wheat farm until someone called after her for supper. Phoebe was lonely but she was lonely at home with her mom, and step-father too. They always left her to fend for herself, and her mother rarely spoke to her.  Phoebe felt as though it was like living with two ghosts you can hear; but can't see.  Besides, she had decided that this summer would be spent working on her writing. She had always wanted to be an author, after all, she had always noticed everything.
Her thought was broken when she heard someone say, “That sister Twila of mine is mean as a snake. Don’t pay no attention to her. To this day I feel like I must have been adopted. Hi, my name’s Shawna.” Shawna had a beautiful face, and was tall for her age. She stood about 5’8 with long blond hair making her look almost like a mermaid with her fair complexion. “My twin sister, Shaylynn, went into town to rent a movie for us all to watch tonight. We ain’t got internet. I think she said “Back To The Future” was finally available, or maybe it was “Jurassic Park”. Have you met Joel yet? He’s about your age. He’s always hanging around the bowling alley with them local boys. Don't know what they even have to say to one n' other. It's not like anything ever happens in this town.” Shawna seemed like the nicest out of all of Lizzie’s cousins as she reached out to give her a hug. Phoebe smiled politely saying, "If you don't mind I think I'm going to go for a walk. I think I need some air" while waving a quick goodbye.

When she returned from her walk she opened her journal to page one, and this is when it all began to get very interesting.

My Summer In Bismarck & Other Quirky Observations

by, Phoebe Snow

August 7th, 2015

The horizon seems to encircle this entire small farm as if someone drew with an orange crayon around it like a child would on paper, or perhaps with white chalk on the sidewalk. Everywhere I look it seems flat; and at night the moon hangs so low in the sky with the brightest stars next to it than I think I've ever seen in my fifteen years of life. Lizzie's Aunt, and Uncle, and all her cousins talk funny too. It's like they stretch out their "o's" when they speak. Kind of like hearing a bike tire that's going flat with a pin hole in it. It seems forever for it to finally run out of air; and sometimes you just want it over with as fast as possible. That's how they talk. I'm always finishing their sentences in my head ten minutes ago. These people seem so foreign, and yet I know them like a story.

Journal entry: August 16th, 2015

Marty has come into my room. He is standing in the doorway with  his chest pushed out. He is seventeen, and I am fifteen. I know what he wants by the gleam in his eyes. I won't give it to him.

I got up from my bed, and closed the door on his feet. Silently. I left the scent of coconut oil on my body drift toward him. An invitation; but not yet.

watching a German substitute come on is a bit like watching the opening scenes of Gladiator... the German tribe north of the Rhine resounding to the decapitation of an envoy... painting in writing, ascribing the appropriate diacritical marks to the Venus bathing the alphabet the Anglos kept as source of their demise; naked unsupervised to stress certain sounds and thus unsupervised the slang emergence, and total ignorance of diacritical marks of football commentators, stemming from disengagement from dialectics as the supreme proof... from the film: 'tu bista ***! aß sēhta'h fuhta'h ūnna'h!' - das längezeichen, ein verlängerung (two definite articulations of the definite article, a quarter das, a quarter die) - the macron, an extension;
one H the vowel / breath catcher, former H the precursor of catching breath, the latter, a breath shortened, mildly operatic... from the cradle... to the grave... but watching a German match is like watching the battle speech in the opening scenes of Gladiator... a substitute comes on, the announcer says his first name, the horde bellow out: bastian... Schweinsteiger! macron v. umlaut, when did - also mean a horizontal colon above a letter? just now. i'm still surprised that the English are too proud of memories of the Empire to even allow the greeks to utilise diacritical marks, and leave themselves jaded with computer encryptions, ugly emoticons ( :) as a perfect e.g.) and acronyms... what a waste of when revelling in Ave Britannia, Empire of the Pond... ruler of mirror ripples rather than turbulent waves - but it's like that, whether in the Bundesliga or the UEFA championship... a substitute or a goal scorer... like a ******* german tribe antagonising the Roman expansion tactic, the bellowing grooming of a beast.

in terms of song subjects, i can't feel the vibe
of urban socialites and heavy affairs,
any more chromatics' songs akin to
the velvet underground and i'll just keep
staring at only having done marijuana,
whiskey, and the deadly Salvia Divinorum,
many a good Aztec died from this plant,
very few fared to become Proustian shamans
of changed perception - but seriously,
a second more with the haunting female voice
enticing me and i'm done.

but there are some extension i made from
having the oeuvre of Iron Maiden and Slayer,
post-2000 music to me is hardly represented:
the chromatics (**** for love),
the besnard lakes (until in excess, imperceptible ufo),
uncle acid & the deadbeats (blood lust) - i need
to get mind control for one song, under your spell,
naam (self-titled),
dead skeletons (black magik),
tame impala (lonerism),
wooden shjips (west),
moon duo (circles),
black ox orchestra (nisht azoy),
pop levi (medicine),
                                     allah las (self-titled)...
i mean, it's out there, the alternative, it's out there,
but people don't like sharing their personal tastes
for a public reason, but a personal reason,
as long as personal interests are necessary all
public coercion is lost in the art world for
a scrap heap... so true the myth and so also tiresome
the idea that art is best kept (at least the obscure type)
for a Don Giovanni adventure - i mean,
had i more money i'd invest in art more -
but the retaliation was inevitable,
the karaoke culture of philip k. ****'s prediction
of the *man in the high castle came true...
well, it wasn't a prediction but a fantasy...
karaoke culture took over, pop is karaoke, the few
brave souls are there, but the general public is starving,
1950s American cinema and 1970s American cinema,
music prowess in the 1960s -
well, if you steal from artists... why expect any art to
exist if that art isn't simply advertisement?
ever used the radio? i would have, kept my honour...
how many thieves prowl in western society
under the disguise of technological progress?
too many.

*if i were polish, i'd add the Czech utility, to change -sz- with š, and -cz- with a sharpened breve / upside-down circumflex above... and not learning the specific encoding of diacritical marks gave us the linguistic alphabet... -sz- with š as replacement, -cz- with č, to simply drop the z... this is painting, and the only painting you can have is with stresses on the sounds... so in example:
škoda że tak mało času
it's a shame that there's so little time.

I always get up early. Early, early, early and it’s Saturday morning. So I scooted over to “Donut Crazy” and got myself 12 sugar donuts (and a selection of treats for my suitemates - I’m NOT suicidal.)

At 8am, I’m in the suite common area, on the couch, binging “Ladybug and Cat Noir” on my iPad and I realize that Leong, one of my suitemates, is sipping her coffee and staring at me like I’m a bad pet. I look around to find myself sitting in a shower of confectioners’ sugar speckles.

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised.” I disclaim.

For more information, including the origin of Honku, please visit the official website:
www.honku.org



Clogging traffic flow
twin, brake riders in the lane,
they're really a pain.



America's love -
Unsupervised car racing
on our new highways.



Rubbernecking state:
Welcome to Connecticut,
spend more time on road.



Suggestion only?
Painted lines are optional
for lane straddlers.



Forget the roadkill!
Rubberneckers demonstrate...
Lust for dead bodies.

You are **** and you know it
Your life is garbage and you show it
You will die soon in the ball pit
I'll leave you unsupervised for a minute
You make drugs look like candy
And you are not even worth it
When you were born I tried to prevent it
With ****** and **** and even weapons
And when you came out I said *******
You make drugs look like candy

Don’t use that word
that loveless, cheap hotel card with that sham of a fine print
don’t ignite my wrath
by devaluing it’s worth, or even giving it power
ignore it’s event like I do
a purity ring
a shackled serf
don’t cheapen my experience with your experience
of what is mine
don’t touch me
swallow me whole
engross me, emboss yourself into my body
don’t touch me
don’t even bring yourself to touch me
I've been rattled out of my lithe little girl's ribcage
child's innocence
shaken out of my hair
I've been mauled by foreign hands
I've been contained by religious crusaders
I've been trampled by meaning
I've been impaled by silence
I've been wretched from love
I've been stolen by hades
I've become the defining moment of your ego's shameless pride
my meaning has been baffled
it has been led
it has dived instead
to the groves of the underworld
divided in two parts for this equinox of existence
my child’s fingers
pried, wretched, from its golden enlightenment
pulled
by the untouch
and the wrong touch
the false meaning
and the absent truth
I am a survivor
I am my own caged victim
I keep her in my stomach
hidden behind my intestines
immersed in my guts
and my bruised pride
that is where I keep her
from you
and the sensations you evoke
the feeling that rattles my nerves
and twists them in confusion
I don’t want to hear your caricature
of my painful soul twisting experience
or HERS
I am enraged!
I am grieving!
I am rejecting!
I am pleading!
I am split from the genitalia up
and the heart down
DONT REMIND ME
please don’t send me into Vietnam
when I am simply relaxing my levied body into your bed
I haven’t the control
PUSH, PUSH, PUSH
PULL, PULL, PULL
SEVER, SEVER
they send me out
he pulls me in
I send me out
I hope to be tugged gently somewhere far away
different from here
in hopes of a real man
a saintly man, devoid of churchly meaning
and satanic undertaking
to embrace me while my fractures are filled
with porcelain
comfort me in my tears
with your humble arms, hands, thumbs
I’ve lived nightmares
that can’t even be rendered from medieval children’s stories
I am under constant running faucets of pain
I am the active participant in my own narcosis
the sound of screaming children sends me into rooms of interrogation
into a meaning of my own
the death of the world’s morality
sends me into spiraling questions of my own
I am sweating from my own polygraph
I am juggling an urge for a spiritual and triumphant out of place uproar
in a quiet, unassuming, un-related home
I am running barefoot after the stars
until my heart hemorrhages
until my lungs collapse
until my feet are caked with sharp rocks
until these rivers from my eyes run cracked dry
tears pooled from somewhere so deep and treacherous
I dont even know where the water is kept
even with my own fingers in the dam
I trust not the water of prisons
I cannot come within proximity of these wound
You slaughterer of divine innocence
You godless heathen
sacrificing the bodies of small celestial creatures
at the bonfire of your debauched and putrid humanity
you thief of love and light
of trust
and connection
I cannot bring myself into the inner reaches of love for fear of the inner reaches of you
I am reverted to the first thought to imprint upon my soft mind
the soft mind of a small and unsupervised animal
but I can only touch it with my lips and my imagination
unable to bring it behind my mouth
for what pain it has caused me
what paralysis it wrought into me
In my quiet, exhausted body
as it's administered to
in its aloofness
by my own lovely composure of compassion
in it's illuminated internal insight
flittering trust in cosmic righteousness
do I also come to bolster faith
that this baser nature will one day be sanctified
like a burning house, full of plagued infested linen
de-shelved like memories of pain on loop
so myself and all the other victimized creatures can find rest upon thier weary eyelids