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Before they begin their tapping
dreams nestle in shadows, napping;
growing, groping and grooming
in the blood the day is drawing
from the wicked wounds of walking—

     In all meter and measure
     beyond meaning and pleasure;
     with each tick wounds are dripping,
     with each tock midnight is waiting!

Though lagging and lacking
the speed seconds requiring,
the Minute Hand must outstand
all the heartbreak till the day’s end
and tally each looping sally
of seconds’ light-footed rally
around all measured rant,
rushing like a foraging ant
ticking and towing crusty crumbs
from Time’s forbidden lumps.

Until the iron-booted Sentinel
watching each hour’s terminal
sounds the late day’s knell
and salutes the midnight spell
with spear prodding straight up,
tapping napping dreams to wake up.

Now, they flood the heavens’ starlit strait,
milking the dreamer’s cataclysmic cosmic plate.

Hence the eaves of the heavens droop
and sag in a sleepy silent stoop,
scooping minutes’ heart-ached soup
on the brink of a dream laden swoop.

Here the heavens sigh in shallow heaves,
whispering dreams
from where Shadow lives—
far below the sun-bathed eye;
yet, far above the sighing sky.

Now is the time to drop all drooping drapes
and steep in a nether land’s old golden grapes
that Philemon aged within scented staves,
mulling archaic aches in shadowy shapes.

From his kingfisher blue and the nightly hue,
shadows leap through to ***** and find you.
Not to destroy, but to explore you;
not to wage war, but to restore you.

Dark as Poe’s black winged Raven;
thus, not good for the cringing craven.
How you didn’t know you bore them laden,
hidden yonder in you, native and graven!

They toss you in a gale you’re scared to sail:
          “When they hail, you think they wail.”
They restage a rending rendezvous:
          “When they woo, you think they boo.”
They pretend the pain of piercing spears:
          “When they kiss, you think they hiss.”
They dance in your drastic defeats:
          “They chant in cheers; you think it's jeers.”

You blanch Fear comes to hunt you;
you didn't see it's for you to pursue.
     You fear Wrath comes to burn you;
     you didn't see fire will forge you.
You panic Pain comes to ******* you;
you didn't see it also will push you.
     You fear Darkness comes to consume you;
     you didn't see it is what's cradled you.
You fear new wounds come to find you;
you didn't see they’re windows about You.

     A grieving Poe was sure;
     We ‘stand amid the roar of a surf tormented shore’,
     while we ‘dream within a dream...'

...and that which keeps carrying us
               ~like a stream~
may also be a dream…
                                  …within a dream.

‘a doorway to the past opening—'
an empowering offering keeping us going...
So, Philemon is no demon—

that which you deem as sweet
may sometimes sap in dreams' sourest seed.

© Hirondelle, August 04, 2025
    Arif Hifzioglu
Philemon is Carl Jung's envisioned guide to the shadowy inner world where our subconscious fears roam. In his Red Book, Carl Gustav Jung recounts his journey to his own subconscious, led by an old man in kingfisher wings and tusks upon his head. Whether these were lucid dreams or an actual meeting with Philemon is not yet clear. However, the ambiguity is haunting.

I used Philemon as a central figure to be the portal for our dreams springing from our subconscious as a result of our past pains and fears. With Philemon, as with Jung, I intended to tread the fine line between the conscious and the subconscious encourage confronting our inner darkness and find growth and peace.
I say, Ashe,
I mean, what else to say
As they **** my brothers and sisters
Feeling like my days are numbered
Just another young Black man
Knowing that things can go left
Easier than they are right
I read and watch
Tragedies, hardship, and inequalities that never seem to change
So, I flip the page and turn the channel
Sadly!
As I unwilling become desensitized
After every shot,
Every choke, every hit, every knock
Hoping that they won’t steal my grandson like they stole Emmett
****
So, I close my eyes in defeat
Trying not to picture the demise of the Black body
Dreaming that change will be swiftly
This is Poem 8 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
As I see this police brutality, it has become a reality
As many people are getting hit with these bullets of casualties
And the reality of this reality
And these bullets of casualties
Are
That it's really sad to me
To be
Push to the left
Of this pain of death
Like Trayvon Martin
As I saw a Black boy
With happiness and joy
As he went to the store
Not to get stereotyped
As dangerous and poor
And to be treated like a bore
An animal of sorts
And to be made into a deadly corpus
His body
That lay in the morgue
And his parents
That cried O'Lord
And their tears
That's filled with the death of their son
And the injustice of justice that goes undone
These tears
They weigh a ton
Like the bullet of a gun
That killed Trayvon Martin and Mike Brown
But the ones that shoot these guns
Are never convicted
But they’re the ones who get assisted and enlisted
And the Black boy—
He's the one who gets unlisted and convicted
When he's convicted
He's thrown and twisted
Into just another statistic
So, as I pray
Hoping this police brutality
Will goes away
One Day
As shells of the bullets
Hits me where I lay
This is Poem 7 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
What the ******* looking at
I’m that loudmouth
Cotton-picking
***** ***** you heard about
I’m that slick-talking, big-walking *******
****, I am a *******,
*******
I’m a watermelon-eating, cornbread-munching, fried-chicken-smacking *****
I’m a black **** that will do anything for the white skin, for those white men, that little bitty white plan
That western thinking, that only got us sinking.....
Into generational oppression
Contemplating deep thoughts of depression
Like clockwork
Over and over again
Wait
Over and over again
Is my clock broken?
NO!
Over and over again
In this sin, we call life
Playing the game with a disadvantage
A Catastrophic injury
Not having all the tools to conquer
This constant relapse of cycles
Hating myself so much that hate you
Hating myself so much that I beat you
Hating myself so much that I **** you!
As I say,
Yes sir,
No sir
Yes *****
No *****
But hates his own kind  
A *****, who doesn’t sit by the door
But on them corners!
Right on that corner on 79th
Or maybe 78th, or 63rd maybe 65th,
Name a street, I’ll sip the 5th
As I plead the 5th, for crimes I did not commit
Feeling so bashful and so cloaked with indifference, that I cop a 5th
1st, 2nd, 3rd—5th
As I amend my thoughts
I understand!
Just another body to this cause
Again
I don’t think you understand my pain
So again
I’m that ***** not by the door but in them fields, crushed in between a jail cell and genocide
With homicide in my conscience  
Ready to blast nine shots by two Glocks in a ***** that looks at me crazy!
From being a crack baby
To selling to crack babies
From whips to chains
To whips to chains
Not knowing why I hate
But deep down inside, I am full of love
Unfortunately, I will never show love
Because I was never shown love
and in the deepest form of honesty, I don’t know how to love.
So, with not knowing the stereotypes continue
And forms a mind of its own
Hate!
This is Poem 6 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
I wish I was a Black boy that flew
Then all of my dreams would come true
Because people really don’t understand what I go through

If I could get away
I would
But I always seem to stick out

Sticking out like a sore thumb
Unwanted

I try to yell for help
However, no one understands my language
Foreign to all

I try to grab a hold, but my hand slips
And goes straight through
Appearing faded like a ghost

I try to climb up
But I repeatedly get pulled back down
Stripping me of my progress

So, I run away
Lungs gasping for air
I try to run as fast as I can

Knowing in my mind
That humanity is on the other side

Life or Death
Freedom or *******
Pain or Chains

So, I run
Bursting closer and closer
Sprinting to the finish line

But I trip
They catch me
Cutting my Achilles
As I Heal

I realize
That success is inevitable
As I swallow this unbearable pill
And wipe away invisible tears from my treacle eyes

Knowing that life isn’t 100 proof
Life has contradiction

Contradictions of
Impossible
Difficult
Hard
No Way
I Can’t
Fear
Failure

I laugh
Uncontrollably
To keep away the thought of crying
Because the pain cuts deep

Intensely
On the other side of the bank
The narrow trees
Through shallow waters
My hand extends
There's Our Journey
Our Path
Our Blueprint  
Our Success

Unleashing my spirit
Freeing this caged bird
I Fly!

I Fly high in the sky
Soaring to new lengths
Breaking Cycles
Discovering Life  

Writing my own story
Making history

As I glide through the canvas
I illustrate

I am the Black Boy that flew!
This is Poem 5 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
They say I’m mad at the world
Go figure right
The biggest stereotype there is
An Angry Black Man
But maybe this is true
Maybe I am
Maybe I’m mad at the world
For how I’m treated
Inequalities I deal with every day
Or how I get looked down upon like I’m a crumb on the dirtiest of grounds
Like I’m a peasant: a beastly creature
A killer that was never pushed
Just one more **** they won’t have to arrest soon
Because they believe in executions!
Death by firing squad!
So maybe I am angry
Furious
Shouldn’t I have the right to express myself?
Express my opinions on this jaded society!
But then again, they say it's not a societal norm  
So I rebuttal,
**** normality
They say shut up and dribble!
They say you’re canceled
They say you can’t feel this way
But why can’t I feel this way?
How Sway?
I mean isn’t this a “FREE COUNTRY”?
Don’t I have “First Amendment rights”?
Doesn’t the “Constitution apply to me”?
Can I be free?
They say I’m going to end up either dead or in jail
But why can’t I be a lawyer?
And maybe go to Yale
As I yell and get on my knees
Crying out in pain and agony
Saying please
Lord help me
Protect me
Lord, give me wisdom
So, I can have a strong mind
To get through these hard times
Exhausted and Traumatized
I pause
And close my eyes
This is Poem 3 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
Who am I?
I get asked this question a lot
But I really don’t think there’s no need to answer
Because like a cancer
This tumorous disease eats at me
Like cell-to-cell
Like a hell of tales
Burning my flesh and soul
To an endless loop of fear, pain, and trauma
Am I a man?
Am I a child?
Am I considered wild?
A beastly creature
Am I a Black male?
That gets stereotyped for having a darker shade than others
For being wrong all the time but never right
That gets stereotyped for having a stereotype
That gets profiled for not having a profile
Am I a child that has his whole life is determined, with two words,
Test scores!
Test scores that get me into college with a lifetime of debt or prison with three hots and a cot.
Tests that weren't even set up for us at all
Rigged from the beginning  
That western thinking    
Am I a Black boy,
That has no father to lead him, guide him, and show him how to be a man?
Am I an adolescent,
That gets stereotyped for either gang banging or caine slagging?
A **** - The Hate You Give
That is at a constant struggle with oneself on when to be tough, reckless, and wild
Or when to be joyful and have a smile
A savage
An impatient fiend for the white skin
Yearning for a fix
Like Birth of a Nation
When we birthed this nation
A Criminal
That can never be trusted
Ignorant,
Stereotyped for not knowing how to read or write
Illiterate
Mentally *******
Different
Not like me, so I hate you
Not like me, so I chase you
Not like me, so I **** you
Strange
Like strange fruit
I hang
My neck snaps
PULL!
Hang
Cracks
PULL!
Hang
POPS!
Freeze
Burn!
Maybe I'm Insane,
For being a crack baby
Or from the medicine that Mommy and Daddy said the doctor gave me
Or since my dad put gaping holes in my mom
From hollow tips to hollow trips
Doctor visits to Child Protective Services
Psychoanalysis for my Psychopathic Analysis  
Needing an antibiotic for this infection
An antipsychotic for that depression
Inadequate
Insufficient funds
Scares
Impoverished
I don’t know, you tell me
As these words speak free
I ask again
Who am I
Shouldn’t I decide and be free?
This is Poem 2 of my first book, Traumatized: The Conscious Reality

Traumatized: The Conscious Reality is an introspective perception through my brown wide eyes while growing up in Chicago, seeing pain, love, and trauma. As disappointment looms in the abyss, while trying to obtain knowledge as I reach for success. Edging on the cusp of greatness, while trying to break the curse of generational trauma.
Falling Awake May 10
The conscious sea arrests hold of me,
Collective knowledge streams to my head,
With new eyes of three, I now can see,
I’m swimming in secrets of the dead.

A tideless sea, of consistency,
Not up nor down, behind or ahead,
All Life dissolved in pure unity,
All life woven from a single thread.

One drop is whole– The Entirety,
Reality fits on a pin’s head,
Uprooting all I thought there to be,
Replacing it with nothing instead.

Thoughts absent beyond duality,
And time crawls while elusive and sped,
All is formless unfettered and free,
And no words say what needs to be said.
Ken Pepiton May 2
Tuesday, April 29, 2025
2:50 AM

Eyes burning green reflecting patterns
yawns feel tied to FTA, so these lines un
fold from feeling real enough to think may
be
why, be, ah, woken to guard the gate, say
who goes there, what is the word, say it,

-- allegorical experience parable
literal transfer of call and response, say it…

              sibbolet slogan shibboleth battle cry,
slay all whose dialect makes no sense by
shushing discomfited infants,…
ah, poet, weeping

might becomes can as we agree, touching

any thing whatsoever, in fact or fixed faith,

saying our concern for another's demise is praying
merciful transference of sovreign authority, in death.

We, say the news criers on television, are praying
for the fan we all may have seen fall from the stands,
or we may, today, in case we were not paying attention,
at the crack of the bat,
to the shirtless supplicant
offering himself, beer baptized,
reacting to divine luck dispensation
hoh-ee trying
to umph the jinx
on the fly,
that went by driving
in the eventual win,
made sacred, truly special, for the show,
of life-long efforting  honed Team Spirit,
this is what worshippers expect, eh,
good national tickets cheap seats…

the battle of chosen hitter-catchers
paying
to baseball's Tychicus spirits
ecstatic over a two run double
in the bottom of the seventh…
lethargic faith, relaxed reasonable reaction…

pray according to pattern,
signal all watching, see how we do, real athletes pray.
America relies on prayer signals to the athletic supporters.


Players from both teams, including Andrew McCutchen, took a knee and prayed for the fan.
Wholey reality, grant
redemption based on dedication to mere display reaction…
to the winning RBI… last act of mystical absorption,
made sacred…

as far as all the time in the world is worth,
whole days dosed at max, world's worths,
worshipped in spirit and truth, fleeting…

rise up in the middle of the night, worthship,

yawns and torrents of sneezes, these are those
vigils required of the loyal slave mind, serving pollen,

time Tyche tachometer I
might say I got out of bed to breathe,
but I had wanted to ask LBAIQ, Leo, Brave Answering
Informal Quest… iron sharpens iron… notion notes

The Red Spot, also known as the Great Red Spot,
is a persistent anticyclonic storm
on Jupiter.
It is a giant storm that has been raging
for centuries, and it is indeed a permanent feature
on the planet.

Initially, it was thought that the Red Spot rotated
with the planet, but observations have shown that it actually rotates
in the opposite direction
to Jupiter's rotation.

This is known as a "retrograde" rotation.

The Red Spot's rotation period is
about 4 days, which is faster than Jupiter's 10-hour rotation period.
This means that the storm's winds are moving
in the opposite direction to the planet's rotation, creating a fascinating and complex weather pattern.

oops, factcheck friendly, just asking, no need to prove the lie told there,
just ius lucky us friendly sky united

dokimazó: to test, by impl. to approve

From <https://biblehub.com/greek/1381a.htm>

okeh. Many years pass, with us all granting authorized intercessory,
extra tis bits years
past so fast, years

nights and days, beautiful mysteries, that AI legally is not accountable,
for hoo-mon stop. See, let me ask another way

A rotation period of 4 days is actually much slower than a 10-hour rotation period.
To clarify, the Red Spot's rotation period is about 4 days,
which means it takes the storm approximately 4 days
to complete one rotation
on its own axis. Meanwhile, Jupiter's rotation period is about 10 hours,
which is much shorter.
So, the Red Spot's rotation is actually slower than Jupiter's rotation, not faster.

It can be perceived, that gas giant, seen as we may, these days,
using science consciously slicing sense of usefulness from cost,

Dabar, the sword in the mouth of 'Zekial,
sitting by the Chebar  freight canal,
working for a living, counting kegs,
swinging amphora tight round pegs.
fitting snug below the rowers, squares in tiers of three,

got the picture, Ben Hur,
amuse a politically minded hoo-mon to tell a story of the Christ,

many such were told, used to tame the savage, who could not read.

I've never finished anything permanent, no regrets.

I learned insomnia is me fretting about losing my religion, oh, no\

we've said too much, we've made the means of making reason, oh,
ratio, heft to use, too

heavy on the break break, brake, slow BLAPlapblapblap Jake engaged/


Middle of the night, 04:02. Worth your time, I hopeso/

Confluent opinions swirl
the opposing superstitions's stormfronts
roiling common sensed

selfishness, into team spirit, companion
same bread by which our flesh derives umph

wherewith to try, for the joy we all may win,
for merely surviving, living past all war's reasons.

Casus jus belligerence, train up a child, a boy,
at the basic foundational division of command
authority,

Momma said Poppa said

time passed and son's disagreed,
before daughter's I'd imagine, mostly,

though, now that I insert the possible variable,
we, the partially Disneyified, having lived during
the era of television for children and the whole

family of loyal customers, gratefully entertained,
using industrial scale magic, science not false, oh no.

Well, now, pilgrim,
here's a fine

how do you do…
being you, hatless in space.

_ this is an excerpt ADVERTISING LONGFORM
_ this is a wild idea befriended long ago

we… who finish this thought agree, ever
before time to right this instant, then ever

some more. Peace is easier to sell,
happy people make happiness work,
whatsoever
we agree,
we may

can you dig it. ai jumer, wordswirleration

Trust the river through the rapids, run
knowing there is always where we
step into the Jello…

and conjugalmentalbliss.

Confluent course through
out and in, conscience consensus as we

slow no just if I agreed with your missed
conceptual precept made Isaiah essential
gnosis, discipline come, let us reason, why

of course you comprehend original sin, eh,
ask any trusted source, at base, this idea,

is culturally, in our species, according
to science in context of us, me thinking,

your patience, or your acquired taste,
ends when either has become convinced,

won over to believing slow thinking allows,

reasoning, adjustments, to just mentalize
realization words augment, intend to stretch,

pretend we sold our three bags of wool, long
novel rides in past and present allegorical dust
I used to say, iusagree, in spirit if not truth
agree, at minimum, we agree, the state
of actual participation
in peace making,
is a far better state
mind expanding knowledge…

accounting

for each idle word, measured
by how long one thinks any word lives
after
meaning anything
in particular for your peace.

It's a book, your life is.
A book, not a poem,
not a short stack of lines rising
from the top,
stalactite-like sclerosis forming course
drip trailing evidence, pillars
top to tip, dripping sweet
persuasion, water call
falling drip of what we thought,

as we build a chaotic pillar of crystal reflection,
convincing any ever yet
looking back, learning then, when first believed,

the darkness, lightlessness, when the why is told,
the deathly hallowedness, truth enforces as told.

-------------------------
Grand Canyon Caverns, mile mark 115.

Stores of stuff few ever learn, few
at global scale we circa 2025, few

mental utilizers know the experience,
more than a million most expectedly less
than a billion, of which we now are nearer ten,
than eight billions of us, our kind capable affects,

efforts expressing sense of us, our kind thinking

we may or may not plan any given day, yet we
think we may lay plans for the course
of human events,
wherein we find
ourselves paying mind, and heed, drips

indeed, of course, we must, we were mustered,
as punishers, the right thinkers, core-orthogonal,
as mustard faith leads eventually to cauliflower

upright mind hat tipt, in passing fancy, wonder if…

what if we agree to enjoy an after life, no worries.

---- the wish words be having
reader behaviour… be thinking

In science you must not talk before you know.
In art you must not talk before you do.
In literature you must not talk before you think.
--
In order that people may be happy
in their work, these three things are needed:
they must be fit for it;
they must not do too much of it;
and they must have a sense of success in it.

[ both maxims of Ruskin's, "The Eagle's Nest," 1872]

Done, that's not all, but the esoteric efforting, back when,
the mind, Psyche, was about to be plumbed, leading thinkers,

lacked the precepts upon which precepts approaching perpetual

emotion, haps all working together for good, finally, finished,

as when the work assigned is done, and looked upon, we think.

That's good. Functionable ratio of push and pull, life

breathing with us, in chorus.

You may need to find a solitary place and listen daily,
for fifty years, I know a guy who did, he says,
to this day, after fifty years on this way,

this pilgrim journey children cannot walk, this last mile,
when we walk contented to think, in truth, I can do this  forever.
I meant to begin in the middle but allowed the day it's due, I did get out of bed for this...
Sarah Richardson Nov 2024
I.
At 3 AM, when prayer beads tick like Geiger counters,
my thoughts uncoil—copper-bellied serpents
tasting darkness with forked mathematics.
The mind's eye dilates. Space folds
like origami in reverse.
                          Here: the edge
where meditation meets vertigo,
where breath becomes sine wave,
oscillating between being and void.

II.
Two doors in the skull's quiet temple:
one opens on supernovas blooming like black dahlias,
one on atoms waltzing in their quantum ballroom.
Both lead down labyrinthine DNA spirals
to what we've spent eons fleeing—
that first serpent's whisper:
                               dissolve.

III.
Listen: the sound of synapses firing
like distant stars going nova,
each thought a light echo
bouncing through time's curved throat.
The heart grows dense as collapsed stars,
while dreams crystallize into sacred geometry,
snowflakes falling upward through dark matter.

IV.
Memory: that holographic river
where time swims backward through its own reflection.
I cup moments like bioluminescent plankton,
watch them slip away, pixel by pixel,
leaving ghost-prints on retinal nights.
Each lost second transforms me—
tree rings of light recording
what darkness taught the leaves.

V.
In the space between heartbeats,
neural networks weave myths from starlight,
encoding infinity in finite flesh.
We are legends dreaming ourselves awake,
ancient light translated into carbon,
into stories that birth galaxies
between firing neurons.

VI.
Observe the great devourings:
Universe swallows galaxy swallows star
swallows planet swallows society swallows self—
recursive hymn, eternal return.
Watch consciousness eat reality
eat quantum uncertainty
eat itself, until nothing remains
but foam on probability's shore,
glittering with all possible worlds.

VII.
Deep in the amygdala's forest,
where fear grows like luminous fungi,
I find fragments of cosmic egg-shell,
evidence of what we hatched from.
Each cell remembers its stellar womb,
each atom hums its hydrogen lullaby,
while DNA spells out in base-four code:
you are everyone you have ever been.

VIII.
When Brahman's eye blinks,
superposition collapses into now—
wave functions falling like autumn leaves
into singular moments of being.
Time is a spiral staircase
wrapped around a strand of RNA,
leading both up to heaven
and down to the quantum foam
where angels dance with quarks.

IX.
At the event horizon of ego,
where self meets infinite regression,
I dissolve like a koan in the mind of God.
The observer becomes the observed,
the cosmic dance becomes the dancer,
until there's no difference between
the meditation and the mantra,
the equation and its solution,
the eternal and the now.

X.
All is recursion:
Light waves breaking on consciousness' shore,
consciousness breaking on light's distant edge.
We are the universe's way
of witnessing its own reflection—
billions of eyes opened in wonder,
each pupil a black hole
drawing light into meaning,
meaning into mystery,
mystery into math,
math into music,
music into flesh,
flesh into light.

                    Again.
                           Again.
                                  Again.
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