Let me guess...
She's your favorite person;
she helps relieve life's burdens;
she's the one you text late at night,
and you think she's absolutely perfect,
right?

You made up some metaphor
to make her blush more than ever before.

And she's the one you'll dream about
because it's her whom you love now.

Little divested flower,
Shame— how you break with the peak of light.
A blossom they might think,
You're still a phony stick.
Is it guilt filling the scene?
Or is it just the sunbeam?

Everyone wants to be a revolutionary,
a hero, a martyr, or more.
Empty minds seeking an empty prize,
of fame and boundless glory.

Everyone wants to be a wiseman,
without searching for the wisdom.
Everyone wants to break free,
from their phony societal prison.

Everyone wants to be loaded,
without having to earn the dough.
A tax or two will surely do,
those ***** capitalists will eat crow!

Everyone wants to change the world,
without having to change themselves.
Everyone wants everything,
except to be ourselves.

-->In the past

Martin Luther King Jr
Antonio Gramsci
Were waging a fight
For the observance of
Their likes' right,
Also like Frederik Engels
Crossing-floor or
Transcending class
There were some
Who were struggling
On the side of
The oppressed mass.

Making
Proletariat internationalism
Their intent
The likes of Che Guevara
** Chi Minh ,Castro
Proved freedom fighters
Beyond the perimeter
Of their continent.

A selfless sacrifice
Was what
They were expecting
As a price.

Like Mandela's stance
"Lick not your wound"
Was what  was deemed
Sound.

Unity, genuine democracy and
Freedom was the catch word
All in one tied
By a political cord.

-->  Currently

So called politicians' intention
Is towards themselves
Drawing attention.

Fabricating a political tension
Deconstruction history
And dishing out
A scare-tactic fiction
They bring into play a given
Ethnic or religious
Group's ,once up on a time,
Suffered lance,
Their hidden selfish agenda
To advance,
Rallying the mob truth
And fiction that
Fails to balance.
Moreover for fishing
In troubled water
A hotbed they give a chance.
Optimizing own benefit
Is their price.

Self-seeking,
Triggering ethnic-conflict
Many societal-harm they inflict.

They adore blood
To flow like a flood.

Disintegration and hate speech
Is what they preach.
"Chase that religious group
And that race!"
Is what
They expect  credulous
Followers to embrace.

Machiavelli is their
Political bible
To translate into action
They make a dabble.

to me? Real with a certified S.King filtered -ly mod,
by god,
as the oh myers say. On Writing sans Shining.
Needful fiction,
Liars prosper. Okeh. Thus,
the poor we have with us, always.

Truth t' tell.

Entshallah allathat, OMG samesame
good mastah willin' creeks don't rise

Do the work. Come Sunday, someday,
we, all us, say.

You ever finish your own work one day and jest

sit back lax - lacks a daisy, taken easy,
laxative action,
gut synapse
synch-up, cinch that saddle on my wildest
old Nightmare, beat my plow
back to a oil drum,

set some feats t'dancin' in some ol'lady minds.

old man's angels seen t'be jiggin' on
the head o' some pen
in the hand

worth two in the bush.

Who know what ever mean, okeh.

period. point made signal.
that was said and it's writ.

set it aside, let it dry

crumble to dust and be scattered to the five great gyres
to settle
as sands
ifiable quant, to mortal mind, weighable
any worth assigned as
sought or ought,
a grain,
a mote,
as seen with five gee augmented
lenses
prestandards beeing raised in the buzz
from Utah

as an erranded boy's sail bike lifts into if
from the saline shore.
Bike tires adhered to passive-ly

by molecular
memories of being
in truth, as if
once and ever,
salt of the earth, see in the distance,
Lot's wife

as tiny as can be

Na and CL, for ever,
deja wuwuish it were possible… dream… or die…

no don't. There is a reason. I for get it can not right now but these
keys can be

used right by the sober one in the batch.
God, I love this process. This is the work. Living.
You can do it as long as you can pay attention…

selah

then it, the algorithm, I'll go rhythm, pauses,
Spelchkovian spells masters seem sorry we ever agreed she'd
leave me leavened as dust
lying around
on white linen
in the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay,

back in the day,
we sang that song in school. We sang
in movie theaters, along with a
bouncing ball and other people,

big bio jump here. My step-brother was murdered,
and it never seemed relative…

my father married a wombed man with one leg,
whose family sang along with Mitch,

and played Spit in the Ocean.

Such experiences ificate possibilities few knew
some survive.
There could be a contributory flow…

This ever lasting book of life.
See, a shore, sand bar
snag a thought rainbowing true to you

hang-ups from way back

Any boomer bubble popped too soon. Manifest at will.
P-pickup from scratch and
make a point
to infect the next pun unknoticing kid,

old -time slow hand-eye coordination special ed, Big Ern,
kicking chalk dust in far right field, noticing
patterns
in the leftmost vector straight home--

grand children, for the joy of knowing they happened,
caused,
to all outward appearance,
by my survival of several unbelievable

periences ex nihilo only
if "It don't mean nothing".

link link link something has broken, what do we con tribute tributary flow
too dammed salty, got to puddle around

waiting. waiting. waiting for one point
to be made
edged on all angles, to each mea culpa assured
quantifiability of reason,

inquizical sequence surpast
glistering

whetted and furbished for ever,

the keenness
the cut, precision decision

and how swiftly forms the scab,
a touch,

capillary seals, the grain, at HD,
one pixelish crystallin charge

change that,
by taking thought. It does nothing to your stature,

think allusive butterflies of lifenshit

it gets tiresome. A body wants some rest from ever
meaning ever and never was known
or heard
a dis cora zone age word, like

troglodyte or luddite Denisovan bracelet breaker,
ropemaker union with certain silky
threads
to which a little leaven always sticks
as would caterpillar spit.

Meandering, right, it's the play. My role.
I manifest the dance
as seen on the surface, from Jim's POV,

then my own POV,
then my own rivers of no return,
tribute

'ary a day goes by I don't re call that feeling,

flow is moving paster and paster the walls are
higher
shade deeper
colder'n'hell fersher, rapids.
Ah,

Kern River, I remember this.
Almond trees, Columbus clouds…
Hey, readerman, paperbackwriter wannabe,

we survived. What'sa-hell, right's right.

clap. there is a - an  STD joke there.
But those aren't funny

right,
standup guy says right's right, does a
Johnny Unitas stiff arm
and gets a case of
clap from the left, worse than meaningless

neo **** non clapping on the right.
Repent or perish.
****** if it don't feel good to say that.
It's true, once you know,

Gertrude Stein, I got it from her. Lesbian Jewish leaven
in passover brownies dipped in Mogen David,
she made me stand and say a rosary.

By any other name,

a rose is a rose and so on

What has literature become?
Mockery of the new age
They spit on the graves of former writers
They take their names and drag it through mud
Disgrace, distaste
Nothing fuels the flame
The elusive spark as died
We all try to grasp at fame
Only few may succeed
In comparison we falter
We are the ****** ones
left to pray at the alter