I may suppose that I'm not alone
In spite of immersing in thought' ocean
I may leave,
Without being seen
I may fly
without getting high
But with my heart beaten with your Melody
With my voice getting calmer
And my eyes being needy
Of  changing the memory chanels on T.V.
I may shout & scream
With no voice to be heard
But with a vibration to hit the wall in Third
I may suppose that I'm in cage
But know my friend that I'm a Passenger at heart
While I kiss you to proceed!

sewing time together,
we scribe our narrative,
your lace stitches leather,
like a seamstress.

failures don't forget me,
i'm their stone to engrave,
designed imperfections
and a chiseled face.

close enough to notice,
constellations are yarn,
unthreading in the distance,
these days seam apart.

I have tried to write
But nothing comes to mind
Is it procrastination on my part
Or numbness in my wrist
It is true, very true that
You start from nothing and
Learn as you go
Writing is indeed an exploration
Try to write something even if
Nothing comes to mind
Focus on what you intend to write
You will definitely fill your bookshelf,
If you avoid procrastination
And put quill to parchment
It is your aptitude
Grab it with attitude
And climb many altitudes

We shall buy and sell and get gain

seeking fame and fortune, we say we shall go
to some high
mountain, far away, and ask a boon

from the rich man hiding for his hoping heś right,
building bigger barns or take the usury...

I wonder, which did he choose, he
who saw no Jesus
in me, but then heard joy is my strength

and had second thoughts, but
one more test,
beyond do you believe in God, big g, yes,

he axes me
do you think
you are saved, I laught. He invites me to his retreat.

Least said, soonest mended, but no

not me,
I say. Yes. And I take my answer, from the sage,
what he said next,
at the end of that quest
unasked

he says there are two ways to promote

--- I say stop, I got the idea virus, from the source
--- I can use your money, but not for
--- fame, only fortune.

Because aitia makes me, Ai ai ai,
I do
know chapter and verse, psalm 75:6-7

But, Least said, won that round, and my experiment
in defining the Pauline admonition after
the full and empty idea,
the one about
exercising oneself in godliness, goes on.

I live a synthetic life.
Fabricated are my thoughts.

My feelings are plastic;
Brittle, though they are strong.

I can feel however I want to feel
And do whatever I like.
This, my friend, is the beauty
Of living a synthetic life.

It's why if I would like to speak with god,
I may do it lysergically.
And it's why I've never felt an ounce of pain,
Not even during surgery.

If I want to be the king,
I don't even need a throne.
All I need is a tiny bit of powder up my nose.
And with the pills that I may buy
With my synthetic money.
I may feel synthetic love,
Even alone;
How funny.

His arms were too short to box with God,
so God sent him down for more sparring.

He boxed the devil over and over and over,
the Father, Son, Holy Spirit doing the scoring.

When he beat the devil every round,
he tried again to punch the Lord.

His arm were still too short to reach His chin,
though this time he lasted about a round.

God sent him down again to box the sin of man,
Jesus needing a break from all that jive.

When he broke even he died and went to heaven,
spoiling for a rematch with the holy Lord.

At the pearly gates he landed a blow on Jesus’ chin
knocking a tooth out to a thousand clouds.

Jesus picked himself up from the canvas of heaven.
He smiled at him.  “Good fight”, he said.

Do not ask me to recite poetry,
nay, not with grape in my veins--

Do not ask me to proofread truth
as the rocks
or the water I drink in my cupped hands

I am a father of simple
child of no one
brother of singing voice
son of music

I am but acids
tripping on acid

i am but time
tripping on seconds

I am but stone
with electric current
reciting current events
eventually distinguished

but not for me
not for these
atoms,
or time
not mine

this is the curse of poets
the curse of 23 followers
and counting

the liars of open scheme
and dying rhyme

i am the last scream
that bathes in obscene
and truthful
meaning