#degenerate
Similar but unidentical primers used,
To amplify the same gene
But from different organisms,
And the consequences are again
Similar but not identical.
A useful technique it is
As the genetic code
Itself is degenerate,
Meaning several different
Codons code for the same
Amino acid.
Different organisms
Are allowed this way
To have unique genetics
For highly similar proteins.
We use degenerate primers as well,
When designing is based
On protein sequences
Because of unknown
Codon sequences.
Them we may use
For resurrecting extinct animals
And play God.
It's already happening,
The beautiful Pyrenean Ibex,
Also known as the Bucardo,
Hunted down to extinction,
In past not so distant,
Was brought back to life.
The science used was biotechnology,
Degenerate primers and another
Technique known as SCNT,
Somatic Cell Nuclear Transfer,
Used in synergy to bring the ibex back.
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 12:48 AM UTC
you wrapped your unending vulnerability
inside a cocoon of every single one of the
foul deeds you committed.
every shameful secret you bought to life.
and you wonder why you can never grow strong.
why the only part of you that can take a hit
is the armour you bought for far too little
to bleed into your blood stream and offer your body
the support your degenerate being can't supply.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
A young man with ***** hands
walked into the bar.
He sat next to a blonde
of about the same age
and ordered a beer.
"Don't even try to talk to me,"
she said in an arrogant tone.
The young man didn't speak.
Defeated, he climbed off the stool.
He took a pull from the beer
and then dropped a crinkled fiver.
As he walked out the door,
the girl laughed out loud.
She showed us all
who was boss.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
I loved you
every single day
especially those nights
you ******
other men
You’re better than me
but you kept coming
back for more
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:49 PM UTC
I don't just love you;
I love your imperfections,
those hard memories
beneath kind eyes,
when I watch you
gaze out my window
every morning
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
I am you
and you
are my enemy
Late at night
I plot your demise
In the mornings
regret
In the evenings
I beg forgiveness
The cycle
never ends
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC
Sins are often forgotten.
Brain molecules are overwritten,
cell pathways erased,
as good conquers evil.
The righteous actions that ignite enlightenment
and solace for the sins we can't remember
are also eventually forgotten,
because evil also devours virtue
in what priests and monks refer to
as an ancient and everlasting battle.
Some people live out their lives in solitude.
We see them in quiet jobs,
alone in libraries and coffee shops.
They patiently wait out the battle
for the day when the struggle ends
and they finally know tranquility
Others choose action,
to play their roles as instruments, weapons,
sometimes for the forces of good
and sometimes for the forces of evil.
I’ve chosen to add my flavor of mayhem to the world,
inspired in forgotten nightmares
and during quiet car rides home
after the job has drained the last drops
of energy and self-respect.
Without the battle
humanity certainly would be boring.
Unfortunately for all of us
nothing is quite so dull
as serenity.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.
Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.
Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
I only think about you
at night
when consciousness
surrenders to regret
Madness then swims free
in a polluted oil
of memories
we call sin
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
Only **** the ones
you love
and only love the ones
who never ****
you over
That's our way, baby
the way of the world
the way of life
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
We are the hunted
the hated
who run in packs
separate but equal
rarely together
but with similar purpose
a singular goal
to make it
through life
We are despised
for our existence
Some are fat, yet starved
Others are slutty and ravenous
Every day is a struggle
We **** and feast
fight and pray
and too often
we lose
Love is fleeting
never predictable
It's the knowledge, you see
We are but temporary
lovers, workers, friends
That truth brings about
the sadness
the madness
the end
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
Go to sleep
Dream the dreams
only you can dream
alone
We will meet again
when our world faces
the other side
of the Milky Way
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
As the **** of a 12-dollar cigar
touches the tip of the tongue,
the nervous system shoots a signal to the brain,
to process the sweet tinge
of delicious poison
that hits the back of the throat.
Slow suicide, baby,
really doesn't get any smoother.
Human bodies may desire health,
but it’s the mind that struggles
and tests mortality
as the heart races
for the best ****
Hipsters and their vapor pipes,
their overpriced organic groceries,
coke binges and ****** addictions,
gym memberships and spinning classes,
they’re socialized to believe life
goes on forever.
They behave as if death
is a kind of curse.
We can run from sins,
wash our souls in the rain
of fresh lovers in new cities.
Sins, however, collect.
They grow in strength.
All we have in the end,
is the sweet tinge of satisfaction
that comes from killing oneself
in style.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
From an early age before preschool,
there was one Pittsburgh man inside a box
who showed us how to find one’s bliss,
he set the tone to lead a happy life.
While I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
the Pittsburgh man in a box taught me
the virtue of kindness and curiosity.
He taught me make believe.
When I grew up, life’s temptations
pushed aside his lessons.
I traded the Pittsburgh man in a box
for the gluttonous abuses
of flesh and ***** soul-murdering hatred,
and the pursuit of greed.
One early morning, around 8am
I crawled out of bed,
careful not to disturb the woman
whose name had been lost in a fog of whiskey.
I walked into the living room,
switched on the TV, and there he stood,
the Pittsburgh man inside a box.
His gentle manner, his big imagination
revealed a simple truth:
I’d chosen the wrong path.
One day at the job, the sad news came.
The Pittsburgh man in a box had died.
He contracted stomach cancer.
That night the TV played his old shows.
I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
and said goodbye.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Saturday sidewalks are filled by the youthful,
the boys with young muscles and hard heads,
the girls with soft skin under short skirts.
They wander sidewalks in search of escape.
Each of them dance with lust,
drink hard,
and inject madness
into their veins.
On Sunday mornings,
after the splendor of uninhibited release,
the young weep in regret of poor choices,
their air saturated in reality.
Sidewalks then belong to the wise
who wake from a good rest.
These men and women drink roasted coffee,
reflect on a transcendent spirituality,
read great poetry,
and meet friends to discuss
the roots of democracy.
Every year, the unchanging concrete slabs
of sidewalks appear slightly different.
They reflect our perspectives.
Sidewalks that once led to freedom,
now lead to enlightenment.
In future years,
these same sidewalks
will lead to rest.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
You don't know me.
I’m warning you now,
don't even consider knowing me
or pretend to know me.
I've beaten lesser men
and poisoned the hearts
of lesser women
for trying to know me.
I am aggressively alone in distant observation,
away from unpredictable friends
who often transform
into entirely predictable enemies.
Alone is my simple form of silent tranquility
with my thoughts and my words
and my unfulfilled dreams.
The silhouette of a single Canadian goose
stands majestically on the shore
of the summer river
below the orange city skyline at dusk,
or the smell
of your old leather jacket
and a soft kiss
that partially wakes me
before you leave in the early morning
to never return.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.
Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.
Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.
The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
A young man with tattoos
walked in to the café.
He examined two chairs
at the empty table
in front of me.
He cupped his chin with one hand.
He silently compared the older chair
with the torn, dilapidated seat cushion
to the newer chair that still had a black metallic shine.
He picked up the beaten chair
and carried it to the table behind me
to join his friends.
That’s how we define ourselves,
our class, our place in the world.
Some people believe they deserve
the best seat in the house.
Others believe themselves second class,
commoners whose insecurities run rampant.
We do it to ourselves.
No matter which seat we take,
every one of us
knows love and hate.
We all fight and struggle.
We are all unique.
We are all the same.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
In the mid-1990s I worked as a bartender
on the second floor of a local hotdog joint
near the University of Pittsburgh.
I poured beers and mixed simple drinks
for working class drunks.
The felons always had a game or a magic trick
they’d use to milk rubes for a free gin and tonic.
College students mostly stayed away,
but the ones who stumbled in ordered drafts,
paid for by daddy’s allowance
or the petty drug rackets they ran on campus.
In the summer, the best ***** came around,
**** pushed out of their tops,
*** cheeks crept below their skirts.
They knew how to find action
every single night.
Except one overweight girl named Susie
from the all girl’s school down the road.
She’d come to the bar alone,
her lips caked with dark red lipstick.
Like many students, Susie wanted to be older.
She’d order ***** martinis,
drink quietly, and she’d patiently wait
for one of the older drunks to make a move.
It never happened.
Sometimes Susie complained to me
about other girls at her college,
that they were aggressive lesbians.
All of them wanted to eat her ******
‘Those ******* are as bad as the men,’ she’d say.
But then she’d laugh it off.
‘I really love **** she told me.
‘I think about **** and *** all the time.’
One night Susie owed the bar $27.50.
She always tried to flirt her way past the tab.
I never let her get away with it.
‘Do you like me?’ she said.
I laid down my trademark response,
‘You’re the best.’
‘No, do you really like me?’
I figured she deserved a real compliment.
‘You have the sexiest lips here.’
She climbed off the barstool
and walked to the backdoor, the fire escape.
She then curled her finger at me to join her.
Outside on the small rusted iron landing,
above the roach-filled dumpster,
Susie crouched between my legs.
Both of us worked to unbuckle my belt.
A swarm of hands pulled down my jeans.
I looked up at the few stars between buildings
as those red lips and soft tongue became my drug,
a back alley escape from a ******** life.
When I unloaded, she refused to let go.
She swallowed it all. $27.50 paid in full,
plus tip.
That’s how we went for a while.
I gave Susie small escapes from lesbians.
Susie gave me small escapes from life.
Eventually, she stopped coming around.
I figured she graduated.
Perhaps her classmates finally got their wish.
Either way, I never saw her again.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues,
whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung
between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred,
I gave up the struggle many of us
try and fail to endure.
Some people who love the insane
fall into the pit of personal torment,
an anxiety or depression of inner madness.
Others choose eye for an eye revenge.
Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media:
‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’
I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce,
to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend
who had endured much of the same abuses
and learned the same lessons years earlier.
Ana and I spent several merry Christmases
at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints.
The restaurant was simply a massive room.
A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall,
where the cattle lined up to feed.
Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast,
not for the quality of the food, but the friendship
and the king crab legs neither of us could afford
any other time of the year.
We’d trade laughs and stories of the year.
We reminisced about friends and family passed on.
For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night,
there was no poverty, no family, no hardship,
no greed, no fuss…only laughs.
Except for the year I asked myself,
‘What would Jesus do?’
Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line,
a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front
taking too many crab legs.
Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions,
in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game,
only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes.
The unwritten rule among buffet veterans
is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some
for the others behind you.
The poor must look out for each other
because we all **** well know
rich ******** only care about themselves.
After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling,
a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed,
‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’
The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to
confidently strode past the hungry patrons
in his business casual golf shirt and khakis.
In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked
with at least 20 crab legs.
His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter.
The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches,
whose bellies would go empty for another half hour
didn’t affect this guy’s silent march,
his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer.
I stepped out of line in the guy’s path.
‘What the are you doing?’ I said.
‘It’s a free country.’
He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip
against the orange chicken buffet station.
I moved to block him again.
‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’
His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform
a little Christmas justice.
With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate
and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs.
‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted.
The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple.
‘Do something,’ I said.
A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled.
I handed her a crab leg.
The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble,
but skulked back to his table.
I then walked down the line,
handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg.
Old men formed expressions of confusion,
Young mothers and fathers laughed.
Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling
in a show of solidarity to the cause,
victory against a great evil.
A short Asian man approached me in line.
‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English.
‘But I paid for the buffet.’
‘No troublemakers. You go.’
I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure,
an immoral bandit of Nazareth.
Being bad never felt so good.
After all, one can remove the boy from madness,
but without intense psychiatric treatment,
one rarely removes madness from the boy.
Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast.
I drove us home quietly content.
Another Christmas celebrated.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer,
staring at a blank spot on the wall,
fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence,
another wave of anguish
floods the mind.
The spot on the wall is a sounding board
to rail against enemies
and debate ideas,
and howl the cries of a madman
who will forever ponder
damaged souls left
in his wake.
Sins committed once belonged to others.
Then I learned how to inflict pain
in my own style.
Now, regrets languish
in booze-soaked reflections.
They stir quiet torment,
a just retribution
for honest men
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
From far and wide I have observed
And laughed at their swelling sorrow.
The ignorant fools haven't learned.
Depravity can only grow...
But, tides have finally reached me
They came from their decadent seas,
And in us, started to take root.
I will not yield, be their recruit!
Deceits I can't swallow.
And again they will try.
Heresy I won't follow!
They have told their last lie!
For the world is hollow
And I have touched the sky.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
Recorded off the cuff: https://soundcloud.com/user4081486/after-a-night-out
How can I ****** look at you right now?
All of you
You're all just ******
You're ****** ******* yourselves out
You're not finding love
You're not finding anything that fulfills
How can I look at you?
All you're getting met is
a physical need
at best
Some of you probably not even that
And here I am
After a night out
I'm meant to look at you?
And get off?
You look into the eyes of these men
as they **** you
You think you're getting what you need?
I doubt it
I really doubt it
Am I getting what I need?
I doubt it
I really doubt it
I feel more empty every night
All I'm doing is watching
Here you are
Giving your everything
to these men
And I'm watching
I'm not getting what I want
I'm not getting what I need
How can I imagine that you are?
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
I laze the dawn with morning breath inhabiting my mouth
Shifting my body maybe once or twice on an unkempt mattress
I would've killed for a good king-size bed, a comforter draped over me
But even I was too lazy to get up and turn the nearby radio off
I've lost myself in the smoke I've shrouded my apartment in
Seeping elegantly from the cigarette locked between my fingers
I shake my head fervently as 'elegant' isn't the correct word for it
As I've once lived a life of luxury -- bordering around dark secrets
Dark secrets that tore up the tether binding our family together
I know what it's like to be stinking rich and reeking of it all over
But I needed to jump on my motorbike and drive far, far away
While the cold air whipped at me and stung the moisture in my eyes
I traded the pinstriped suits for cheap muscle tees and leather jackets
And my high-maintenance loafers for darker-colored boots
I needed to be as far, far away from my past as possible as it hurt
It hurt to finally know the truth -- those horrid secrets I'd discovered
I was no one and I was undeserving of a disgustingly beautiful life
I was no heir presumptive to a company raking in mountains of cash
I was no blood brother to three boys I unconditionally adored
And most of all, I was no real son to the man I excessively revered
I changed my hair and name along the way too, because I didn't belong
I was reduced to this angsty and hurt rebel far, far away from home
I got myself an apartment and drank and smoked and wasted away
No one's come to save me from my rampant inner demons anyway
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC