I heard the trumpets from too far away.
Labored to save what I had given away.
Pretended to believe and Believed in pretend.
Semper Fidelis to the bitter condescend . . .

I answered the call, made a very important date;
scurried to remember then remembered too late;
embraced my Foe by forgetting my Friend.
What is this ‘This’ of ‘This We’ll defend’?

No Dream was too heavy, no payment too sleight
to abandon in the brilliance of the peaceful light.
So Determined I was to ignore my Fall
and give everything I bemoaned for security Above all.

No borders no boundaries no Heavens no Hell
nothing so precious it could not be given as well.
What use Freedom? What need I of mere Country?
What means Non Sibi Sed Patriae?

Oh Thetis put down your cumbersome sword.
Lift up the blindfold, as we can afford
to lay down courage, honor, duty and walk into the might
of Entitlement for All and for all entitled Night . . .

And Lady Liberty, you are no longer needed;
walk away, walk away, liberty ceded  . . .

Here are your chains, Lady, wear them quite well.
Pray speak not of Heaven so we can pretend there’s no Hell.

In a dead baby’s eyes,
    chest no longer heaves, throat no longer cries,
lies, dead, the choices of Humanity;
Individual choice or Social vanity.
And, either way, the way we go
leads us to and leads us fro.

When the last grave is filled;
When the last enemy lies killed;
When the last smoke from the last fire
rises up and up and yet no higher;
When the last tear is worthlessly shed;
When the last lament is sung for the dead;
When the valley of the shadow of death is no longer feared;
When evil and good disappear into the past, bleared;
Then and only then will time beat swords and plows to rust
and leave the stage clear for whomever must
stand triumphant, Adam and Eve, upon the stage
Humanity left in a silent and useless rage.
Lost, we did, the forest for the trees,
blind to what a dead baby sees . . .

Beware the fleeting expressions of Man!
Allah’who Akbar is easier to shout than
an explicit examination of rights and wrongs
Honor!  shouts the honorless;  Shout!  Sings the songs

A Fire of Men and Stones!
stoked by honor and broken bones
fleeting the expression upon the face
under the blood tears leave no trace.

Beware the sleeting excoriations of Men!
In the name of god is so easy to sing, then
the stonings and the burnings can begin.
Love! Shouts the loveless; hating the sinner, loving the sin

A Fire of Men and Stones!
Lovingly born by staring crones!
Fleeing the expression upon the face!
Gaining Pride!  Losing the Race.

“Please God help me,” the sinner begs.
Shaitan smiles and stirs the dregs.
The soul of Man spits down like stones
thrown without mercy at mercy overthrown.

A Fire of Men and Stones!
The flames a’crackle; the ground, she groans.
Fleeting, the expression, ‘Please save me!’
Shaitan names the mob; mommy.

Men and Stones afire!
Souls burn bright upon the funeral pyre!
But not as bright as truth overthrown
Virgins tremble!  ****** groan!

“Please God!  Are you there?”
Nothing answers, not even the air
that rises high in a silent sneer
from the pyre that draws all so near.

Pray not for men; they will not hear or atone
for they are the fire of Men and Stone.

Beware the fleeting expressions of Man!
Allah’who Akbar is easier to shout than
an explicit examination of rights and wrongs

Honor!  shouts the honorless;  Shout!  Sings the songs

A Fire of Men and Stones!
stoked by honor and broken bones
fleeting the expression upon the face
under the blood, tears leave no trace.

Beware the sleeting excoriations of Men!
In the name of god is so easy to sing, then
the stonings and the burnings can begin.

Love! Shouts the loveless; hating the sinner, loving the sin

A Fire of Men and Stones!
Lovingly born by staring crones!
Fleeing the expression upon the face!
Gaining Pride!  Losing the Race.

“Please God help me,” the sinner begs.
Shaitan smiles and stirs the dregs.
The soul of Man spits down like stones
thrown without mercy at mercy overthrown.

A Fire of Men and Stones!
The flames a’crackle; the ground, she groans.
Fleeting, the expression, ‘Please save me!’
Shaitan names the mob; mommy.

Men and Stones afire!
Souls burn bright upon the funeral pyre!
But not as bright as truth overthrown
Virgins tremble!  ****** groan!

“Please God!  Are you there?”
Nothing answers, not even the air
that rises high in a silent sneer
from the pyre that draws all so near.

Pray not for men; they will not hear or atone
for they are the fire of Men and Stone.

We are all born in a jar
(with a view of Mother from afar)
and it’s the glass we learn to see through;
refining me while defining you.
Those poor souls whose glass is opaqued
with smudges of fear and cracks of hate,
who never learn to see through
the jar that defines me and contains you;
they are the ones who hope and pray
that you only see your world in their way.
As these souls bloat too large to be contained
they burst the boundaries and are profaned
by the sharp edges of the jar
their rage casts the jagged pieces of;  near and far.
But if, instead, our soul transcends
like light that remains unshattered but only bends
through the glass of our individual jar
and gives a glimpse of just how far
we have, yet, to go and have come:
What beauty, what symphony
we can glimpse more clearly
and ourselves more nearly
when we are willing to see ourselves, ajar.

All Ahoo!  All Ahoo!
“Rapturous!” cries the streaking blur,
falling straight from the blue,
no wish, no dream can, it, deter.

All Ahoo!  All Ahoo!
Silent, slashing, swooping by;
plans are violently torn in two.
No surcease can you buy.

All Ahoo!  All Ahoo!
Cringing, careless, covert glances
show there’s naught for anyone to do
and provides no hope and fewer chances.

All Ahoo!  All Ahoo!
From distant shores I had dreamed
of a future I thought I knew,
but then the plunging present screamed,
“All Ahoo!  All Ahoo!”

My Muse is hiding from me;
her absence  a sight to see.
The Anger has forced her away.
She fumes with nothing to say
in the dark hallways of my mind.
The Anger has forced me to find
the center of the once calm passion
that had allowed me to fashion
the words, gifts, My Muse once gave;
I know I am truly her slave.
Has she gone forever?
Were my bonds to her so easy to sever?
And what now can I do
to refresh, recreate, renew
the solace I took in her arms:
Her words, Her whispers, Her charms(?)
With the Anger how am I to be free
and return my Muse to me?
Has she forsaken
the words she has taken
when the anger chased her to silence
and left me choking in my violence…
…and Will she come back with a vengeance
like a period at the very end of a sentence.

"...we have to stop being shocked and amazed....when men who are conquerors by nature also chase women....we as a society have got to become a little more anesthetized to this." Donny Deutsch

Anesthetize your daughters, oh Mighty Men, novocaine their conquered *****!
Man guided penises are upon their proverbial hunts!
They seek out your females; chase them from your arms
All at the damnable fault of their ineffable charms
Cast aside the garments you dress your girls within
Then forget the ravages of every single sin
And spread their arms to the world and let them hug it tight
While Weiners of every kind **** with all their might
Puritans are the trouble, religion the ******’s friend
Bend your daughters over, they’ll get it in the end.
And Natalie, when you are finally through
With this unsavory interview
Lift up your dress and spread your knees
And maybe, just maybe, we will ask you please.

'and if you were caught with your pants down literally and figuratively, come clean.'
upon the face of every woman you have ever seen.

http://newsbusters.org/blogs/kyle-drennen/2011/06/09/nbc-puritanical-americans-must-become-anesthetized-***-scandals

. . . says a twig to a stream, to a river to the sea . . .
“Why do you struggle so very mightily?
The ice grabs you like it’s beholden me.”
B
ut the water gurgles, below, unconcernedly.
“Once I bore a crown so light and green!
Where is it now? Only you have seen!
In the Fall I blazed the brightest red!
Now, in the Winter, I wish you were dead . . .”
The twig remembers that Spring comes again;
its leaves will be born and unfurl then,
“And Fall will give them to you to take from me!”
. . . says the twig to the stream to the river to the far away sea . . .

But the twig’s just a shadow the stream must pass through.
The ocean calls it home, so that’s what it’ll do.
The stream was born of a past Winter’s ice
and the twig’s just a shadow through which it must slice.
And . . . maybe it might bear a leaf or two
but it can’t remember what it might do.

An Ocean rages at the earth and the sky!
Rocks are torn to pebbles and mists flung to fly.
Then one day its water, as rain,
awakes the twig to leaf again.
And a twig looks down at the slice of shade
its leaves, once again, upon the stream, have made.
And forgets, come Fall, what colors there’ll be;
another twig is born of a branch of a tree.

One far Winter the water will freeze,
a cold dire wind will strip branches from trees.
One Old Twig floats down to the sea
and uncovers one thing a twig might be:
bright driftwood cast far ashore
and it’s not now a twig anymore.

A Flame spits embers at the dark, starry sky.
The children of its anger upon the winds do fly.
A tree gives those children a home in its leaves
as an iced over stream groans and grieves;
praying for safe passage through the Shadow of the Twig up above
. . . and so flows the circle of the cycle of the rhythm of Nature’s Love . . .

Time is but a moment that passes you by;
a stream of cold tears that others must cry.
Twigs glare darkly at other streams;
Life’s much bigger . . . and smaller . . . than it seems.

They are not children long less we, mistaken,
view their charms as something taken,
something ‘stolen’ from their innocence
which is nothing real and only hints
at our guilt and crying shame
which looks eager for others to blame
for the simple march of time and tide
at whose foot we all will abide.

Look to the corpse-like living
who, to youth, are always giving
the presumption of an end justifiably reached.
        When youth is nothing but a far, thin beach
landed upon; afoot or on the roll.
Landing half dead or hale and whole.

Beware the Siren song of youth;
the false virginity, the baby’s tooth
for it is not the child, we have been,
that is the gift of original sin.

‘Cute’ is not a place to stay.
Beautiful is best beheld from far away.
We are the road that leads us on.
We are the sunset that precedes the dawn.

We are not born to stay the child
Youth is for the forever beguiled.

They are not children long less we, mistaken,
view their charms as something taken,
something ‘stolen’ from their innocence
which is nothing real and only hints
at our guilt and crying shame
which looks eager for others to blame
for the simple march of time and tide
at whose foot we all will abide.

Look to the corpse-like living
who, to youth, are always giving
the presumption of an end justifiably reached.
When youth is nothing but a far, thin beach
landed upon; afoot or on the roll.
Landing half dead or hale and whole.

Beware the Siren song of youth;
the false virginity, the baby’s tooth
for it is not the child, we have been,
that is the gift of original sin.

‘Cute’ is not a place to stay.
Beautiful is best beheld from far away.
We are the road that leads us on.
We are the sunset that precedes the dawn.

We are not born to stay the child
Youth is for the forever beguiled.

Drum Beat     Drum Beat    
Once again upon a Time
Repeat     a     Repeat
Prison then the crime
Doom     Again     Doom     Again
History repeats
Now and Then     Now and Then
Life between Deceits
Blind and Deaf     Deaf and Blind
A prayer before the Dawn
Pay in Kind     Pay in Kind
The Ferryman rows us on
Rap and Waltz     Rap and Waltz
The Fiddler pays the tune
For all its myriad new found faults
The Beginning’s coming soon
Stay Awake     Stay Awake
Half to teach the young
Grave Mistake     Grave Mistake
Bite your silent tongue

Drum Beat     Drum Beat    
Once again upon a Time
Repeat     a     Repeat
Prison then the crime
Doom     Again     Doom     Again
History repeats
Now and Then     Now and Then
Life between Deceits
Blind and Deaf     Deaf and Blind
A prayer before the Dawn
Pay in Kind     Pay in Kind
The Ferryman rows us on
Rap and Waltz     Rap and Waltz
The Fiddler pays the tune
For all its myriad new found faults
The Beginning’s coming soon
Stay Awake     Stay Awake
Half to teach the young
Grave Mistake     Grave Mistake
Bite your silent tongue

Oh the cringing  demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than ***, lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.

Oh, mere ***, be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.

I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your *******;
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial  ******?

I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?

Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.

Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!

There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?

Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see ******* then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.

Shed the tears of lofty clouds in a bright blue sky;
pure, Groundward bound, left to do and die.
Wail the pails of pain to set them free;
dressed in the schemes of hollow charity.
Sing the fatal songs of the blessed, silent peace
of lingering death that is never allowed to cease.
For every body dead, crushed to dust,
a baby is born of endless, pious  lust.
Cry loose the sadness of endless hope
found orphaned at the end of a hangman’s rope.
Weave the fibers, me hearties, weave them right!
Is that a star? Wish I may, wish I might . . .
Exchange a hurricane of tears for an extended, trembling, golden hand!
Then Stride with purpose, blameless, shameless, through a desolated land
certain in the silent piety of a false, soul-less religion
that chains the human and sets free the pigeon.
Oh, the endless, fruitless cycle of the Circle of a Life
lived like a throat pressed against a well used knife.
And when all is quickly said and finally done
we find we’ve helped exactly . . . no one.
We find the mouths well fed and the tears dried to naught
and the soul dead and crushed under what mere charity wrought.

Drifting, spiraling up and  around
lifted to the cluttered ground
Ghost of Purchase, Spirit of Spent
Hell born, Heaven sent.
Twisting, dancing to a thermal tune;
Cast aside in a plastic dune.

Plastic Bag, oh plastic bag
I once prayed to you but now you sag
empty, dancing upon a breeze,
hanging like tinsel from the trees.

I peered inside, once, and spied
and plucked your soul then cast aside
your thin, vaporous ghost with empty pride
and let you, upon the breeze, ride.

Drifting, spiraling down and around
splashed to the cluttered ground,
Spirit of Purchases, Ghosts of Spent
to Hell, borne upon heaven cent.


Paper or Plastic: the prayer sings.
The Ghost of Choices, breeze borne, swings.

Eyes you’ve seen me naked, you’ve seen me painfully bleed
you’ve screamed out my simple joys and demanded all I need.
You saw a pretty flower and thought nothing more.
What do you see, seeing me standing, naked upon the floor?

You’ve watched my hands wash my skin and pick things from my nose.
You’ve seen food to my mouth then watched to where it goes.
Eyes you stared until I obtained all I wanted to be.
Now, you eyes, look again and tell me what you see.

You may have once, maybe twice, looked away when I lied.
You may have smiled at the ends for which I falsely cried.
You may have screamed violence when my lips were  firmly smiled,
but tell me, eyes, do you think you are now beguiled?

Did you miss some season, past,
or left un-noted a vague wish cast
upon some current of subtlety
that leaves this ‘person’; standing in as me?

When did I ever note or even vaguely care
what another might see standing before them, there?
I’ve changed past childhood and, eyes, you’ve failed me!
Now, you eyes, look again and don’t you dare lie to me!

When once my standards were my own
and Time stood still . . . but now I’ve suddenly grown
and stand naked, now, and, could it be (?),
I find my eyes are not the only ones that see.

Please lie to me once again as you have before?
Do not see what stands naked, before you, upon the floor!
Pretend I am still that child, laughing at the sun.
Oh Time, oh Nature, look what you have, nakedly, done!

What a cheap and ****** recompense
for this loss of my revealed innocence
is this that now stands naked and new?

Tell me, eyes, what must we do?

We all embraced death,

we did

we forsook warm cells for raging fires!
In hearts of soft lead,
we hid memories of past funeral pyres,

we did.

we chose retribution,
as cold and blind, as rain choosing ground,
of the past, well, we clutched tight hold
and chose a hammer’s sound…

we did.

Do you not all agree!
We exchanged Tomorrow for Today!
It is what we Saw that we choose to See!
What was too heavy we threw away
We held chaos in our fist
to scatter like red, hot seeds,
hoping to add a burning number to our list

Is this the corpse upon which destiny feeds,
our own?

If I fall, another will take my place,
too much spilled blood for mine to end this race.
When, once, from behind the smoky clouds, I glimpsed a star
I knew for certain just how far
from yesterday I have run
And the damage my Tomorrows have done…

We all embraced Death, we did.
And from Our spawn, we ran

And hid.

. . .
O Lady Liberty,
what will you do with me?
Your corroded, copper skin
hides steel, well, within.

O lady Liberty
too many songs sung at thee
but when the bugles shrilly blow
who will, righteous, Know?

O lady liberty
is your mate Responsibility?
For when you stand all alone
the choir of Hell begins to drone.

O lady liberty
what is your posterity;
the song of Freedom or the Fate
of the Doom of History learned too late?

O lady liberty
please wave, once more, to ‘We’.
As you fade into our mist
do you add another to your List?

O lady liberty
Freed from the chains of literacy,
your Poetry would still ring true
if the words meant more to me than to you.

o lady liberty
my children, you’ll never see,
thinking Winter won’t come again,
sing and dance in Summer’s Reign.


O Idol of Copper and Stone
who left you, there, all alone?
Who turned their faith and Ayes away
and left ghosts to remember and debris to play?

O Archaeology
What does this mean to a passing me;
a piece of copper, a chunk of stone,
an infertile seed the past has sown?


O Eternity . . .
what have I done
to me?

I awake in a dream upon my bed,
upon which I have never lain my head,
to soft sunlight and a gentle wind
through curtains of a life that has never been.

I hear the comforting whispers of hearth and home…
…something I have never known.
Words are spoken from a wife I’ve never met
as plates and forks on a table are set.
“Wake your father.  It’s time to eat.”
Words from a woman, I will never meet.

Footsteps clatter right to my door
until, before me, stands a girl of four.
Her hands held at her chest,
her eyes impale the soul in my breast
She asks, “Daddy, where are you?”
Spoken by a daughter I never knew.

She inhales deep and frees a sigh,
eyes downcast she turns from my bed and I
wake to darkness and sadness, both the same.

I would give my soul for just her name.

Is that the rain or tears on your face?
I can trace
the years that have no place
in your eyes.
Is that the wind or a cry
in your voice?
Do the sighs I hear
linger by choice?

Is that quiver in your hand
from the cold or the pain?
Do you wish to go on or do I stand here in vain?

Do I hold out my hand
or grab you ‘fore you fall?
Should I give or demand
or should I care at all?

Do I hear you clearly?
What can I do?
Have the dreams you’ve held dearly
been ripped from you?

Should I hold you tight
or would I just make it worse?
Should I shut off the light
or is darkness a curse?

I stand here feeling the sorrow in your eyes.
I stand here feeling the cold and the pain.
I want to heal you ‘fore that warm light dies.
Are those tears I see, or is it the rain?

She occupies no tower room, atop a winding stair.
No Prince climbs up to her cell, using her golden hair.
She waits for no magic kiss, asleep under glass.
No, she paces a corner, cold, with ‘Princess’ across her ***.

No goblin eyes or trollish claws yearn for her proud neck.
No Hero longs for her embrace from upon a heaving deck.
No story ever written or myth that will come to pass
is bolder than the single word; ‘Princess’, across her ***.


No coach and four is coming, nor does a stallion gallantly stride
bearing a regal husband to a blushing, ****** bride.
A simple bus of yellow, as bold as the brightest brass,
comes to pick up the reluctant girl with ‘Princess’ across her ***.


So come you expectant ******, yearning to see her again;
Paper clean and ready, ink filling the pen.
You find the story continues, the ending now up to you
as you find, to your surprise(?); the Princess is ‘Juicy’ too.

She speaks privately from between her legs!

Children scattered about like luke-warm dregs
of life sipped tentatively from the mug
made of her **** and the carefully shorn rug
once atop her ***** but now replaced
with a clever thong and further defaced
by empty words with which no one bothers;
like abandoned motherhood and absent fathers.

Once, long ago, the seas calmed down
if they viewed a full cuntal frown
But now what power yet remains
is washed away and the Tide abstains
from noticing at all that clever ******
of hip carried power, now just animal lust.

God with His magnanimous decree
gave us dominion over all we see
and gave it despite our rampant *****,
waggling ******* and ***** locks!
But our mouths undid us, to the core,
flung man to the ground and named woman ‘*****’.

So now emblazoned for all to see,
above the *****, *******-ly,
the final victim of original sin:
The Unattended Child!  What does he win?

Well, there it is, written bold
above the entrance to the exit of old
“Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy”
Cut the umbilical!  ***** the father!   **** the mommy!

And over coffee, we’ll share some snickers
about the ****** made of her knickers.

                She used to speak from between her legs!
Her **** shouted down oceans and now it begs
for mere notice in words writ small
and forgets why she wears underwear at all.



"Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy. This funny and beautiful design features a vintange inspired cup of espresso."
**an ad for thong underwear, presumably for women

In Africa is found the broken little bits
of bone that tell the truth of it:
We are, all us, African flown
with little racial bits to call our own.
Though we struggle to point our finger
the little racial bits do linger
in the those digits curled tight
pointing back to us as if to light
the way back to the truth we have lost
behind us, left, to the side, tossed.
We are, all of us, of one breed;
black inside the womb, white as the seed.
Oh we struggle, caught and trapped,
by our own hand our backside slapped,
as we pretend to believe the lie
that divides us, you from I.

So  ‘white’ I stand before you ‘black’
as any African man but take a step back
for you dear son of slaves and slaver’s sons
are not untouched by this and are undone
to realize, that before me, looking me up and down,
stands another white man with a touch of brown.
Go ahead, divide us into a lie
that mere color determines if we live or die

There are no ‘young black boys’
just boys waiting to fuss and bother
the world as young men or a liar’s toys.
The choice made, or not, by so simple a thing as a father.

And when another digger finds our bones in the sands
will he nod and sagely lecture that he understands
the fossilized distinction he so cleverly employs
to distinguish young white from young black boys?

Javon Johnson - "cuz he's black" (NPS 2013)  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Wf8y_5Yn4