The brambles in the emo forest
grow sharper with the passing days.
Three months deeper into the oatmeal
on the heels of the turtle goddess
and i am compelled to ignore the trees.
i have never been crazy about shrubbery,
being that the majority of my experience
has ended badly for the plant.

**** it.
It would appear that my green thumb *****.

My pillow is a poor substitute
for the warmth of sweatpants
or the comfort of your arms,
but i am locked into the devices
of another two year paper binge.
i would greatly prefer to be
static in my global positioning
as long as i can lose myself
swimming into the recesses of
your vibrant blue Oceania.
i want to hand you my eyes
so you can see my fixation on
the perspectives of action
and identify with my analysis
on the frailty of beauty,
intangible though it may be.

When i was weaker,
i appraised the value of
a man to be intrinsically
linked to the relation
between time and pride.
Driving a parallel path
to the stars, there is
only one thought:
Reality is like a dissected
frog: i poke and ****
and pull and poke and
probe and stare and ****
and pull but i still
can't figure out what all
those little tissues do
when they are turned on.

What if i want to taste the fruits of serendipitous fortune
or walk the garden path of chivalric sunshine?

If i could liquefy my soul,
i would pour you honey-laced
shots of my longing so that
when the darkness of the mid-week
slanders me you can touch
the sea spray of a wave
i have sent to wash away
the fears of circular evolution.

i want to build the hearth
where we can light the fire
of roundabout destiny and cook
the flesh from the slaughter
of our angry cows and bulls
so that we can incorporate
our weaknesses into our strengths.

i want to shape a necklace
out of my scar tissue
and wear it loudly so
that you can see the pain
that enables me to feel yours.

i want to finish my marathon
with my bag of bricks
because it is impossible to
truly win without the
burdens of justice and morality.

i've collected the screams
of my travels in a glass jar.
One day when the sun
struggles over the distant
cold horizon, i
plan to exact revenge
on the container and
make a concerted effort
to buy American.

In the hills above the
languishing sticks
i appear to have
dislodged a rock slide.
In my estimation,
the carnage will be
exquisite and swift.
If i survive the
judgement of guilt,
i can visit the friends
already lost to the
perpetual fires of the
sanctioning underbelly.

Why can't i take the
burgeoning petals of the
dark rose and elevate myself
above the sickness i have
seen in the eyes of my
accusers and those who would
trample the silly notions that
are all i have ever owned?

i feel that in the life i have witnessed
there are innate weaknesses in the
system i have supported.

In the instance given,
i have allowed myself
to be collared and
pent up by unspoken
deeds and words.
When my candles flicker
and reform, at least
i will be able to stand up
and clarify the point with
the authority inherently
granted to an elder whom
most ignore or ridicule in
the comfort of a happy living room.

i have seen hints of the futility of
nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs,
prepositions, and conjunctions
because they cannot begin to
express the vertigo i am cursed with
or the gravity that will not allow me to
escape unscathed.

i'm afraid that one day
my ink well will run dry
and my fingers will fuse
together and conspire to
undermine my sanity.

i fear the ticking of
my watch when i can
feel its echo deep inside
the canyons between
my synapses.

i cower and whimper
under the auspices of jest
when my soul is overrun
with desires that cannot
be slaked with water.

i want to detach my
aorta so that i will not
be bothered by the
binding of my skin
to the dry earth.

i need to hum the
melodies of aquatic repose
and bathe my wounded
feet in the streams that
flow to the cliff's edge.

When the time comes
for my foray
into the sublime,
i can fade away into
the arbor mist and
not feel the piercing gaze
i have become accustomed
to during this.

And for so long,
i have fed the horses
and watered the hedges
for everyone,
only to find that
all my livestock
dies within the
fences i have built
to protect the few
things left after
my tornado.

Approaching six full, and
i'm camped outside the
city gates and starving.

i puked when the moon
cycle shifted this time.

i thought that if i
sacrificed fuchsia to the
demon he would mistake
it for acquiescence, but
when the clock struck twelve
my pumpkin only rotted.

Why did you want to see the water?

i'm not going to buy
the dumb tourist act.
You knew the sand
was poisoned.

Nevertheless,
i am 3/5 of a man
when engulfed in
purple madness for
your affection.

the bells have fallen silent,
and i have seen your persuasion,
like an old silent movie.

What of your petty elucidations?
Can you teach me about destiny?
Do you have any watermelons?
If not, why not, or, even better,
who cares?

i don't think you have
seen my rose garden,
the thicket i entered
once to reenter time
and again, lonely and
bleeding, twisting and
turning, with no
right-hand-rule
to guide...

but this isn't your story anymore.

I can feel the fire
licking up my legs until they are charred,
black as my soul is believed to be.
Screams of the innocent echo in my ears.
This was meant to be my funeral pyre.

I **** myself awake
drenched in sweat, with a shriek of pain
catching like a lump in my throat.
Sheets bunched up against me like kindling
gathered to be lit beneath the stake.

I glance around the room
still feeling the eyes of my accusers
bearing into me, hatred blazing the
path of their need for destruction.
“WITCH!”
Many fates sealed with a single word.

Except I am still alive,
the blood of the crimeless flowing through my veins.
Those flames that condemn
spared no one but me, resurrected from the embers.
The Sole Witch of Salem, survived.

Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.

  Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like a white palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
And there I’ll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after it will ne’er thirst more;
And by the happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And go apparelled fresh like me.
I’ll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar suckets,
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

  And when our bottles and all we
Are fill’d with immortality,
Then the holy paths we’ll travel,
Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers.

  From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
No cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king’s attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and sinful fury,
‘Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

.when did i realize there was no point in lying? people who are pathological liars tend to forget, the scrutiny of memory; my god, memory has a bias for scrutiny, why do you think the powers-at-be are relentless in exhausting it with scholastic examination, marking, the whole rubric of needless demands?! lying also erodes the capacity to engulf and, keep, memories... telling the truth, counter-wise? memory becomes a cinema... whenever i remember something, i remember it because it was truthful, and it becomes a subversive cinema reel that i sometimes tune into... point about pathological liars, they're just like the pristine students in the days of high school... they end up being the best students... given? for the lie to be true, they have to remember the lie, word for word, by a demand that demands them to disclose it, and they can't make variations... you have to keep the lie as intact as an eye aiming to bite into that forbidden apple... you deviate... the lie implodes... lie covers lie until what takes place, is, until enough coverings the original lie is covered with, a naked statue emerges... satan's original sin was a lie... man's "original" sin was... that it was altogether... "original"... to transcend the stated law; you can't be a liar, and have a ****** faculty for memory... you lie, bad, real bad, if you don't have photographic memory... bad liars make bad killers / accusers... to lie... you need to remember the original focus of the subsequent thread! and there's only one thread of events... you can't juxtapose what happens contrary to what is thought, because thought is a theta-precursor of a moral: ought... plus we're mortal! **** only happens once for us paupers of existence!

you know, sometimes you have to bring a few songs back
into your abode having walked the nightly death toll..
the maneouvre,
   the manouevre...
the manouvre...
**** it... it's French, which is worse than English
on the number of surds and what equates into the clarification
of syllable...
there's this son of a site manager on site at where
my father works...
he asked...
for the spelling of the word: T O R C H...
there are only two syllables!
   tor-ch! chitty chitty lucky fucky thai bang bang!
it's not even natives who are proud...
proud as in: up-keeping something...
these ******* make us look silly
defending their culture...
seriously?
you can spell T O R C H?
   give me a breather...
                        i'm not joking when,
i try to joke, that these people exist...
apparently the claim that we're all literate
isn't true...
i know the authorities promised us
a literate mass of people...
but apparently that's not true...
the whole:
but it's the 21st century argument... ???
gone, out the ******* window,
we're starting over...
it's not happening!
no chance in hell!
i'm not buying this *******
quest for an en masse literacy project...
no... sorry.. not happening...
   i don't, speak, French...
   and even though the English primary school
system is superior to the secondary schools,
esp. the faith schools...
  i should be speaking a third language
by now...
   namely German, which is why i'm teasing
using it...
French? no! no! i don#t understand
the logic behind hiding syllables
and exposing sometimes unnecessary
diacritical marks!
**** don't float,
moreover: it doesn't flow!
it's not a ******* river,
or a **** exposed to a high concentration
of fat!
no!
         it's not happening!
whatever the English think that
somehow speaking French will do to their
children... it's... gone!
i'm not thaat honk of a clumsy
**** facet... forget it...
they might have the better good...
but in terms of linguistics?
is Dianna Specer alive?
thought so...
   i wouldn't dare to even send my shadow
into that custard clumsy clown
show of a mine field of mistakes:
just readied for my mistake to take place...
but as you do,
walking back home,
in the scary streets of outer suburbia...
scary men, scary witches...
ooh... can get a man better
than a ******...
                 that famous, "supposed":
thrill of the chase...
more like:
i've got one, let's have another one...
hope you're enjoying your harem
you little camel jockey...
i'll side with the Iranians
and the Bangladeshi...
never the ******* undertaker
of the desert switch and frivolity -
isn't... "frivolience"
and adjective, without an affix, -ness?
yes, -ness is an affix,
not a suffix...
           a quality agitator of
a, somehow, mundane word...
but rarely does it happen,
coming home with songs
that begin and end
with rotting christ's
(greek black metal)
                     Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού
album,
and begin with
the soft moon's album,
of the same name, debut...
rarely...
        usually my way of thinking
is such shrapnel material
that i notice the difference...
this time i couldn't...

i couldn't help that instance,
in my memory cinema
with regards to an incident in the night...

i write fast, so i don't lie,
i'm probably prone to write
faster than you read...

the traffic incident involving
two cars parked prior to an X
junction with a pack
of deer in the middle of it,
and me walking past from a drinking
session in a field of wheat,
drunk like a skunk,
noticing a young deer-ling
looking back at me...

so i gave it the chase...
i charged at it...
the flock of deer with their offspring
ran down the road,
and jumped over the fence,
and into the opening of
a field, subsequently into a forest...
so i managed the traffic incident...

now...
   am i lying?
and i would lie because.... ?
what, likes, shares the whole sha-bang of
using social media?
     em...
   i groove to the clash's
rock the casbah...

   sure, three mares,
about five young Bambi types...

BUT...

   what if a, ******* stag was there
to boot?
Santa not getting enough horn
*****?!
       how am i supposed to know
if a harem just lost its
alpha met, and is standing
disorientated in human
cement territory?

                 i'm not a child...
   i get bored, as i got bored of
lying, a long time ago...
           it's pointless to make *******
impressions on people,
which, you will evidently never meet once
more...

             yeah... deer, no i didn't count
how many there were...
i'm pretty ******* sure there
wasn't a stag in sight..

otherwise i'd be musing how many
imaginary acorns i could shoot from
my ***... with those antennas
shoved up my ***...

but traffic problem solved...
what was funny was that i didn't finish
my beer...

   Santa...
on an imaginary sleigh,,,
deer in front, no reins...
running like a madman
with a can of beer in one hand.

In certain cases and cirmcustances , we question various reports.
Some realistic and some simple fiction.
But is all things based on race?
Probably not?

But on the perception of the public.

So let's dive into various events reported lately.

Why?
Why?
Do white females have no guts to report events twenty years ago?
But suddenly now?
We have law enforcers and lawyers in a society ready to go.

With the Supreme Court nominee allegation, we seeing tricks of tricks playing out.
Whether you like him or not, this guilt attack could have been reported.

What stopped her?
Many playing some of it down cause thee allegations comes now when he about to be elevated higher in the court system?

And let's be real a lot of stupidity goes on in our teen years that we ALL might regrets.
What do experts say?
We not wise to make an adult decision in our youth.
Which many of us know not exactly true.

Even with Cosby attacks many still think if the lady took a secret payment.
She played a guilt in him if true doing more against the others.
Plus, by law, she owes the money back.
It's a broken contractual agreement.
And many men still doubt some accusation.

Is with the famous accuser?
Why?
Didn't take go to news a long time ago?
In some these cases, they were mixed, racial accusers?

If took a poll mainly always one sided based in race polling?
Many would high light white females love to play along and stay the silent partner in cases.

And this isn't always about they were fearful.
But their partial guilt will be exposed.

All these high-level ****** harassment cases level against news executive points out various themes.
They still worked for the company and around him.

For what?
They had a family to take care of in life.
Sounds good but many of us know we not going stay in a hostile environment too long.
What's going to get better?

Some, hate to admit it.
Rose through the ranks to be high-level anchors.
At most companies, many employees know the "slept her way to the top" female.

And then the case "huntress" always on the scene Gloria Allred the lawyer present in most cases.
What high profile lawyer?
Do anything for free?

Of all races, it seems white females have this selected memory that surfaces back just at the right time.
But no one can make you be quiet.

Although a few friends and family try with you gonna embarrassed the family.
But if it gives you a peace of mind.

Follow your heart and go after your accusers.
True friends and family stay at your best supporters.

A man built a
stone wall in
a place which
was not his to                              
reside. It was
torn down ‘til
he killed the
other person,

  Therefore a council, the ‘Council of the Commons,’ was called to order. It was from this foundation that early man found truth in matters through debate. It was a way of reckoning with problems and resolving disputes and contained three members; a king, a judge and their god -who came before the shrill cries and lamentations that day to hear the case of the stonemason. It was gathered at the temple of the god.

Lugal; “In what is good and what is just, I imagine a verdict that treats the people as wholesome; is just.”

Dekōōd; “For you believe, as all rulers do, that justice leaves are but for the few, the man who acts can never do, a thing unjust for his reward is due, but in this you err, unlike in battle, for people humanely; cannot be treated as cattle.”

Dinĝir; “And what of me? What my concern? What offering more, than blood-on-earth; in turn?”

Lugal; “We are not here in glory nor in battle but save for the prayers of these people; our chattel.”

Dekōōd; “I am not here for you, nor here for thus, nor daimones due, I am the judge, and adjudicate, I must! No matter solemn, or ill or gravely hearted, to sufferers who mourn, a dearly departed. If laws were broken, so have I been called, as one of three who judges, judges all, and so be it, until a time, that such a thing as rule, has ceased to rhyme, and man has ended, for all time!”

Dinĝir; “Very well, very well indeed, their incense is pleasing, their temple cleaned, their prayers heard, devices expected and meat and porridge and genuflective, these subjects are a thrill to me, go forward council, you two of three. I shall not make my move as much, until you humans, consider such, but once you pass a judgment on, this humble man of stone and brawn, just say the verdict and I will act, as Dekōōd has judged him, for his attack.”

Lugal; “Quiet now! Hush all, be quiet, lest I consider, your shrills, a riot, and put you down, for I decree, over all that you know, and all that you see, a final arbiter, of the law, I am your King; the king of all!”

Dekōōd; “And I your judge, your voice of reason, who discerns the meanings, the acts and treasons and takes the place of him that died and points thy finger and convicts those that lied!”

Dinĝir; “Mmmpfh, crunch, gargle, ummped, mmmpfh…pig! …and it’s roasted well…mmmpfh, smack.”

Dekōōd; “Come before me, bring that stonemason, and the family come forward, come quickly, quickly hasten, and the accusers tell, your tale of woe, and I’ll assign his character, if it is low.”


“I am wife, was wife to he, the man a farmer, and husband to me,
These here, his children, all eight of thee, and that land there, was given to us, you see,

By that great king, Oh Lugal, it is I, and he was a lieutenant, in the wars of honor, on your side,

Which beget you your kingdom, thus you granted these lands to him, whom did, his duty,

And that monster, the mason, his wall upon them doth rent away, -their beauty,

After our reproach, he did slay my hus-band, his blood now spilt, and washed upon, our land.”

Dekōōd; “Come before me now stonemason, show me your face, over there, yes, that’s your place, stand at that podium and tell us now, give us your case, but remember how well you plead, shall determine, your fates."

“I may have built my wall as such, plans offset by hills that roll but I did nothing wrong except to error,

I did not commit this claimed terror, her husband attacked me before we could reason and that was it.”

Dekōōd; “You call that eloquence? Well then, eye for an eye, tear this man apart, until he has died, and as he lie dying, Diĝir, it’s your turn, devour your portion, for the rest, we shall burn!”

Lugal; “For I am Basileos!”
Dekōōd; “For I am Basilicas!”
Dinĝir; “For I am Basiliskus!”

“The king, a judge, your god; the three,

…and this, as such, is our, decree!”

Matt Lauer, former employee of a  big broadcast group.
Isn't facing time behind the walls of prison.
A nice settlement makes some stay quiet.
If they was paid.
Do we see the PEACOCK group interviewing his victims?
Like they were doing the comedian accusers.

A former executive of the EYE network accused and unemployed.
Isn't considered anywhere near going to prison by even his accusers?
Strange justice.
If they pay or have paid they get better treatment of justice to avoid time.
Did we see his network interviewing many upon 6o minutes?

A sitting president taped and recorded as grabbing females by their private parts.
Like a wicked boy does when they have wealth.
Pay them off and later they cry about it seeking attention.
We can't nominate him for honorable mention.
He admitted his guilt on tape.

Now, here come the truth.
A comedian sits behind prison walls held to higher standards than any of the three mention above.
And many males feel he got railroaded.
By women with a little guilt of their own.
Even according to the some the Temple instructor.
What made her take the be quiet settlement?

Heck, we can't come hard upon this infamous soul singer.
His past with youth has been well known.
Some ladies went along blindly.
Some went along as groupies like fans.
And you best believe we not seeking guilt of various white men that rival him.

And all cases isn't decided by courts but by many with public opinions.

Judge not, that you be not judged.
For what you measure anyone against?
You might later be found guilty by public opinions.

Isn't this what decided the case against Jesus?

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I bring to you a sad affair
Someone who evokes such fury, yet one who faces deep despair

For this, the accused who faces death, or lives according to your decree
Who makes no statement with dying breath, yet silently invokes her plea    

What crimes are done by this lost soul, what evil deeds did she aspire?
And where the witness of her death toll, the evidence that guilt requires?

No crime recorded, no victim slain, no trace of ****** or robbery
No voice of condemnation raised, none here to force a guilty plea  

She has no wrongs in her short life, has no deceit within her soul
No hurt has she, nor human spite, no determined selfish goal  

But one accuser, here today, one joined in life and woven fate
This one though will have her say, and claim the life she helped create

This witness claims to suffer pain, and a prison, should the accused survive
That her life will ebb and be restrained, and sadness would always reside

For some accusers have been defiled, by monstrous beasts of lust and hate
Others young and so beguiled, are induced by charm, so participate  

Others spy disease and defect, and cry acts of mercy to prevent
They choose to extinguish and protect, rather than one day regret

And then are those alone who strive, who cannot toil with life's results
And so instead, they choose their lives, and cry for freedom do exult

But where in these stands the accused, silent and awaiting fate
Her breath and freedom she is refused, for all the reasons the witness states

Is she alive, does she have form, within her soft and warm abode?
Where her heart beats, and fingers form, and from miracles she is wove    

Was she not also one defiled, is she not young and helpless too?
Would malady she reject, and death instead would opt to choose?  

And would not her life loneliness cure, and make a future with great light?
And comfort one who gave her life, and join her purpose true and right

For the accused can offer more than this, should she be allowed today to  live
Has so much that she can share, so much love and joy to give

For in our world, where children die, through hate and fate and evil men
We cherish those we lost too soon, and yearn to see our child again  
  
But what of the accused today, what future do we her deny?
A nurse, a doctor or a friend, a mother of so many lives?

How sad the accuser, so resolute, yet desperate to belong
In a world where our rights are so absolute, that they obscure the wrongs

And what she gains through this sad act, she loses so much more
A legacy of love and hope, a daughter who will adore

And so good people of the jury, I ask that you reflect
Upon the life of this dear child, so amazing and perfect

For my client has committed no crime, no evil deed or word
Is blameless and so innocent, and would not have caused this hurt

I ask therefore for mercy true, that her life be now redeemed
That she might live, and love and learn, and so pursue her dreams


"Your eyes saw even the embryo of me."  - The Bible

(edited, updated, bigger, longer, richer, and better than ever)
(hilz says hi)
#obviouslyshepaidme
#idonthaveamindofmyown


when your opponent’s husband
(who, by the way,
is an entirely different
human being
than his wife, and is not
running for president)
has an affair,
or is accused of
****** assault,
the claims are
absolutely
100% true.
the women
must be believed.
he* is
a criminal.

your candidate will go
so far as to invite
some of those women to
the debate to
shame his opponent,
and show
how *supportive he is
of these women.
(because they are
serving his purpose).

your opponent’s husband
is a liar,
a ******,
a pig.
absolute filth
that should be
thrown in prison.

in fact,
your opponent
is even worse than him,
she attacked
those women. she
didn't believe them.
this is proof of
her hatred
of women.
(oh, the irony is
not lost on me, no sir.)

(also,
let’s pretend that
your candidate didn’t call
that exact man, your
opponent's husband,
a “victim” in regard to
the exact same situation
in 1998.)

oh wait,
i forgot you don’t care about things that
happened any
longer ago
than yesterday. unless we
are talking about
the opponent. because then
OBVIOUSLY
it doesn’t matter
when in time
she said or
did something.)
duh.

(this is what we like
to call a double standard.)

moving right along.

if the same thing
happens to your
own candidate,
accusers come forward,
OBVIOUSLY
everyone else on earth
is lying EXCEPT
him. in fact,
every accuser (i lost
track of the number)
is an absolute liar,
too ugly for assault,
and getting paid
by a massive
worldwide conspiracy,
controlled by your
political opponent who
you also describe as never
having accomplished anything
in her life.
(strange how that works.)

when your candidate’s
wife does pretty
much the exact same
thing your opponent did,
(stand by her husband)
proclaim his innocence,
and discredit the claims,
(for which you
label her
a liar,
an enabler,
an enemy of women)
it doesn't matter
anymore, because it
was your wife
saying it.
think about that for a second.

i’m just checking, guys.
i’m just trying to figure this out.

-

you do not like
that your opponent
has money. or seeks power.
that makes
her a disgusting,
horrible,
conniving,
***** *****.
(and DEFINITELY
has nothing to do
with the fact that she is
a woman).

and i guess the thing
that we are all
pretending
(right? we are
pretending this?)
that
she has
more money
than he does.
(she doesn’t).

anywhoo,
but because she has money,
she pays off literally everyone
on this blue planet.

she's probably even
paying me right now.
i'm probably a liberal
operative,
born in a lab,
bred for vengeance,
and the destruction
of these united states,
and this is
the culmination
of my life's work.
i jest.

but in fact,
your candidate has
MORE money
than her.
at least he says he does.
of course to you
this does not
matter and you
see no contradiction
in your thinking.

we don’t even
consider for
a moment that
he pays
people off.
because, yeah,
billionaires don't
have any political
connections).
but how can we
even prove it?
he refuses
to submit his
tax returns to
the public, after saying
on record that he
would, but
don’t worry about that,
we don't care that he lies.
that’s not suspicious at all.
(for the love
of everything holy,
can you imagine the
fire and brimstone
if obama refused to
release his?!)
i mean it's so
ridiculous it makes me laugh.

alrighty then, moving along, once again.

when she
changes position
on a policy,
she is a liar.
a manipulator.
cannot be
trusted,
a flip-flopper,
being swayed by
special interests.

when he does it,
he is “evolving.”
i can't even say that
with a straight face.
(and let’s not for one
second pretend
he hasn’t flip-flopped
on almost every single
issue (guns, immigration,
foreign issues, his opponent,
nukes, wars, abortion, etc.).
see link at bottom for ***** and giggles.
-

she lies. she’s a liar.
we hate liars.

you use that
as your shield.

he never lies. (a-hem)
he LITERALLY LIES on
video, contradicting
HIMSELF, and his
own campaign,
within minutes.
not even years. minutes.

i mean geez,
it’s not like you
can scour
the internet for
proof or anything.

-

he respects women.
hmmm...let us
look at the evidence, shall we?

calls women accusing him of  ****** assault
ugly, out for money, liars. all of them.
because i guess
attraction = rapeability?
(it does not)
(even though he admitted to doing whatever
he wants to do to women, without asking, in his
own words)
it's on record.

he talks about
young girls
in sexualized terms.
it's on record.

he agreed
that he doesn’t
respect women.
it's on record.

he agreed he was
a ****** predator.
it's on record.

he said it’s dangerous
for one’s wife to work.
it's on record.

he said he loses his
**** when
dinner isn’t on the table.
it's on record.

he said
he can do whatever
he wants to
women because he
is powerful
and rich.
it's on record.

women who
breastfeed are
disgusting.
it's on record.

he doesn’t like
flat chests
or fat girls
it's on record.

all women
are gold diggers.
it's on record.

he doesn’t like to
give a woman
negotiable assets.
it's on record.

dogs,
pigs,
it's on record.

he wants to
repeal roe v wade.
it's on record.

he bragged about
walking into
beauty pageant
dressing rooms
full of naked
teenage girls.
it's on record.

hmph. it’s so hard to
figure this out.

(if i could roll my eyes
any harder they would
pop right out
of my head).

these aren't even
ALL THE THINGS.
straight from
the man's own
godforsaken mouth, unedited!
not opinions.
facts.

-

although his campaign
has received millions
of dollars in free
advertising,
and his entire
life is based
upon being in
the media spotlight,

the entire media
is a left wing
conspiracy.

(unless they report
something positive.
then it's not a conspiracy
anymore, then it's true)

side note.
i guess if he wins,
we can expect to see
just a SERIOUS
overhaul of the election
process, you know,
because it's so rigged.
and the whole thing
will be brilliantly
torn down and remade
within 4 years,
and be without
criticism
before it's time
for re-election.
because he wouldn't
want us all to go
ahead and try to vote
for him again in a
rigged election.
he cares about us.

and the media will just
be torn to shreds,
you know, but still free
and everything is
going to be so fair, you guys.
i mean things are going
to be so fair you
are going to get sick of it.
and really,
he's a super sweet guy
if he accepts the
presidency in an
election he
knows
is rigged.
cuz that's what
any upstanding
citizen would do.

-

she is an insider.
(i.e., what some of us like
to refer to as a professional)

he has been
talking about
running for president
since the
1980’s,
but OBVIOUSLY
HE would never
take money
for favors.
HE hasn't been planning this.
HE would never
seek power.
HE would never
politicize things
for his own best
interest.
only politicians
do that, and
he isn't one.
HE is for
the working man.

-

please, tiny, sweet baby jesus
with tiny jesus hands
help me.

-

it’s not hypocritical
at all for
him to constantly
talk about how awful it is
that jobs are
going overseas,
even though he
does THAT EXACT THING
with his own companies.
jesus, guys.
obviously he's just SMART.
(really? is that the word
we want to use? is that the
word we use to describe other
business owners who do
the same thing? uh, no, it's not.
i'm pretty sure they are
compared to criminals,
and labeled unpatriotic.)

because if you
believe something passionately,
like you claim to,
like american goods should
be created and manufactured
in this country,
and you are a billionaire,
with vast resources,
that owns businesses,
employs people in this country,
and you love your country
and all it's people,
and you have a sense of
right and wrong,
you don't cheat.
you don't take advantage.
other businesses do it the right way
why can't you?
that's what IT ******* MEANS
to have principles.

he is an opportunist.
he takes.
see the difference?

-

when she
calls your supporters
a bad, bad thing
(a basket of deplorables?)
she is a
disgusting,
unpresidential,
elitist
***** that
can never
be forgiven.

he would never,
EVER even
think about
calling anyone names.
never ever.
(i seriously don't have
the time in my life
to even attempt to list all
the examples.) although
the new york times
did a pretty decent job.

but you do recognize sarcasm, yes?

-

jesus,
people shouldn’t get
so friggen offended
all the time!
he says.
being
politically correct
is stupid.
it’s better
to be honest, like him.
(except he's not honest)
he just says ALL
THE THINGS
we are ALL thinking
but don't have
the ***** to say.
(um...really? you can
count me out of
that particular
generalization.)

-

he is not weak,
or a coward,
or a liar,
or corrupt,
everyone
else
is.

he would never
get offended
by an snl skit
and cry like a baby
about it,
because that's absurd.

or claim
that literally everything
is unfair,
because that sounds
like a whining child.
(which his wife
compared him to).

-

when someone
accused him of rigging
a pageant,
he sued them.
because "proclaiming
fraud is serious."
the accuser is clearly
just a loser. a bad loser.
(that's what he said).
OBVIOUSLY this
does not apply
when HE
claims elections
are rigged.

also, he doesn’t care
that the GOP Primary
was rigged,
(whoops, did you
forget that was
rigged too?)
because he won.
(yep, he said that too.)

-

i see patterns here.
(i learned about patterns
in kindergarten.)

-

he spends
campaign funds
on his personal
businesses.
(we don't care)

sued
for unpaid taxes,
discrimination,
****** assault,
fraud,
ripping
people off.
(again, we don't care. actually,
all these things are
probably just
further proof of his
very level-headed,
thoughtful, and
superior intellect.)

bankruptcies,
failed businesses,
using charitable donations
to benefit himself,
(while viewed as bad
things for all other
human beings, are
actually strengths of his.
because up is down.
and quite frankly,
we.
don't.
care.)

has sued literally
thousands of times.
(i thought people
who sued all the
time were jerks?)
welp,
not him.

-

when other people
settle lawsuits
that is an
admission of guilt.
(yep, he said that)
(so did his campaign manager)

when he does it
OBVIOUSLY the
opposite is true.
and he's done it MANY times.

-

he mocked someone
with a disability.
it's on record.

-

he mocked someone
who is deaf.
it's on record.

-

he has made
disparaging remarks
about the military.
it's on record.

he incites and
encourages
violence.
again, on record.

i'm gonna go ahead and say,
not so much
into the brown people?
or the gay people.
or the woman people?
or the poor people.
or the fat people.
or the refugee people.
or the science people.
or military people.
or government people.
or journalist people
oh yeah, or education people.
or people that disagree with him.
or stupid people who pay their taxes.

but like, totally into
everyone else, like
white, male people.
that agree with him.
that are into violence.
and are rich.
and cheat the system.

he maybe sorta kinda
(ok, just flat out said it)
hinted at using the
second amendment
to **** his opponent.
on record.
god, you guys, seriously,
learn to take a joke.
because murdering your
political opponent is super funny.
i mean, it's fun, right?
it's especially funny in those
other countries. and for the murdered people.
it's not like kids are listening.
or like there are any crazy card carrying
white *** people
that think that might be a good idea.
gosh, get a grip.

said he could
shoot someone
in broad daylight and
wouldn't lose votes.
for realz? yes, for realz!

having one standard
for yourself
and the opposite standard
for everyone else
is dare i say,
the very definition of
i n e q u a l i t y.

if you think
you are
superior,
then just say so.
own that ****.

if you desire violence,
proclaim it.

if you desire inequality,
then shout it
from the rooftops.

if you think one
group should get richer
while others get poorer,
say it. support it.

if you think
women have no
value other
than the size
of their *******
and their *****,
by all means,
let us know!

because that's what he would do.
that's what he does.

don't hide behind
this excuse
of a man.

don't paint
yourself a
patriot,

regurgitate
outright lies
without doing
any research,

and don't think you
speak for
all of us.

because you don't.

pretending something is real
does not make it real.

i’m getting
tired of this.

hypocrisy
is gross.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                                  Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart
Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,--
I would take up the hymn to Death, and say
To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee
And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow
They place an iron crown, and call thee king
Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world,
Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair,
The loved, the good--that breath'st upon the lights
Of virtue set along the vale of life,
And they go out in darkness. I am come,
Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers,
Such as have stormed thy stern insensible ear
From the beginning. I am come to speak
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept
Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again:
And thou from some I love wilt take a life
Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell
Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee
In sight of all thy trophies, face to face,
Meet is it that my voice should utter forth

Thy nobler triumphs: I will teach the world
To thank thee.--Who are thine accusers?--Who?
The living!--they who never felt thy power,
And know thee not. The curses of the wretch
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come,
Are writ among thy praises. But the good--
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace,
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off
His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell?
Raise then the Hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief,
The conqueror of nations, walks the world,
And it is changed beneath his feet, and all
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm--
Thou, while his head is loftiest, and his heart
Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand
Almighty, sett'st upon him thy stern grasp,
And the strong links of that tremendous chain
That bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.
Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes
Gather within their ancient bounds again.
Else had the mighty of the olden time,
******, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned
His birth from Lybian Ammon, smote even now
The nations with a rod of iron, and driven
Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge,
In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know

No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose
Only to lay the sufferer asleep,
Where he who made him wretched troubles not
His rest--thou dost strike down his tyrant too.
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold.
Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible
And old idolatries; from the proud fanes
Each to his grave their priests go out, till none
Is left to teach their worship; then the fires
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss
O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images
Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,
Chanted by kneeling crowds, the chiding winds
Shriek in the solitary aisles. When he
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all
The laws that God or man has made, and round
Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,--
Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven,
And celebrates his shame in open day,
Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off
The horrible example. Touched by thine,
The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold
Wrong from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer,
Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble
Against his neighbour's life, and he who laughed
And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame
Blasted before his own foul calumnies,
Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold
His conscience to preserve a worthless life,

Even while he hugs himself on his escape,
Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length,
Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time
For parley--nor will bribes unclench thy grasp.
Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long
Ere his last hour. And when the reveller,
Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on,
And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life
Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal,
And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye,
And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand
Shows to the faint of spirit the right path,
And he is warned, and fears to step aside.
Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime
Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand
Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully
Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts
Drink up the ebbing spirit--then the hard
Of heart and violent of hand restores
The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged.
Then from the writhing ***** thou dost pluck
The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed,
Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length,
And give it up; the felon's latest breath
Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime;
The slanderer, horror smitten, and in tears,
Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged
To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make
Thy penitent victim utter to the air
The dark conspiracy that strikes at life,

And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour
Is come, and the dread sign of ****** given.
Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found
On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee,
Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth
Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile
For ages, while each passing year had brought
Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world
With their abominations; while its tribes,
Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled,
Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice
Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn:
But thou, the great reformer of the world,
Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned--
Ere guilt has quite o'errun the simple heart
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out
His image. Thou dost mark them, flushed with hope,
As on the threshold of their vast designs
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.

Alas, I little thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus
Before the strain was ended. It must cease--
For he is in his grave who taught my youth
The art of verse, and in the bud of life
Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off
Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,
Ripened by years of toil and studious search

And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art
To which thou gavest thy laborious days.
And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes
And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou
Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have
To offer at thy grave--this--and the hope
To copy thy example, and to leave
A name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou
Whose early guidance trained my infant steps--
Rest, in the ***** of God, till the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life
Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.
Now thou art not--and yet the men whose guilt
Has wearied Heaven for vengeance--he who bears
False witness--he who takes the orphan's bread,
And robs the widow--he who spreads abroad
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer,
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look
On what is written, yet I blot not out
The desultory numbers--let them stand.
The record of an idle revery.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                                  Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

So, he's a cheater.
So he's wealthy.
What's so strange to admit to many?
Women not all innocent in these scandals.

You cry Me-too or Me-three and it still is various takes on the matter.

Whether it's the comedian
The movie mogul.
Or the reddish clown of the United States.

In all situation, we notice some took money to quiet them into silence.

Now, they claiming this and claiming that.

But like many say in silence or around select friends.
Women, not all innocent in these matters.

Some people do anything for money.
And then we spin the tale before the press that goes into instant judgment.

Now, what kind of *** that a fool would pay 130, 000 most men can't state?
Some guys would tell her to call the Wahington Post, New York Time, and any other paper.

Wouldn't any money be paid?
Then we aware this a trait this man has in paying for the pleasure.

Why?
Do we feel this level to say the man to blame?
Deals, mainly with many ladies jumping on this "It happened to me too".
And some has the honest truth.

But then you go back to the seventies on one of the accusers.
Club 54 was more than a club for dancing and fun.
It was also a place to venture for joy.

Why?
Be at a man house when the spouse not there.
But that neither here or there.
Cause once accused many men can't win.

Even when in her mind she knew what you had planned.

In scriptures, Samson was a complete fooled.
The woman used all kinds of tricks to get the information she needed.
And in the in he came to regret it.

floundering in your own accusations gives me no pleasure
except of course the sheer pleasure of the freedom of truth.

The Son of Man came to serve
to seek and to save the lost
to touch and to heal the hurt
regardless of the personal cost

The Son of Man came to embrace
the full breath of the human condition
He sat down in utter poverty
with those too used to exclusion

He walked in step with the weak
putting up with ignorant derision,
He shared His gentle wisdom
in the face of studied indifference

The Son of Man came willingly
to trek in worn, scuffed sandles
to suffer with blood blisters,
sprained ankles and tough calluses

The Son of Man suffered much
though He lived without any fault,
He was a man all too acquainted
with aches and tears and snot

He accepted all of their beatings,
the abuse, the cuts and the bruises
But at the last He was willing to gasp:
'Father, forgive my accusers.'

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                                  Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

In the crisp of morning, does edge of rest approach. For in the tents of great men do the warriors awaken in preparation for battle.

Sharpening their swords, fortifying their shields, girding their spears and dawning their armours - a crest for honour. Though amid the steadiness, do they await the word of their beloved monach.

"Sar-Shalom!" be the cries heard, echoeing upon the voices of the wind. Reaching even beyond the battlefields. The name of the monach, adored by the great men, anticipating the words to come.

Alas, wisdom comes on the voice of the wind: "In the vallies, will you victories come". Bewildered they stood, asking themselves "why?" But, their monach adorned in their love does their loyalty stand.

So, to the vallies do they march. Upon the word do they stand, anticipation honoured by their trust. For a hard battle will they fight, yet a grand victory will they know - a relief from their beloved.

From the peaks do they descend, and to the vallies do they arrive. The battlefield marked for honour by their seeing eyes;
Unsheathing are they ready, for the accusers come - but unexpecting are they, for the assurance declared in the meeting of blades.

The divines surrounding their accusers, is the battle endorsed for the victors. As they cut down even their final Goliaths. In the praises given up on the voices of the wind, does Sar-Shalom hear the chants - His great men, now the victories of Eden.

Now the journey do they cherish, in returning to their home. The tents of great men, now victories on the heights. What more shall be done? But to sing in glee. For the enemies borders are lost in the restoring victory.

Their wounds shall heal, and bruises shall fade, but the songs of glee shall ring out through time, eternal;
Oh, the voices of the winds chant forever "Victory in the Vallies!"

Classy J going array, with such sassy display to you’re overbearing dismay. Blasting off today, I’m as cool as sorbet, but yet as hot as soufflé. Everlasting eternities as the cycle goes on for humanity, where some live for the moment and others search for divinity. ****** prey wanting me on their tray, the only thing I’ll give you is the direction to the doorway. Rick Ashley stray’s, I’ll throw yawl back out in the alleyway. Future class, never ever low on gas, if you mess with me, I’ll shatter you like glass. I’ll use a computer bypass, to shove a virus up your ***, not to be played with, bro don’t you know that I’m bats. I don’t butcher the masses, or overburden you like taxes, I’m just your average Joe trying to make good of all this blackness.

Not a sore loser, nor a party pooper dear querying lass, I stand my ground; yeah you bet I got ***** of brass. While some of yawl puff the grass, this creature is trying to cure the world’s tumor created by us jack assess. Don’t run on flats, tackling my demons to the mat, yeah I have gotten through life by crawling down its crevasse! Don’t listen to rumors, some call me a trooper, you have to learn how to maneuver all haters and accusers. Living life by focusing on the hourglass, I’m not one to sit idle peeping out the looking glass. But forget all of that because life is nuts, and I’m just an outlet that slams the hard truth to your guts. Enough with your meaningless chitchat, I’m done with all yawl fretting and *******, time to buck up pussycats. Your listening to a lyrical architect, don’t have time for rats or insects, this is just apart of the classy effect.

I don’t make threats, don’t you forget I make promises that will eventually be met. I’m just a twisted afflicted un-constricted gifted individual who tries his best not to be too cynical. It’s so inconceivable but yet so believable, not your typical rapper, yeah I got principal. I am always original, I am a mystical miracle; yeah I’ll be making sure you know I’m no longer going to be invisible. Beat the odds, unlike all these frauds, I know my place, I’m definitely not a God. Heated rods of critics who keep on trying to burn me, but it just feels like a thorn to me. Street with needs to meet, used to the odds, so don’t think we’ll grovel at your feet. We are not mincemeat, we are not just going to take a backseat, we stubborn as concrete, yeah we are not going to retreat.

Privileged trying to turn us neat and tidy, without them they say we incomplete, that even though we coloured we should strive to be just another ignorant whitey. Don’t you know it’s all about image? We are savages, yet they are the one’s who diseased and burned down our villages. No I don’t seek forgiveness from wily coyotes, we are not a showpiece, like some kind of conquest trophy. No I’m not finished, is there something wrong with your psyche, naughty sly feisty vermin that itch like poison ivy. I politely tell you to ****, love the irony of your fear and hate of aliens, when you yourselves came to this land from a ship, which to us was a UFO. Anyways like I said, I may go off on different tangents or phases, because there are places one needs to tread. I like to educate airheads, I like to make em red; yeah I don’t leave things unsaid.
I want to unthread this sideways planet, if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t mince words; well I’m your prime candidate.

E-town is what I represent, legacy I will cement, rap game I came to resurrect. Let’s rundown the extent of these frequent fallacious formalities, those auto-tuned drugged up wangsters that are the definition of distasteful unoriginality. I frown upon the dissent of where rap ended up, it sure need a classy clean up. I know music is subjective that it is all in perspective, but to me this garbage kids listen to is far from impressive. I find trap music ineffective and unreflective, I don’t respect something so obstructive. That’s just my two cents, and though to me it makes no sense, others may not agree and still listen to that senseless content. What I’m trying say is opinions are like *******, everyone got one, but that’s what makes us unique souls. This is just a part of the classy effect, can’t wait for what happens next, can’t wait for changes to manifest.

I want to die hungry
I want to die knowing life meant something
I want to die with piles of work unfinished....
unfinished poems
unfinished books
unfinished illustrations
unfinished paintings...

I want to die knowing I tried to my very last breath
to make this world a better place
that I tried to shed light into the worlds darkness
that I tried to transform something cold
and heartless and ugly into something beautiful

That I did not turn a blind eye
to the poor and the hungry and the homeless
That I spoke up when inequality was still a monster
guarding capital hill
and its stash of gold and treasure for the 1%

That I acknowledge that white privilege
was a serpent in the court room
devouring real justice
while turning a blind eye
to the crimes of daddies little boy
who just made a mistake for "twenty minutes"
over and over
again and again
in and out
in and out
for "twenty minutes"
and why should "twenty" consecutive "minutes"
of poor choices ruin his whole privileged...
I mean promising life...

That white privilege was obvious
when one person convicted of ****
walked free in three months
while other men just accused of ****
found but not proven guilty
spent decades behind bars
to only be eventually freed
when their accusers told the truth
about how they had lied
and none of it happened
and if you can't guess the difference between the two
you probably believe the world is flat
and that white privilege and climate change and global warming
are paranoid delusions of people who are lazy and worthless
and want something for nothing

That the dead no matter their color
still need to see their murders pay
for what they have stolen
what they have broken
and the pain they left behind
when they decided that when
they "feared" for their life
it went from to protect and serve
the community and the people
to I'm going to **** this *******

That I knew that #blacklivesmatter
was a call for justice and equality
not special treatment or supremacy

That the vocabulary of my sons heart
did not know the word hate
other than when he said things like
"YUCK!, I hate GREEN BEANS!"

That he not only understood kindness
but he knew and lived by its importance
that he strived for compassion and empathy
that he treated generosity and helpfulness
as a responsibility to those in need
that his pursuits of happiness
included helping others in their pursuits

That he loved and gave with a heart
that was always full
that was always hungry
from the time that I leave him
to the time he takes his own last breath
that he lived
to make this world a better place
that he tried to shed light into the worlds darkness
that he tried to transform something cold
and heartless and ugly into something beautiful

crusaders
christianized, zealous warmongers with ****** stains on stainless steel blades
hauling with them the great flapping insignias of royalty, emblems of their special heritage
disregarding the fact blood flows warm and fast all the same, nobody spared
familiar ties shattered over petty disputes of land and territory in the name of a great purpose
a great purpose disguising glory-seekers and painters whose favorite color is red
led by a massive snowy warhorse with crimson hooves and jet black beady eyes
old, worn, and of a raggedy golden mane forever worshipped
it is my fate to follow
(that’s what they tell me)

crusaders
biblical storytales springing to life as they gallivant across the country singing do-goods
while their actions connotate some great demon lurking about behind their holy words
valiant warriors in service to a mighty omnipresent deity watching woefully from above
as they unnecessarily **** innocents that they knew it was wrong to ******
blind belief is as alive as bloodlust to them, screaming their lungs out for the almighty
they are the salvation and the scourge, leeches of the land and lordly leaders for long
fearful eyes of aliens stare to the sky and grovel in a piteous attempt for mercy
he cannot condone this
(and that’s what they don’t)

crusaders
knights of cardboard armor and ironclad skulls falling by the thousands
yet they relentlessly hunt the enemy like predatory raptors of the past, voracious
not yet declawed or defanged as they are before the plastic wisdom of man claiming to be
the god of glory, gold, and gore; suddenly he is a savage ravager and avenger of the undead
men swear themselves to a cloaked idol in order to become accusers of the guilty
when the openness of perception may be all that is truly necessary
even kings are defenseless against the all-consuming force of religious blessing
how is it just?

crusaders
god’s greatest success
crusaders
god’s greatest regret
(am i both or neither?)

The new ruse: presidential psychosis
an impartial and swift diagnosis
as you trump-up the charge
but the sign is writ large:
twenty-twenty TRUMP/PENCE the prognosis.

Corrupt psychiatric inspection
serves to further a facile detection:
presidential unfitness.
(But God is our witness;
you're mad 'cause you lost the election.)

As you slander the president's sanity
you exhibit your own inhumanity.
I would urge all you losers
and lying accusers
to listen to Savage and Hannity.

In your desperate drive to impeach
you would grasp what is out of your reach.
The infernal machine
steered by crazy Maxine
makes a nasty mechanical screech.

The Democrat narrative flounders
while our nation's own hateful confounders
promote red revolution
mob-rule as solution
insulting the faith of the Founders.

Though the state-sponsored media lie,
our beleaguered republic must try
to transcend inhumanity;
quell the insanity.
(Both wings are needed to fly.)

you all gave me glares as i walked through the hall ways
yeah, i gotta admit thats what i questioned sometimes while i stargazed
i was never pretty enough, cool enough, or good enough
but you all had me fooled for just about a month
when my mom died in april, yeah that **** was tough
but you all dont even realize the extent of how rough
i had it, we had, you set us aside like a bunch of losers
we sat back and watched you all become alcohol abusers, marijuana users, and back stabbing accusers

***** you to the girl that wrote i was *** on bathroom stall
cause at the time, it was in love with youre ex that i was trying to fall
and ***** you to the boy that said i was fat
does the size of my britches really matter to you *******
or does my body scream judge me like a ****** welcome mat
***** you all that ever made anyone feel low
cause we all know theres only so much one person can undergo

all we wanted was to be accepted
not labeled, ostracized, and/or rejected
but i can't help but smirk a little smile
when you post that your life is a cluttered unhappy pile
for the sake of all "losers" i hope you look back
and wished you had maturity that then, you lacked

but let this jingle in your mind
the hell within us that you created
has not dictated a thing, it has dissipated

If no Christian priorly am i. And should all
I know about the David's Son was from the
Believers' lips. One act of Christ that shall
My vagabond soul convert is that poor lady,
Who was, by the righteous Jews, caught in
The act of adultery, and to the eternal Light
Was brought to be unto death ******. Stooping
Down, and with his finger began he to write
In the sand; rising up again, saying, he should the
First person be a stone at her to cast
Among the gathered accusers, who's from iniquity
Free and has committed, not in the time past
Neither in this present state, a single sin. And
They, hearing this, from the oldest head began
They to disappear--who had come to reprimand
The woman with a stoning sentence--one by one.
Having all gone, Jesus, thus asked the smasher:
"Woman, where are all thine many an accuser?
And hath no man condemned thee?" She answering
The Lord gracious, "No, sir." "Neither do i too,"
Said the Saviour. "Go, and sin no more, my darling."
Yea, such is the Messiah's love and mercy true!
To save came Christ, and not to sinners ****;
The only Prophet that liberated man from the Devil.

My own mind torments me awake at night
My own flesh wages war against the Spirit inside me.
My past eclipses my future
I cry out to heaven but there is no response
God has not forsaken me though
No, I have forsaken Him
My heart and soul long for His presence
My flesh runs from His Truth
My heart desires His love
But my actions spit on His bloodied face
My will is to do His work
But my nature curses His name
If actions speak louder than words am I truly His follower?
If faith without works is dead than what is works without faith?
I long for a miracle but do I believe it will come?
Is my faith bold and secure?
Or like a ship tossed about on a stormy sea?
Is it unwavering?
Or like a sapling fighting the wind?
I am not worthy to be called a Child of God
I am like trash in the sight of the Almighty
There is nothing I can do to make myself worthy
In Christ alone I find my redemption
In Christ alone I am made clean
Even though I deny Him daily His love for me never changes
Jesus! Make me clean!
Rescue me from my afflictions!
Stand before my accusers and declare me blameless!
Renew my weary spirit
Refresh my strength so that I may do great things in your name
Let all I do be for your glory
Guide all of my steps
Sharpen my mind
Make me aware of the enemies many traps
Lead me out of suffering and into your arms
Replace my anxiety with peace
And my sorrow with joy
Remember me on the day of judgment
Declare me righteous
Usher me into your presence for all eternity!
So that I may worship you forever and be made complete by your love!
Amen

Awakened by the rumble in the ground,
I stared unfocused at a rolling cloud
of smoke and black soot falling all around,
and startled at the thunder-crack so loud,
          that scared to lifeless sleep a thousand faces,
          which littered fields to the most remote places.

The rumbling, now with squeaking iron wheels,
grew louder as the iron beasts approached,
I stood  and reeled upon two aching heels,
the sight of monsters ready to encroach.
          I fell beneath the belly of one beast,
          devoured into its raging, trampling feast.

Awakened by the whooshing of my breath,
pressed out from lungs and skin so completely,
after the cracking, crunching sound of death,
where pneuma from its flesh finds liberty.
          As light as soot-less air that blows away,
          I bid farewell to me.  I could not stay.

Around the fields where soldiers came to slay,
some shadows danced their jig victoriously,
while others puppeteered warriors in play,
and bathed in blood-warm sin so joyfully.
          And white-robed praying men stood off aside,
          with faces deep in praying hands to hide.

And,  as if sniffing blood upon the air,
some shadows turned their heads at once to me,
proceeded to approach like floating hair
of one drowned, pushed about, under  the sea.
          Their un-mouthed accusations, gurgled screams,
          struck fearsome that I burned up at my seams.

Yet one warm hand upon my shoulder stayed
my tremblings, my accusers ghastly shrieked.
My fears, not fully quenched, were much allayed.
The white-robed man, in un-mouthed words did speak,
          in my defense, recalling all good deeds,
          at times when his advice I'd somehow heed.

The raging shrieks cast all I ever did,
from infancy until this very war,
all things exposed and all I ever hid,
my very being was bared down to my core.
          In minutes lasting for eternity,
          my every living moment I could see.

Both sides had piled my deeds upon a scale,
each deed a colored weight much like a stone.
When one would add his stone,  the other'd wail,
till finally I found myself alone.
          I looked around and saw no one in sight,
          as darkness overcame me with a fright.

In blindness, all around me, grinding teeth,
unreachable, beyond my farthest reach,
a heaviness, as trapped down underneath,
a chasm, somewhere, never to be breached.
          The argument had finished, I surmised,
          with my conclusion hardly a surprise.

(C)2010, Christos Rigakos

That is not the question
To love is not always to be
Loved back yet the lover
Sees in the beloved reason
Enough and indeed more
It is a command and not
To be resisted but prevails
There is no choice not to
Love but it is whether to
Fully embrace or to be
Conflicted-To say Oh
Woe is me I am a sinner
Addicted to my sin. The
World seem filled with
Accusers who threaten
The life of one who will
Not accept the hypocrisy- to
Repent of the official "sins" of
An Unsanctioned Love that
Is Universal is to be an
Out caste condemned
This is the crisis of man
In this world but not of
It.  God's Angel laugh
At the world's folly- that
Love can be flogged and
Lied to death and take it
Lying down  in the grave
Making fools rule over the
Kingdom of God' Children.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

For both of us, C.P.S. caused unnecessary mental & emotional distress.
Their services make me nervous.
They think they have authority.
Take a vote of the majority.
Baby snatching is their only priority.
I was never in a sorority.
I don't have senority.
The accusers of child abusers.
I don't permit to be labeeled unfit.
They are such stupid nit wits.
Misery never quits.
They took my child.
To get molested & defiled.
Through court ordered visitation where at night she would stay awhile.
Even though I filed for permanent sole custody a petition.
Nobody ever had my permission.
It wasn't my decision.
Their courthouse drama caused my & my daughter trauma.
Why is it a crime for me to be a momma?
They managed to take complete advantage.
They believed I was crazy & naive.
By my disowned "mother" they had all be deceived.
Slapped with a restraining order I had to leave.
It was senseless to conceive.
Impossible to retrieve.
They are all brainless is what I perceive.
They that they achieved was a sick, sadistic, heartless grieve.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

I exist in between the right and wrong, bringing meaning by any means
I want to know, do and be anything and everything
The doubters sneers do mean anything
And this going to be my battle cry

I'm using my full capabilities
Demonstrating my innate abilities
Pushing for power and possibilities
This is quality creativity
No child left behind, look where that's got us so far
Either unemployed, in debt or behind bars
So now we got nothing to lose
Blurred lines between accusers and the accused
One side speaks their minds
The others pour out their hearts
The fight, the fighting needs to stop
Arguing who deserves to be on top
I retire my title, my skin tone and my status
I lay back and wait for the world to find balance
I'm using my full capabilities
Demonstrating my innate abilities
Pushing for power and possibilities
This is quality creativity
The responsibility falls on us individually
       -Tommy Johnson
      

We all have some potential
To make something good or detrimental
We have determination to face adversity
And do it so brilliantly
Narrow minded "practical thoughts"
The look at us and think we're lost
I am the voice and face of wayward youths
And everything I do is the proof
I got gems locked away in my mind
I try to express them with what words I can find
But no words can express or do them justice
The actions of this generation must be trusted
All we have is time and energy
So lets make this the world what we want it to be

I'm using my full capabilities
Demonstrating my innate abilities
Pushing for power and possibilities
This is quality creativity

I will not bow, I will not cower
I will not bend to your struggle to power
Using your authority, throwing around your sense of supremacy
With your vicious tendencies harming those under your relentlessly
But I'm one hundred percent sure that we can all agree
That the games make us play are just a fantasy
And we refuse to accept you fallacy, with out sensibility
We leave our enemies and head off to our destinies
I know all the hardships I must endure
But if I stay true and pure
I'll get what I came here for
And gain control and end my eternal war

A lovely rebirth
Quietly inhale, slowly exhale
Time will tell
I am a being with many faces

( a metamorphosis )*

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

Well that was last week
& this is now
& yes …
it actually is
to him
This President of the United States
who has just endorsed
an accused
child-molestor …
…
THE PRESIDENT OF THESE HERE
UNITED STATES
HAS ENDORSED
AN ACCUSED
*******!
…
“He denied it”
says Trump,
of Roy Moore
this man who has 8,
yes …
8 women accusers …
together with witnesses
from the time,
& corroborative evidence
from the time,
& tears …
from the time,
& fear …
from the time,
…
& if there’s special
place in hell
let it house
Trump
& Moore
& Moore’s enablers
& Republican justifiers
& equivocating TV hosts
& the Evangelical apologists
…
& as for Trump
& as for Moore …
the moral bankruptcy here
leads me to simply say
in anger, disgust & horror …
may the dark pitiless depths
of a sulfurous burning pit
be their’s for eternity,
…
or close to.

There is a dark aesthetic
In the horror-house of a horror story
Where emotion is merely blue ambiance
Treated constantly like mental patients

Every day I face
multiple cages and tanks,
Doors with locks, doors with bars,
Sealed blinds shut tight
and tight schedules sealed shut,
Leashes and collars,
Choke chains and smoke chains-
From the fire that engulfed the flame.

I can tell you all their names;
The birds, the fish, the dogs, the cats,
The animals that were tame.
Those that were as helpless as I.
I can tell you where I am from.
And I am the one who is ablaze.

How can I already sit and ponder,
"I wish I knew then what I knew now?"
How can I already have arthritis of the soul,
How can I already be too tired to fight anymore?

Arguably a tad too young for depressing, nostalgic introspection-
But I can tell you why. I can tell you how much my small frame
doesn't quite fit the brooding thoughts that seep through
my heavy head holding hostage my body
My body is not to blame for this haunting,
lingering past in the shape of a house
It was the limbs performing the directions,
carried out and controlled by the mission control center
to this messed up operation existing within
the confines of my cage
No time to tell my story before the fire engulfs the flame.

But I can tell you all their names;
The abusers, the users, the accusers, the persecutors
Those who broke me to make me tame.
I can tell you where I am from.
And I am the one who is ablaze.

I cannot remember
I cannot tell you my name.

End Times

Rained blood in the city this morn.
It congealed in the back alleyways.
And the street corner prophets proclaimed
that now was the end of all days.

And then into town came the plagues
on swift paws of rats and their fleas,
and the street corner prophets themselves
succumbed to the mighty disease.

For God protects not the accusers
and glass always falls to tossed stones.
Death stalks the living intently
til naught will remain but dry bones.

They say End Time quickly approaches,
so Beware! For it comes with the dawn.
But we find once the day breaks upon us
that the world, just the same, still rolls on.

Again?

Little bits of paper set little boys and girls awake. Paper is the voice, it is the rush, and it plays against the spirit of the rough. Some had hands in favor, some made famous from their toils. Across the bridges, into harm, extreme liking finds a way to plant their dreams. A courageous haunt for storytellers fashioning fictitious love in the vocals of these pleasure scenes.

A gasp at poison sells us. Two legs is all it took- the fanciest of the 399 lives, stitched across the faces of all his slaves. Some hide behind the moon, in the shadow of its glow. Some depart him, only to remark, and take up the King James Bible in a fight to eradicate some half-lie half-truth tale. Some take up their histories. Some track down their accusers. Some just watch the show.

If ever was a prophet, material or fake. A flip of the light switch rewinds the days, while a new trial of words ghastly fails. If ever was a wind to whip the rocking torments of joy into a smooth flowing dressage of subtle paper cuts and clues, lusts on paper and *****, petite memes cloaked in the vast inertia of the West. Rags piled high as riches, short denim shorts worn publicly before each and every oval and square, curious domain names ******* the brain to forget the old complaints, renege on values once comparable or the same.

Only in this world, today, strangers bed each other and misspell the chants beaten into their acute proclivities for breaking the law, while purposely opening their mouths on soap boxes, and orchestrating the papers’ coolness through the grid and onto the plane. The work of the slaves is the accord to which forewords tune gravity.

This is the paper taking down cities. This is the worship building anarchy in its own members. This is the end of the call and the beginning of the caste. These are the mute and colorless stains on the walls, and the childhood loves of an adult that colorfully decorate the dormitory in his past with the clutter and occupancy that curtails to no complaint. There is the paper and there is the gain. Will any of them ever be human again?

The woman, Miriam, had been caught in the act,
selling her favors; making cash on her back.
She was dragged to the square barely half dressed
and everyone knew what would be happening next.

She stared at the people who all gathered around
and watched as they picked up the stones from the ground.
She reeked of her sin as she cowered, half dressed,
one word from the priest and we'd stone her to death.

One word would be needed and then stones would fly
The ***** would be battered for sinners must die.
The pavement around her would be stained with red
God would be pleased that this woman was dead.

An Itinerant  rabbi was asked by the priest
if he would pronounce sentence, let the stones be unleashed.
He paused to consider, drawing lines in the dust,
then he spoke his decision about what was just.

"Let he from among you who is without sin
throw the first stone; let fly and begin."
Stones dropped from each hand as each did consider
the sins in our  own hearts and made us forgive her.

" Does no one condemn you?" he asked of the *****.
"Then neither do I, child, go, sin no more"















9 When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman. 10 Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”

11 “No, Lord,” she said.

And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”

I can feel them itching away at my insides.

They want me to take a shot.
They want me to take the relief of a hit.
"Home is where the drink is" they tell me.

Their judgement is laid before me.
They stand as my accusers.
I stand as the accused.

"We'll do it this way" they say.

"No, it ends now, we'll do it my way" I reply.

"We were always doing it your way".

A sound. A voice. Had it been me all along?
Oh no, had I lead myself astray this whole time?

As a carriage follows its horse, so does a mind follow its thoughts.

It's time to get these thoughts in order.

Finally
finally is what I am thinking right now
finally I am done
finally the accusers are gone
finally I wont have to come to place that rejects
finally I will be alone with my thoughts
finally the judgment will all go away
Finally

Finally
finally you will leave me alone
finally I wont have to hide in the halls
finally I wont be confined by these walls
finally I can be free
finally I will be me
finally I can be happy
Finally

Someone help!
     I sold my soul for a song that I cannot hear, a meal that I cannot eat, an end that I cannot see. My heart is aching! I regret my choice, I sought to make my past undone. Alas, I've left the realm of life; I lie in the dust of death. I cannot reach beyond my corpse, my soul is gone...devoured. I lie here dead, unable yet to call for help. Who is willing to take my place? To give their soul to purchase mine? Is there none with love enough to save a fool like me? Look! Beside me now stands the dead! But a moment ago a corpse, that one stands alive with soul anew! And now he kneels with hand outstretched, his lips alight with words that bounce and fly away. I cannot hear him, my ears are blocked by this dust, this death. One word, unlike the others, is sharp and pointed. It does not seek my ears for entrance, this is far and above the most blessed of treasures. It pierces through my chest, straight into my heart it plunges! The pain!
     This Word does not excuse me, nor does it accuse me; it cleaves me clean in two, beyond my heart and deeper than my vacant soul. Love. This is not a love that I can understand! What kind of love has the power to create life where death and hate have reigned unchecked? Who is this love? What name can I call it by? How can I respond? Through my despair and past my deafness I hear His name, higher than any other. Jesus! With muted lips and vacant soul, my broken heart cries out! Please save me from my past; it screams against me, condemns me, lays out my guilt spread bare. Can this name silence something this loud and honest? It already has. All of my accusers are gone, the silence of this moment is beyond all I have ever known.
"Come forth."
What is this! The very dust of death, the gates of Hell, have split wide! No longer do I lie still and empty, deaf and blind; I see and hear, I dance and fly! My soul pours forth with a love I can neither understand nor contain, I am whole. The Maker of Earth, the Author of Truth, the One who spoke existence into being has paid the price, bought back my soul. My ears are filled with truth, my mouth with songs unending. My eyes now see what lay before them, always it was here. No longer do I hunger, no longer can I thirst, a soul that is not my own flows from a well of life that cannot end. In every way, I live. I do not fear my end; it no longer holds me, it cannot touch me. The flood of Life through Christ has washed it past the borders of being. I live without end, without fear. The well of life pours out from the Spirit living inside me. I cannot die. Come, won't you stand with me? Won't you be pierced by the Love of God? Let Jesus open the gates of Hell for you and carry you out of death. Come and know the peace of eternal life found in the joy of Christ.