Leftist poetry *****.
I don't want to behold your innards.
I don't want to be forced to view your organs.
I couldn't care less
about your perverted sexuality
or your identity grievances.
Your biological and socioeconomic reality
is dull beyond all conception.
Your unpunctuated free verse
is insult added to injury
and displays
your hatred of Liberty.
Your merely materialist analyses bore me.
There is no excuse for you.
You abhor all that is RIGHT.
You hate GOD, FAMILY, and GENDER.

You also hate the Lord Jesus Christ.
Therefore you, in your rebellion against Divine Order
are DOOMED and ******

however . . . I will continue
to pray
for your sorry ***☺

Recently, in the "New York Times,"
An op-ed essay has hit the press,
Thus causing the president
To send out vicious tweets in distress.

Claiming to be a senior White House
Official, the writer wants to let
The people know that even though
Trump is unhinged, not to fret.

Because Trump is ill-informed,
Impulsive, and given to constant lying,
He can't be trusted to handle the job,
Which to many is terrifying.

He's impetuous, adversarial,
Reckless, petty, and quick to revile.
Any good has happened DESPITE
And not BECAUSE of his leadership style.

The writer insists that our knowing
One special thing will lessen the gloom:
Even though Trump is a mess,
Luckily, there are "adults in the room."

Thwarting the president's misguided
Impulses is the task
Of these "adults," each of whom
Has to hide behind a mask.

To publish the piece anonymously
Some people feel is wrong.
But, hey, it only confirms something
That we have known all along.

-by Bob B (9-6-18)

I am not used to taking risks. Many barriers tend to block my train of thought and my decision-making. Now that I was lying at the bottom of the trash, I could talk; I could think straight. I had no distractions or punishments, even though there was no need for deciding anything. I felt free because I knew he had given up on me. I felt like a meaningless particle of the planet when I was under Master’s control. At least plastic was used to create something else. But not me! No! I could not be used for anything else; I just got thrown away. I couldn’t say I was completely oblivious towards my lifespan. I had an idea of what was going to happen. There I was at the bottom of the trash; knowing that my master’s next victim had already been chosen to take my former position in his soaking, swampy hand. Master acted like he worked so hard; he should have been ashamed of himself. Because lying crippled within those dark suffocating walls of that garbage basket was HIS doing. I do not take risks. Those crumpled up papers began to fall upon me like rain and it felt like I was being buried alive.
I don’t remember my birth or the first few years of my life. My psychology teacher told me about how you cannot remember the first 2-3 years because of the brain’s progression in growth. The first thing I remembered was waking up in a box, locked in place by my neck and feet. My family was nowhere to be found. I did not even remember being apart of one. There were four others enslaved with me at the time. They were not my family, but they dressed like me, which scared me a little. The loud noise of slicing scissors pierced my ears and a small stream of light entered the cardboard box when the top was cracked open. The first sight of the Master’s obese fleshy hand brought motion to my bowels as a feeling of failed screams collapsed around my throat. I had no voice, I had no mouth. Was it welded shut or was I created incorrectly? Watching the way Master’s large hand devoured the poor ******* next to me and yanked him out of the box brought an immediate knowledge of trouble upon me. I was frightened because my opinions were insignificant and I didn’t know what to do to gain control.
We were transferred from our holding shackles to a less-captivated holding system. I don’t know what it was, but we were with many others; lost and stupid. The light blinded me at first, it was more open and I could see clearer. I would have gotten myself into trouble… or maybe not. The sight was horrifying because it enabled me to witness it all. Master was unfair and he had no patience, like me. When a victim needed a break or was tired, he banged its head on the desk (or the paper) or threw it across the room. When the victim was not meeting the Master’s needs, he squeezed it harder and harder while banging its tip more. If a victim was useless to Master, he threw it away without a care. That same poor ******* that was next to me ended up in the trash after a day and a half because it couldn’t finish transcribing Master’s C’s or A’s. I would’ve transcribed his C’s and A’s; and his M, O, T, R, F, K, R’S too! I hope master sweats himself to death. I knew my time would come. I knew I would end up just like the rest of the poor and helpless. When my juice ran out, the five of us from the box would be back together- empty and cold.
I sometimes wished I was not smarter than Master. I didn’t have a mouth, but my narrow cap surely consisted of a larger brain, I’ll tell you that. I sure wished I could have taught him; him and those sweaty palms, a thing or two about our existence! He should have been grateful I was there and he should have given the respect he did not deserve to get. He probably didn’t know that he would’ve been using a chisel and a rock if it wasn’t for me! I sure as hell was saving Master a lot of time. If my uniqueness was not available, Master would have been wasting hours of his time to create one word. I wonder if the chisel used to say the same things I said during those horrible events of slavery and cruelty. Chisel probably never received punishment. It was probably buffed and puffed and sharpened and cared for. So why couldn’t I just get a re-fill?! But still, Master didn’t care. He wouldn’t have sharpened my tip if I were a chisel. He’d let me rot and throw me away because it was all in the same to him. Master wouldn’t have cared if I informed him about the chisel. I probably would’ve received more of a punishment if I was able to speak.
After my ink ran out, there I was within the bottom of the garbage basket. This was exactly what I expected. I couldn’t lie, I was kind of glad it was all over. I was so sick of Master’s crap by then. Those sweaty palms got the best of me and that impatient anger caused my juices to run fast. I was developing a realization about Master’s endeavor. He threw me away too early. Usually, our species would be thrown away when death occurred. I was lying in that trash very much alive when I began to glance at my previous struggle. Those papers devoured my appearance while they exposed every waking memory that my hard work had created. When the papers stopped falling, there was nothing else to think about. The memories began to fade away after every word I read. I couldn’t help but recognize the mistakes that Master forced me to make. At that instant, I only wanted to go back and edit the foolishness that was transcribed onto those papers. I wanted an opinion. I simply desired to have my voice heard; I wish I had one. As free as I was, I still couldn’t make that happen; even after I was hurled into the trash- as if I was some useless implement. This was like being under some Calvinistic rule. My fate had been an adversarial predetermination, no matter how much I followed the rules.
It was a sensible act to throw me out. Master appropriately responded when I was of no use for him. He should have thrown me out when he snatched me out of the box like a piece of paper towel entangled within the roll. I was useless from the beginning. I couldn’t stand up to myself and I couldn’t make a difference whatsoever. I collapsed within myself when the words on the paper began to fade as I scanned each line. The scriptures came to a halt; I realized I was as dead as any other useless implement that previously suffered within these very same haunting walls. There was nothing else I could do. I was banished to freedom. I achieved the freedom to originate nothing. So that’s what I did… nothing. I wished I could speak; at least I would’ve gotten something in before I became the excrement that master walked upon. I closed my eyes and patiently waited for death to overwhelm me as I listened to Master’s distant grunting in silence.

Poets make lousy friends because  eventually they’ll  skewer you with their poison pen; their  insulting  writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby  the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger.  The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial.  Like  acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to  unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face,  a shocking starkness of  incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one  off forthwith.  He was a veritable torrent  of abject invectives.

while warring on the side of peace I fell to laughing like the medicine of legend and

i found I came here in the nineties and I remind myself

if its truth is yours, y' know

otherwise, we survive.
we live in joy in every generation,
the patient perfect answer
to
Generated
Adversarial
Networks

old school rule surely the net is spread
in vain in the sight
of any bird

ah fantasy how do you form the knots
that bind reality
to
not me? A quest? same as a question,
all over seen by the serpent

standing ***** facing west,
on the point of ever

questing
testing
at this point. You passed. Look for survivors. Ask for nothing.

—To me, a dream, in which she came: Mistwalker
—And I, a vessel, rose in her womb, bear this, to me, a dream.

Say, on this, untoward, the spiced breezes with salt
Came, if all, the light enkindled like whetted steel
Morning star through the mournful faces above
Rejected, yes, by their mothers, of past and now,
A cold came ashore, ancient besieged accounts
Wilted the pregnant vines of yesterday, sure to
The next, as gods turn to myths, stories to the dying young.

She stared, of memorials in print
Off into the terrible morning, gossamer filament
Swaddled at the breast, a tight form slack
In the great divorce of sea and sky,
Standing, contemplative, shouts and echoes crack
Unheard, discarded: sweets to the profane
Sedately, to that dark curve: a canvas was lain
Adrift on aether, drowned bones of Atlas,
Emerge on drift of the everlasting, there at world’s end
In curved states between:
Hell broods in the burgs of ice, Providence
Forsaken of she who becks on the entombing sands.
Thus, prayers come whetted
With none to brush the stray hairs from those astray
Men conceiving valleys, their mountains,
Structures, are we, to eternally pass the course of solitude
Under cross-borne tuitions, marbled elders’ auspice
Embossed of the very tongue spoken
Once in high infant chambers, Omnis Ipse?

I, too, was born beneath the hero’s breath,
Taken by the glimmering sheath and steeds
To the awful wiles of merciful truth,
She to the enemy of standing beyond, within.

If ever a summer had kissed the city where cold descends
Or snow reminisced stars in the eve,
I, I—she hurts in the mists—have only tasted, bitter,
Sketches, between them, the finitude of their light,
That of warmth, of compassion
Man fall distracted from, therefrom grace,
A beast shed of its other back, hubris of its wing—
Am I the maiden of its song? But it’s maiden?—
One season, ever-aged, harbinger of this isolation
What is the ****** ewe years of searching for I,
Is sacrifice, thus becomes the phantom, the slave
Of that distant black, the sullied mark, consumptive
Unremitting arms of purpose, of man’s calling.

These hands are spelled, veined by charcoal dust
Adversarial oaths kept close, of myself, in idle play
Where what I will, wills but a will
Where none are to come, but the mast of a hero
Whom she is tied, of those winds
Seminal of her words—I shall be the breath
The cusp of every storm which blights the high waves,
The knife of sheer walls of stone,
Moments of oblivion which rend the heroes, ill-stayed.

Eyes burned holes for the starlight of awe
Pouring o’er the wastes of her paper skin
But, that she overturns the rueful words
Again, again, again, cycled in the oceans,
Where gardens of kelp revile the current
Strands, becoming of the arms she wishes to hold—
To write myself out of comprehension
Is to risk the very marrow has I obeisant,
These lusts of the greater body, those of the Mother
Clad in jewels and customs, as wave desires sky;
A journal I’ve become.

Mist came, froth, the spiral of wars inside the heart
They inveigled her, to my dismay, to the blind air
No longer, the sweet tine of imperfection of voice,
Inspired of spoken word, recent memory took leave,
Ambivalent joys came raining on a pen,
Reluctant to write homage to freedom,
Caught in the morphless air, calcified transformations
Odes to let go. But.

Precious little snowflakes coddled by society. Kept at arms length from harm. Cherished little blossoms nurtured in the womb of ignorance. Holding that their little feelings should guide their every thought. Lost to logic and reason, placed in flower pots of bad ideas. Given to the belief that life should be fair and go their way. Oh what an awakening when the winter of reality sets in. When at last the flowers emerge from their cocoons and enter the world beyond the veil of their protected realms. Into a land of adversarial ideals and bureaucratic impossibilities. Where their primrose path and rose colored glasses are shattered and they are forced to fend for themselves. Longing for their perfect utopia which is a paradise lost, because not everyone agrees with them.

The sabers rattle
sending
the torn flesh messages
of the Great Old Ones.

No more apologies
or options for your
angst.

Those particular doors
have closed.

Acceptance of your mindless
discontent,
your dissatisfaction
with what is barely
adversarial,
or
at worst inconvenient
has been deemed
unsafe.

Safety, at this point,
Is not a concern.

Those hollows have been filled;
The floodgates closed,
That river ******.

This space is unsafe for
your need for a safe space.

(This Space for Rent)

Wanton want,
need,
greed,
have no elbow room
here.

This space is taken.

The fist you find
will knuckle the
small of your spine
and smile.
*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

Remake the photocrapsh, you have it,
edit, make the moment be that moment

and we redo the steps, the dance
in the process of time come to pass…

Breathe, be a bit aware, the air,
that essential other than I, is there,

all around us, one gaseous natural
substance us and all the other actual
air breathers,
some in constant meditation,
seeking mediation between spirit and

truth that life tests if I can perceive,
the suffocation of a story, conceived
in side my suit of fingers and toes and
bones and blood and meat and sinyew.
--------


Worth any reader's taken time, to make up
for enticing any one to follow a child
in search of lost time, I'd say none taken, none
left to find
usefull, filling a certain vacuum uses fructus
we yoost to take as needed granted. As cheese
from butter blessed with a meaty rancid taste.

Pre-posed, as supposed, positioned
up, above your head, above our eyes looking
up, into the thinning air beyond the morning fog.

Hear a jet plane, and think that noise unignorable,
then remember not hearing it for days, in the desert.

The ignorability established, test if I missed a sense
shut down class, perhaps I am the audience,
in silent meditation becoming one in time difference,
my peace,
I give,
not as the material reality gives, or is the world,
not all the material reality gives?

Wondering wonderfullness, full double el full,

necessary respiring, reselecting next moment
to breathe, re-in-ex-aspir'tual inter mingling me

and thee, the e, in all out joint efforting t'i
to fructify and die to leave seed soil cannot
suffocate.

Suffer it to be so now, thinking imagined touch,
the breath you take and replace with modified air,
humanized winds waft away the stench of our city,

our only physical existence place time sequence,
relative to mysteries too esoteric, by reputation,

if one never learns to use the good, to make good
a hope, a hook, with mystery, a sur-prize, un earned,

posed to be essential experience, once, for you alone,
the prize of personal recoknowsis acknowledged,

it's your party,
you can cry if you want to, but the art involved's
below you now,

as we took your breath away.
-------------

Fun with functionality, feeling your wish
to feel included, fecundity of same sour dough
higher minds than mine let be in thee
some how sure your part's done,
passed, missed cue, or
not.
The entertained remain, unaware… only knowing

the show must go on, and on,
and people,
on the whole, be having life
in the midst of life supporting

reality, recogentle, wise
teach
as trees teach, learn as nuts do. One
touch, one mind, one time to grow old in…

----------------

The daily ef'
fort ification va
vacation
cancelation …
looking away
at you, I think, at you,
I aim a wish, a joyish wish
wisht at a once,

upon which all stories dangle,
awaiting your attention, caught.

In the spirit of honesty, snared,
are we honestly acting strangely
similar,
similar tastes acquired, tasting
-----------

Echo rock effect stone groaning
-digital echo effect edit if you care, imagine
Peculiar order
own self first idiom, I am
become first ideal me, being
as good as
my word, and nothing more
esoteric than a reading mind's
recollection of a beauty envisaged

as an instant too brief to measure,
¿
instance,
in contextuality
stopped, and sensed
as a fly-by why, loosed for use
in curious arts, acadamized, apt
to wink at reasons feeding war,
to prove worthiness, what rule
gives order authorship legality,

in the scattered cosmos, who
orders each star to form from
?-
Point potential pose- d
to be
energy, itself mysterious, as to d
source and precognitionation put to work
as the works of God, the creator spirit entity,
put dhe PIE- put'erthere, core cognizance
in me, my child reminds me, for the duration.
Go is an order not a game.
Dare blame the temple servants, dare
cast aspersions at the spirit speaking,

gibberish, you wisht was peculiar, your query
run with your parameters set,
so your query
pulls from the spirit of timeless truth, a quest,
a duty,
a call to you, personally fit for your benefit,

maleficence despised sufficiently
to pass as white noise under signal. Go.

----------

generic me, reacting temper-mentally,
- getting to the crescendo way on
- down the line

to form a personality, a person like me,
emotionally tied to my character, my role

in your life, I see,
the other in the air out there, at the other
end of this wind

breath of life itself, certainly not all mine,
but I did add a touch of exhalent chaos,
in a laugh,
at recognition,
gnosis lies esoteric more within,
adipisci as if adept apt
at marking old regions lost to religion
- parrot headed afternoon paradisiacal
intentional, estate realization, holy place keeper,
mental, fundaments
minimum augments
happy old form gaseous wedom form,

beholder of beauty shown to set the meme,
look into my eyes, think mere words make minds

adversarial, as proverbial order impositioning,

in your brain, the ***** holding your will, if you
will, imagine another mind, with a habit in effect,

set to alarm me, when you see
the back of my head, and I do not turn to see you,

there you are any way, any in the official plethora
of thinkable ways around the obstacle
ambition definitely a needed virtue,
the will to know there is a good way,
the will to not steal, **** or destroy to make it
true
work applying patient perfection
to your tasked self, assigned early on to pursue, this bit
bait, curious bait, as scentual instunk ready, ready
ambitious ends means in minds, imagined done
is good as done,
Jesus said…

Two or more, you and me, endlessly
actual mental agreement, gentle, peacish
way beyond groovin', we be entering coknowing

eaching out, under our stars, we all know
what they are, they are near enough to feel

we each get this one big judgement day win, once…

ready to rock on, sit in witness position, watching
time pass, feeling memories sprout recollected laughs,
take the time, use your own, it never matters

looking back, from your self awareness instant, slo-most,

snap shot scene manurable, yep, gnoshit, that smell,

bucolic, fancy pants word, for real live process smell,
earth in cogitation, using a cast of billions of cloven hoof,
cud chewers fit to a stall and a milk ******* giant calf,

holy cow, each cow contentedly cogitates, how holy
am I to live in constant motherly bliss, and no
bogus science to make me feel lowly, mere meat maker,

for the sausage eaters needed to clean the windows,
so we all can look in on each other and say hello, did

you know this reality was here,
did you appear on purpose, or were you pre
supposed to be, so be ye do be.
Done.
Or don't, being as how here you are.

The end.
Now we wait. The point being made, when we feel it

really realizably so real holy cow, wow, milch for minds,
blowing past reasons for war, what would a holy city do?

----------------
Make a milkshake and use raw eggs.
Don't die.
Here, contemplation, using your knowing to construct
a shelter for a spirit,
a heart shrine, in memorium,
an avatar, that's the word, now, image made in mind,
non projected, kept bound under covering rules, why,

Gorgons are adapting to our air, as we all imagine
monstorous men leading conspiracies, breathing in teams,

fighting like hell to push back the peace cannabis brings
the furrowed fretful brow, high, low or middle, now,
- pushing back opening cannabinoid reception link
- thinking we all tuned in, is not true,
- the sixties I dropped out of,
- some boomers lived in, to this very day.

we all imagine the excess success allows, and the weight,
we all imagine the schedule, and the cameras, and think,

what, me worry? Will you take the esoterica to task, you

imagine life reset
to win the reasoning contentiousness,
with defined ambits being wills used
to lieve be the truth that Jesus said if
he is, believe it or not, leave go you know, if it were not so,

truth itself wills you know… you asked

let thy will be done, mine, I hold in place, conserving
certain truths fed me as a child, pledged in aliegiance.

Some values from when this world was lit by fire,
some of those eternal flames, never let it go out,
lessons used to arrange children on the pyramid,

few were told by their granddaddies
to laugh ten times today, and take
the long way around the mountains, find a stream
and keep its pace, time through space at any speed,

mellow is mental, mind frames are, as well. We think
we see the world one way, but we see it always good,

inherently good, inside the air we breathe and have
our being in, mind and brain barriers imagined,
fallen
long before the reasons for the ritual, right structur-al
to form as a temple made not by hand in mental form

living stones, I presume, am I standing on your toes?
Redone dances long left go be a fantasy from the cave wall.

- tips in times of self rejection, madness of art
devoted sons, once taken to an alter by a broken father,

God, take him, I'll break him, I'll make him like me,
don't let that be thy will, I'll walk with this limp,

but I'll not lie and claim Jacob's well ran dry.

The sack of values a poor man uses to stay alive, sur-
realize reason for being fine with sufficient suffering,

enough, to let me know, it is part of the process of time,
as recorded to be remembered, once
a prophet told you to pay attention, and as it appears,
to me, from here, my entire wedom did,

pay attention, with passionate joy, no lie, not even
to get by,
get past the poison
through the gifted, take life as granted found in a
willingness to whistle while you work, like a little tea ***,

here's my handle,
here's my spout,
tip me over and pour me out… do recall, do, once, redoness

dance on rare either real or otherwise, riverdancing ductility,

until I run out of breath.
And rest.
Riverwise on the seaside, going down.

When you get old life is as complicated as can be…
so- I fforget some things.
So, they had a saying, in the early day of open nicotine and caffeine,

put that in your pipe, and smoke it. Just let be the function. Peace
happens, seemingly by chance, often in Septembers,

made intentionally memorable for a good reason. We smile,
inner chuckle counts for laughing.
"Surely Feynman was not joking"

Let that be a lesson in legalizing enjoyed ennui, put to good use.

Opposition research, programing overcomers of
Self-Generated Adversarial Nets

who opposes imeyou I me You we
threads
twining entanglements

trippy y syn edoche cliche okie-dohkie

eh okeh, we flow, make me feel

youngagain moragain bis morgen jetst

in
finite form we have Gausian blurs
per ceiva -wait, Hay -

ible- I baled on spel-chick she got al

faithful to the meme team,
Them Me.
They

can't keep a secret, any more
or less
well

as secret keepingers go, both ways

truth, pa-tien, wait, watch, see

free-be, from your fiture.

---
Art. Call this that, say

This is that,
which to poets of old claimed ours

by right of use known
gk kg (y'know how t' vocalize those sounds, in y'mind?)
now n gnost
tic thirty three
degrees of separation twixt
this and that

be
comes being
we seeing we re
arrange perceptions from deceptions
during less patient proper
ity-ifity
property, something to lean on,
itified for support, not to own,

they rod, the me-asurer and
they staff, i lean on for ward

setting the vector of now from now on

easy as that,
lean good, in any way, next

is never as predicted.
This is that.

This is how words live in readers of this book of
This life. and that,

more abundant.

For I have restrained from the light above
Thou, in the ogling reflection, stood, awaiting
Amorphous reiteration of the rue singes the flesh
For I ,ere sewing the sin on my flesh, was inebriated from passion and from those I regret.

The eons of dust arched the back of the wind,
Integrating through, never did they collide, only swiveling.
For I missed the light flickering,
Beyond the hues of tears clear on my skin..

Only in this meandering path do I bedeck my complexion,
With sins ,adjoining skin over skin
I have never admired
The way they nestle over sin.

Thee; The patchy and rough branches,
Sew beyond the bones under,
Inexorably calling to terminate
This pain over and under

For i have sinned, please tune me out
Discerned from the peaks of higher mountains; Apart.
Though the stars shine upon solely a dust,
For a jiff, merely descends the armour, down

Caved in, clemency seems away in clouds,
Billowing up towards the luminary.
Did I crave it or did I not?
Does flesh ache a lot.

I stood in front of a mirror,
Abhoring the adversarial and metaphoric matter
Ethereality strikes over my flesh,
When I commemorate the sins I have flecked

Could cut the tension
With a blade
I never understood
The saying
Obvious
We aren’t friends
But on false pretense
Still depends
A sort of multi-facet,
Tacit
Truce
To minimize
Verbal abuse
And loosen lips
In shared critique
Just bite your tongue
Before you speak
With liberties
You haven’t earned,
Preserved,
Secured,
Or not yet learned
For we have both
Returned from far
Abroad
From peace and war
And yet have more
Left to endure
Than how we still
Settle the score

Reminding myself that I am not alone
in thinking there is a collective conscience
library that has been made accessible, but

to readers, only, and within that set,
to readers who read for life, to live,

letterly, let be, let see, let say, what if,

or wonder if, let us see, let us say, today

where you were when I was in process
as an explanation
of an adversarial approach, a strategy,
accessing a push that has come to shove

me into your comfort zone, to force a will,
a will submitted to that thing you profess
to know is too true to think two ways,

trick is, digesting suggested gulps taken,
earlier in our mindstreaming, thinking sure,

the good, the good
in being alive, good for nothing at any rate,

making no thing, seem likely how as spirit
feels, loosed, to seem likely why we think

we breathe, half time in, half time out,
day by day, we live and breathe, and assume
the position we were led to believe, ours
to hold as true, for the rest of ever after,

our purpose on earth, laughs in our heart,
and wipes a grin across our face,
and once more
-wordflow slows, so back up,
can occur,
yes, imagine the loss,
back up, clogs old reasons
arterial distinctions excused
as essential legacy worth sets
where your treasure lay unseen…

earnest as any disguised gay Nineties
entertainer on the society pages,
lo, long after Turing was made example of…
- rude gay abandonment, so sad, liar
dies to convince some school board,
we all make up minds, we all may let such be,

scriptural, let it be written, thus it becomes,
for those who know it, this is it, do as we say,
or die, as seen when tyrants are dramatized,
on TV for all to watch, minimum reading cost,
to bring the masses together in one mindframe,
withing our gestalt Earth earth mindshare,
through wishable otherwise moments
we make bend with a laughing what,
twist, and spin, and twist and spin, thinking
ifery was were ours, see, we agree and think
a free minute,
and let it fly, to become another just
in time right move, made with no prejudicial
estimation of the attention cost needed to use

a free minute.

If ever were to be modeled here on earth,
one aspect is universal,
any exploration as
to what can be true and what seems thinkable,
has previously had expectation set
to recognize
and expand, as realizable,
in application, skeleton key-ish,
old lock tech common
in empty old buildings
- archer of life lessonings pings -
- -ng all points on the spectrum
and adding perceived Disneyifications
of storied locks, those knowledge
unlocks, always,
as truth frees,
never cursing ought but ignorance,
that such storied locks unlock I- in stages,
we barely remember
our bare first snow
of memories
with others possibly needing
my attention,
to any certain detail, tool, wrench
or spanner time seams leaking
from old skins, tied to tighten
around just right, eh,
weather whether or no,
old soul, so sure you lost your will to win,
then, another breath forces its way in.

--------------

Watching fluffed flakes
of Southern California snow, witnessed
by some, in El Niño years past, just as big as a
little paper doily under a piece of truck stop pie.

At Descanso, and also at Gorman, top of Cajon Pass.

Top of the winding six-percenter
called the grape vine, down
into Bakersfield,
across primeval subsurface saline swamp,
until a while ago, after internal combustion
and electric pumps and radio dispatch police.

Earth, earth, can you hear me now,
how is one old man expecting
to establish a true reason
to believe the cultural corrective aspect
at once, before, as now, all began
occuring because the right hand and left are inhibited,
by not inconsequential inhibitory circuits, inhibiting
unreasonable single mind superiority, internal tyrany
we are under oath to oppose,
as truth in form and function, redeemed words
effectual and fervent reproof of instructions,
taking the Mickey out of Yanks, touting
dis-Disneyification,
relieves
a form of tyranny commonly capable
of ruling a soul committed
to aliegiance and confirmation rituals early enough.

---------------

This then be a future fantasy.
Snowed in, in a Southern California
spring blizzard, blocking the hinterlands.

I sit behind my Tesla wall,
and welcome the test, was it worth it,
what price can one put on winter warmth?

How guilty should I feel for having won,
upon acceptance of the form Jesus was in,

when his word assured me I might rest assured.

Truth known makes free, form is not function.

-----------------

Historicity, I think they call,
mental time travel when you experience
life in a world lit only by fire.

Wonder if, then we think of praying men,
professional preachers of the impending

rapture, which belies all we know of gravity.
Miraculous, no less than the flying white horse,

or the horde of righteous dead coming on, behind.

And even then, there is resistant hate of brothers,
essential to trouble the minds of the greedy rich
and powerful, who constituted this world order,

this very one we live under, or within, in spirit
and in the truth the internet lets prove reproof.

----------------

Enough. We fact check, team spirit.
What can we honestly say we all know?

Six thousand years of written retellings
and retellings, and savage adversarial
herds of prophecy guided god-minded
meek as Moses Phineas knew, true
a certain variety
of the species,
with no regard
for breeding, gravitates to rhetoric
in tune with the pain perceived as needing
rebellion arrousing need --
engage disbelief, let it flow,
out the left ear is fine,
feel
relief, mindlessness
of this hard problem,
what are we about
to do, these days as we pray
with science included in grace,
due to the odds demanding,
a definite bias on Earth, to living,
like grace cheats death into agging
us into freeform ideas for hearts
to conceive as worthy
of cognosis fervency,
as at Eureka instants in prayer.

Truth, none may gainsay truth,
any may and certainly do, lie about what
Truth is behind a universal direct object, set

in the form a free spirit may hold,

not any form smoke cannot pass through,
but the form believers
accept as ours after,
spirit wise, as living words,
death, or out of body reproof
of imagination, a weform, a we,
the shock alone, makes a body think,
woe, this ain't hell but that really hurt,
bang. Same, no worse, and one last time,

I respond , "the Oxycontin is not working",
and time expands, and expands again,
and interest in worth of reason,

appears to judge my plea.
Believe me, death is not scarey, after
finishing a mortal experience in such
a time as this,

freedom from fear of death, is so freeing.
Coherence in mindtimespace is coincidental.

Happy Birthday Palla Maushi
I wish you a great day and a happy year
Here's a little poem and drawing I made for you
Enjoy! :)

Today on this wonderful day
Your exsistance has concluded half a century
I've only known you for a small part of that freeway
But today, I wanted to celebrate you for being exemplary

One of my oldest memories is of your visit to Seattle in 2011
The DS and toys that you brought have given me an abundance of entertainment
Indeed, while the DS was a short term obsession
You are someone to whom I can share my joy and lament

Your bubbly presence brings light into the darkness
You disrupt the solemn silence and fill the room with energy
When I hear your spirited call, "Zevy Darling", I feel a surge of happiness
Neev and I eagerly wait to make the next memory

Your exuberant attitude towards life inspires me
I hope I can imbibe some of your vibrancy and qualities
Whenever circumstances are adversarial, I know I have a friend down the lane
You are like a boquet of vervain

Thank you for being so lively and cheerful
I hope this year blesses you with much joy

Sincerely, Zev

WE ARE LOVERS

we are lovers
through all of our years
collected, neglected
off and on living familiar
once or twice a shared spite
coming  close to adversarial, we have
come to this place , accepting, with our eyes wide
through our shared sacrifice and many trials
for no matter how long we have left
love was a constant  companion, given or take
making something stirred; never to be shaken
from those first years, to these last, we are
like a fine wine we have aged well enough
as we look forward not back

by Michael Perry

Pixilated war,
And out in the real fields
Insurgents rally against
Tin men and robotic dogs.
Death from above,
Artillery & first-person drones.
I sip an energy drink
In 60° AC Fahrenheit weather,
I don't stop to think
As to if orders deserve questions
And whether I would be satisfied with answers.
They don't have drafts,
We have programs & apps
To pilot steel fellas.
Suppress, eliminate, rescue,
Some of them even punch up the graphics.
Last week, I traipsed through
The inhospitable Arabian Desert,
Many decades ago rendered entirely uninhabitable,
To help diplomats involved in a helicopter crash.
The day after that,
I was in the snowy north
Fighting red droids.
And soon after,
On an island in the Pacific
Defending from adversarial users.
I must have died 10,000 times.
And from what I hear on the news
We make advances only to be set back,
And vice versa,
But it's been seventeen good years
Going back & forth.
I don't know if I can recall what we're fighting over.

Fifth commandment breached regularly
epidemic of gun violence in America
bullets fly, scream and tear into flesh
senseless rampant mass killings
rip across fabric of society
buzzfeeding, jump/kickstarting,
paradigm of mortality.

Since January first
two thousand and twenty three
countless innocent people lost lives
deliberately, yet randomly targeted
shot dead at point blank range
merely going about
their ordinary business.

No clear cut motive nor profile
delineates active shooter(s),
who could be either (or any) gender
and range in age
from grade school to septuagenarian.

The latest homicides woo,
and appease the grim reaper,
where gunman(men)/women slew
***** deeds done dirt cheap
many baker's dozen innocent people
unknowingly and unwittingly drew
(rather gurgled) their last breath
choking on splintered blood vessels
beckoning, issuing, and twittering minimal
horrific animal primal gasps and groans.

Adversarial criminal minds
finds yours truly to interject
reasonable parenthetical rhyme without reason,
thus I temporarily tack tangentially offtrack
with cogent concise contemplation
to extemporize, lyricize, and soliloquize
brutal nasty senselessness
perpetrated courtesy fearsome
half cocked pistol packing maniacs,
whereby evils unrelentingly replaying nightmare
(exceeding cruelty by magnitudes administered

courtesy rocky horror picture show)
of gruesome carnage broadcast across
social media platforms
of killing fields anew,
in the minds of those unfortunate souls
who bear witness to deadly crime,
where odd stark juxtaposition
elicit skeletal goldenrods yellowed stalks
adrip with morning mountain dew
encompassing fresh footprints,
where berserk humans

prowling in the tall grass
(them of naked ape infamous
zoological niche) lately trod
in search of human prey
welcomed unsuspecting killer(s) true
colors transformed into hideous monsters
predictably soothing savage beasts
undertakers grisly task patching
shredded bodies after homicidal maniac
fired bullet(s) setting corpse
recalibrating counting queue.

As month one of new year
(according to Chinese tradition
water rabbit constitutes animal de jure)
allows, enables, and provides
brisk business for crematoriums
or funeral parlors.

Whether native American citizen
or foreigner (perchance student) slain
survivors bereave and issue final adieu,
whether gentile nor Jew,
perhaps including
child named Caillou
instantaneously slain, who
knew
not what felled them
engrossed amidst social ballyhoo

ex post facto registering grievous hue
pallbearers accentuating somber view
eclipsing most recent prior massacres
similar to previous you
ululations reverberate yesterday's sorrows
without handy dandy blue's clue
lame motive explaining
cold blooded slaughter
vis a vis unsurprising discover re:
firearms Jane/ John Q.

Public kept stashed loaded, deployed...
guns up the kazoo
cocked, gauged, primed...
for unleaded opportunity
to unleash barrage
invariable generating hullabaloo
to curb ****** violence
trumpeting predictable brew
ha ha alloyed against National
Rifle Association almighty

elephant in the room courtesy hathi howdah  
supported lobbyist's motley crew
(think three ring circus)
versus increased uproar
protesters chorus nearly few
tile opposition pitted grand Poobah
despite alarming statistics shew
plus increasing fresh gravesites dug
amidst freshly mowed fescue
attesting to wanton shell shocked
headlines indiscriminate brew

tilly assaulting sensibilities
without rhyme nor reason
yet, yours truly doth boo
leave rampant hatred
directly linkedin to
former "FAKE" commander in chief,
(biden his time as patient hunter)
whose acrid, horrid, rabid vitriol
still darkly colors political hue
man gushing ****** fountainhead few

ming and appreciable frothing
lathers up right wing supremacists
greenlighting smoldering new
bile radicals hot headed
volatile mindset whereby
self anointed anarchistic Guru
possibly fuels global warming
evidenced by displaced Inuits
flooding courtesy melting igloo.