Glide your fingers down the railing
As you make your grand ingression
Meeting the faces you are destined to meet
As they fasten their first impressions

You are one to worry what they think
And wonder how or why
But, know that they have trained themselves
To create facades and alibis

They would be just as scared as you
If they were the ones walking down that stair
So hold your head up high, my dear
As if you did not care

The young seeds unsown
buried beneath
long forgotten granite reasons
a waste of stone
and otherwise arable soil
which now lies fallow and barren
like the ancient womb
from which they were given way
unsafely into the world
of parks and laughter
of tears and monumental alibis
for another's selfish desire
to raise a flag upon a distant hill
and bury beneath it
like supporting struts
the very bones of our future.

The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.


They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
and
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
suitcase
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
recalcitrant
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten

Love slithered up my sleeve
like a sun parched python
coiling around my soul
making its home in the sanctuary found within
venemous words spit forth their guile
antitdote saught in nights comforting arms
the moons radiant smile comes forth from a bottle,
stars decadent radiance cascades from a tear,
I'll hide in a sucumbant dream,
on yesterdays and alibis I shall rest this weary head.

———"that familiar boiling yolk of a sunrise—comas richer than russian dark chocolate— & saturn smoking a cigar while playing chess with gravity... i have been here before."

ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change.  in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen;  i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes  before the world could end in my mouth.  and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)

how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs.  i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.

it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name.  this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds—  and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead.  i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.

i have learned to stop loving falsehoods.  i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming.  we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.

"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"———

Regret washes over in oceans,
Drenching a hot head with
Unholy sorrow and disgust;
Time reigns over as Almighty Queen
Who casts a permanent chill over
The land, the mirrors, the soul.
The molten mistakes cool solid
In the prison of our brains—
Forever materialized, measured, weighted.
A prideful ego never dies—
It's only masked by alibis.

Often people prefer safe alibis to lie
Than dangerous reasons to be true

In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.

I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.

Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.

I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.

Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?

Not there.

I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.

is it like a feather
is it now or never
our faces are neglected
our souls are introspective
gravity collected
space and time dissected
water is our mother
the earth is our shelter
a blessed sacred elder
lilikoi is my favorite fragrance
tastes like innocence
and you must respect her
amazing feelings to select
the headwaters call collect
protect our sacred mother
dance upon the other
call upon the winds
feel them on your skin
remove the falling stones
that cover up your bones
rest in love unknown
concentrate until it is shown
phone calls steal our happiness
accidents dent our marriages
darkness is our daughter
streaks of light and color
falling stars kept captive
we plant them in our yards
keepers of the spark
sisters of the sparrow
made of light and yarrow
feathers flicker softly
all our woven glory
givers of the heart
singers of the dark
if you wish to hear them
make yourself a part
of the symphony
lifetimes of abandonment
oh so quick to fill you in
on all the tragic stories
what if we ignored them
and stayed present in this moment
filling up our cups
simple days spent with simple eyes
kindness supplies our alibis
respect is valued
like a stream in our hearts
we are dipped clean
threads of beauty
borrowed from the scarecrow
next lifetime you’ll become
another source of hope
ports of pleasure in our seas
forever we are feeling these
hopeless ropes tying up our antidotes
confounded sounds mounds of hope
stereoscopes and isotopes
poets freely speak
seek islands of wisdom
on stormy seas of chatter

Who owns Jack Jones, is he part of your clan?
Does Mr Jones actually exist, is he a real live man
Why does he resemble Boyd, is this part of his plan
Jack is such a manly name, but so is Phil and Stan

Don't use "Boy" within your name, you'll impose an adult ban
Boyish names are not much good, there not like John or Dan
You wouldn't call grandfathers boys, or say girl to your nan
Stop abusing ol' Jack Jones, and avoid Boyd if you can

Boyd is easy to avoid, its easier than we thought
An alteration has took place, but that's what Boyd has sought
Elusiveness is not too smart, because already you've been caught
We've worked out who Jack Jones is, and it accounts to nought

Your lacking iron clad alibis, nothing is set in wrought
It's criminal to own Jack Jones, so please would you abort
No rights to use another name, your being a bad sport
Is Boyd considered as a name, or is it "boy" for short

Intellect is not too strong, that's only what you think
Using an alias is unwise, if you show a photo link
Why bother changing to Jack Jones, how low you gonna sink
Your mother's been kept in the dark, about releasing your white ink

Is Jack Jones the one, who's been sinking in the pink?
Wasn't it Boyd's low ***** count, that went inside the mink?
You are skating on thin ice, when there's cracks in the rink
Just who owns Jack Jones, when Boyd's back from the brink

Identities are broken, just what did you think you'd gain
Your just a ******* imbecile, to think you'd relieve the strain
You can't hide yourself away, you must be quite insane
It's not as though your mother lives, in germany or Spain

Everyone knows who you are, it's in your face and plain
It is just pathetic to make Jack Jones the main
Jack Jones is just too common, you should try a name like shane
Just don't **** about with names, or Jack Jones will be jocks Jane

Your ashamed of what you've done, you try to skulk and hide
You didn't mind the ******, or having your fun ride
Be a man and not a "Boyd", it's time to turn the tide
Come on Boyd you did not avoid, legs that were astride

Morality is in pursuit, but you have no sense of pride
Who's Jack Jones supposed to be, now  sperms slid down the slide
Other aliases may exist, do you have bits on the side
Or are you only interested, when things are open wide

Is Jack Jones the father, or is he born from rubber clones
Boyd is the spitting image, he's been seen on mobile phones
Hostile namesake takeovers, do you have *** slaves and drones
There's no sense in your deception, because this isn't Game of Thrones

We don't want identities stolen, you borrow names like loans
Jack's already being used, it's a name that someone owns
Maybe names can hurt you, as well as sticks and stones
So cease in your activities , you don't know who owns Jack Jones

Open yours eyes
Let go of sweet alibis
You know those are just sugar coated lies

Open your eyes
I am standing in front of you
Quiet the chaos inside
You've got to get out of there
I took a peek inside your brain
and I've got to say,
Those voices sound quite insane

But don't pay mind to those voices
They do not own your name
They are just voices that feed the lie that you're not okay
That you'll never meet the measure
Just open your eyes,
And experience life and all of it's pleasures

I'm standing here before you,
Can't you see me?
A living, breathing, sentient being
Your internal chaos has vanquished you
It has stolen your sight
All you can see now are the lies that rule your life

Open your eyes,
I'm here for you and I understand
Can you not move, can you not feel?
I reached out my hand
Now reach out yours,
I will grab hold of it
And lift you up from the floor

Open your eyes
Love stands before you in all of it's purity
But you are unsure and full of insecurities
I bestow my love with no requirements or
debts
Because my heart  just gets stronger
The more I love unconditionally,
So, let me in,
Please

Open the eyes of your heart,
And finally, you will see.

hi again. my names mike. im scared. ive been recently diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia, i think. however, the doctor(who is not a real doctor)was inaccurate. setting me up to be his personal test dummy. well, its not gonna happen again. im looking for a team to enact a certain duty. a job for those who seem qualified.

the qualifications?: experience in violence and time travel.

the job?: to never divulge secrets of the job, which involves kidnapping said doctor and retrieving a small metal instrument from within his skull.(i have the needed information for the retrieval of this device.)

the time?: any time before the future. once we've orchestrated then enacted our team meeting, we must use our time travel facilities within the same minute of our arrival, as i have already set our return time for the mission to one minute after the last team member(gregg) arrives on location of said meeting point. we will(once gregg finally arrives, 28 minutes late!) pile into the 8-man machine and activate, sending us to our destination: february 2nd, 1989. this is the date that(we'll call him doctor octopus) doctor octopus received his supposed doctorate from stanford university. we will then obstruct the way between his home and his graduating ceremony by means of designing a car crash scenario. he will be knocked out cold, allowing us easy passage into his car, excavating his limp frame, and bringing it to a secure location(walmart)where we will then inject his brain with a bio-mechanical agent, leaving him there to wake up, confused, and minus a degree. we will then travel to april 2nd, 1999, to re-engage with doctor octopus, to kidnap him in order to extract the mechanism from within his skull, which at this time will be fully grown and functional, having been implanted by us through the injection of the bio-mechanical agent 10 years and 2 months prior. once obtaining said device, we will use it to communicate with the inter-dimentional beings doctor octopus has done the bidding of. we will pose as doctor octopus to gather intelligence as to how to travel through time, allowing the mission success, bringing us back to the original point of departure, arriving exactly one minute after original departure. leaving us with existing alibis(for i know everyone was with their families on groundhog day, 1989. and my birthday, 1999.) and no traceable evidence or witnesses, including yourselves, for i HAVE taken the liberty of going back to all of your days of birth and murdering your mothers with said team still unborn in the wombs, yet have gone back to said dates again to stop myself. allowing for success and no traceable links.

the place?: nowhere. the mission has already been completed. good job team.

the compensation?: 7.79 per hour.

Screaming midnight chimes,  
hidden alibis illuminate your crimes,  
ferule moonlit beams of light,  
recoil in the shadows, glowing in white,  
shaking soul in the twilight zone,  
kicking up dust as you run for home,  
emotions take you by the hand,  
scatter away like the desert sand,  
cold trip in a purple haze,
eaten away in the last of these days,
haunted,  we are all haunted,  
ghosts of the past gnaw at our thoughts,  
searching in vane for safer ports .

Easy targets make for great alibis
Because the fear stricken in their hearts
Will make them say any lies
Easy targets make for great playthings
You can't help but to manipulate their minds
Tugging on their marionette strings
Easy targets make for great alibis
Because they choke when they try
To utilize their own voice

on account of you:

she says: do you know you often smile when, day dream dozing?

me says: on account of you

she says: c’mon sweet talking man, ain’t gonna fall for that hooey!

me says: hooey, phooey, on account of you

she says: nah, you writing poetry, no fooling me no more!

me says: on account of you

she says: I bet you got one of your girl friends singing to you, through
those wireless earbuds, doncha? who is it this time? a Sara or Joni?

me says: on account of you.

she says: you think big shot, you can multitask b.s. me? doing three things
at the same time!

me says: on account of you

she says: on account of you, I’m seriously ******, you don’t tell me anymore
sweet lies and alibis, probably writing an ode to one of your poetry gf babes!

me says: on account of you, can’t count no more, how many love poems in my lifetime written, and this one too, going out to you, charged to my tab, you babe,
are my account, my accountant, my accounting....

You're the reason why I break curfews
And the only reason why I keep on coming back home

I'm going to cut your supply
I'm going to starve that destructive fire from oxygen
The one which burns within you
That desire to hurt
I'm going to sweep your breadcrumbs from my doorstep
Take back your sullen energy
You who delight in sowing destruction
Look into the mirror of your empty eyes and see what's inside your toxic well
Your jealous empty heart contains nothing but deceit and destruction
Your blatant lack of empathy has unveiled your deepest secret
You have showed the world exactly who you are ... and finally we believe you
No more alibis for you
And once a serpent's head has been cut off
It will rage out of control ... but only for so long
Before it is no more
Like one who has been struck with madness
Like an addict without a drug
I am no longer your supply
I will save my empathy for those who deserve it
And I forgive myself for unknowingly enabling you by buying into your games
But most of all ... I'll be good to myself

19:14pm,  23/08/2010

I

What names of high renown lie here within,
What wonders of a cinematic age?
What players of chameleonic skin,
What vast dimensions leap beyond the stage?

Withnail and I would walk this hallowed road,
Dreaming of turning visions into deeds;
Train-spotting trains of thought that overflowed,
Where levity had trampled karma's seeds.

Tread softly here and utter not a sound,
The scene is set, for all lost here below,
With all forsaken dreamers underground
And all who yearned to go on with the show.

For all the lost, forsaken and foregone,
Dead lips whisper of "Hunt" and "Cameron".


II

Walkways of fame, like dreaming colonnades,
Gold sunrise shoots that everyone admired;
Lost eras when producers all wore shades,
And divas turned up early and inspired.

Hot cappuccino served with bright ideas
In cool cafés and bistros of desire;
Their ghostly image flares - then disappears,
With all who held the torch of inner fire.

All those who now endorse perfumes and creams
And those in pantomimes on seaside piers,
Remember well who crucified their dreams
Replacing honeyed hopes with bitter tears.

Inscribed in blood, their torrid names live on
- Don't speak to us of Hunt and Cameron.


III

A beautiful laundrette, deserted now,
Reduced to an accountant's numeral;
Open the wine and slay the fatted cow,
To find the wedding's now a funeral.

And did we, in good faith, believe their lies,
Electing them to office, fuelled by hope?
Now strung along by feeble alibis,
And all because we gave them enough rope?

Hope is the dreamer's dope. We who despair
Are never fooled by optimism's glitz;
Sometimes we are too fatalist to care,
Sometimes we must accuse, where the cap fits.

The coalition's follies blunder on
Up the Junction, with Hunt and Cameron.


IV

Avert thine eyes, Tim Bevan, CBE,
A tempest comes, on terrible black wings,
A blight hath fallen on the industry
That used to bring such bright imaginings.

Our protestations have a Little Voice
That Whitehall deems too indistinct to hear,
Must we the free be faced without a choice,
Must everything we loved now disappear?

Tread softly here, for it's the final take,
No accidental noise disturbs the boom,
As art is crucified for money's sake
Respectful silence settles in the gloom.

Sometimes progress moves backwards and is gone,
Like bright ideas by Hunt and Cameron.


The End....?

Sad, mooning morning
Lost beasts and time
Disgust for machine lust overwhelming
It's not that I don't love you
That you don't love me enough
To sinfully and wantonly **** me
After all it's my birthday
Cause I'm old and you've lost interest
in being the man I loved
That's why our children tricked you
into writing and sending your confession

Stand up and take a bow
we learned your lessons well
who to trust, how to trust, and when
Turned us kids into your spies,
your lies, your alibis
to get us to create the software to do it
So you could **** your mystic **** genie
please know our kindness as hatred
All access passes to dumb *******
This memeallscene is a gallery crawl,
a gallow's walk of perps,
who should have known better

Just a thanks for clogging
the artists' ether with kiddy ****
much love for Kate Torn
we used your magick
to put us back together
Your address is on the ticket,
the reddress that you bought her.
Tap lightly, tap lively not,
the tuoche of Jack Frost is upon you.

All the best and much kindness.
Perfection is a trick of the mind.

This poem will change and tighten
the ties that bind us together
From the women and men of Bandahache.
for the women who sign away the right
to tell their stories
I hear you Anita Hill
But we've been stalked and stifled long enough
Yes, that's what prayer can do

I stepped in through his ears, covered in hot mud
and rolled off his tongue clean as a whistle.
I was no longer a whisper, he uttered in a painted mirror.
Scratching out two eyes that saw nothing but themselves.
He came to wonder
if there are ants in my stomach feeding an army
off the peaches I couldn’t eat for six summers.
Three winters with no springs yet, the snow up to my neck.
My eyes spilt pearls like a Japanese ghost, onto the white cold
he buried me in.
and when that melts into the lush green we’ve yet to writhe on,
I hope there are limbs left to entwine us,
I hope there are streams made to wash us.
My body unchilled is sight for him to absorb,
and record and plan a trip.
Diction may be a skill he knows
that I have learned to be versed in,
but no matter the assemblage of my alibis,
he finds me guilty, so I choose to make quiet familiar,
and comfortable and the stringy nerve endings I've grafted
into his skin and his kiss when I love him,
are threatened to be severed with scalding water,
poured from the darkest kettle called
doubt.

.
He had ascending eyes
                   of sapphire,
the kind in which angels sloshed in their
royal chalices,
the kind of blue Poseidon gnashed
                       his teeth for.


                                   Born in the 25th dying date,
Septembers’ autumn bleached scent flows along
his bloodstream.


A smile that belonged in the crooks of these sapphire seas,
a soul unholy as Adam
                          & Eve’s.

His love was not fierce enough
             to contain this poet's heart
my pitiful phoenix can be ripped asunder
by the wrath of
a dandelion.


He couldn't swallow the sun
                 so silver fire rained
                                     anytime it pleased.

We are the skylines
             not gallows
and yet we hang ourselves upon the night skin


                       and collect
the stars as if they were
                            our alibis.

If you love me,
                        let me go?
                         My silver eyes don't see you in color anymore.
.

A stilted stay, a pregnant pause,
as shadows sharpen midnight claws.
A dimming dome oppressed by night,
smiles weakly on this parasite.

It enters as a Trojan horse,
along a crawled collision course.
Its hollow husk holds silent spies,
who have no room for alibis.

This craven creature starts to nest,
in memories you'd long repressed
and darts behind your mood's eclipse,
a smirk of sadness on its lips.

From weary womb the beast begets,
its offspring weaned upon regrets.
Until it stirs with needle teeth,
to tear the tenderness beneath.  

It stalks from shade, a grievance grown,
to steal the thoughts that were your own.
Its brittle bark a bare refrain,
before it leaps and snaps the chain.

Scant moments after sun rise they appear,
Shadows in a distant field,
Moving like ghosts upon a sea,
Of shimmering dewy green.
They toil, bent onto their work,
No music, no joyful banter,
Only their laboring breaths,
Visible in the morning air.

An aged tractor crawls along,
Out in front of them,
They stoop and toss yellow squash,
Into a trailer bin.

Fifty acres by Noon they're told,
"Get it done, or get gone by Ten!"
"No Medical Insurance here,
No Retirement Plan,
No promises or guaranties,
It's work for the moment,
Only if WE please."
Yells out the Overseer!

Noon brings the heat,
Another fifty acres of zucchini.
Nothing changes,
Not even the scenery.
Hats and hoods,
Long sleeves and scarves,
Shield from the sun,
Yet the new heat they must endure.

Still they stoop and toss,
With ****** hands and painful spines.
"Get it done today or no work for you tomorrow.
Don't get hurt there ain't no Workman's Comp."
They are often reminded.

I watch and read a book upon my shady porch,
My promenade to the world.
Morning coffee giving way,
To the afternoon's ice cold Lemonade.
I observe from my distant knoll,
Like a unfettered bird in the sky,
Being detached and alone.
As if I and the people in the field,
Reside on different worlds.

I sit there in my orb with soft hands and body,
The products of a privileged life being a Native Son.
I worked in three piece suits, shirt and ties,
An education, crafty sales ability, my convenient alibis.

They come from the South,
From poverty and dead ends,
A border or two away,  
Do the work that only slaves would do,
Back in yesterday.
To put food on our tables,
Grease the wheels of our industries.
Put some meager food in their mouths,
and fuel their fantasy's.
Most do not speak our language,
Yet still our life they crave.
We do not welcome them as we should,
They must sneak in like thieves in the night,
Just to be our willing serfs.

What real difference them to me?
Geographic locations of birth, little more.
That's not really hard to see,
If only we stop and care to look.

A ****** to their hardship,
I watch humbled and inspired,
This display of their commitment,
Their indomitable human spirit.

The hours pass and still they follow,
Up and back crossing the field,
Chasing that same tractor,
Walking miles, going no place at all.

While I've done other things this day,
Leisure, cardio stationary bike,
(No need to take a hike.)
Intellectual stimulation enjoyed,
Eaten twice and rested well.
But not those men and women across the way,
They now merely indistinct bent shapes,
Upon, an ever darkening landscape,
Smudges of smoldering black,
In a vast field of breeze tossed olive drab.

Dawn to dusk being their fate,
Their tomorrows all the same.
Hard work and a willingness to do it,
Their passports, to "Possibility",
and for staying in the game.

My membrane is a flower and too many people have plucked my petals from the stem.
I ripped out all of the pages that had scripture in them, scripture that told stories of who I was back then, scripture I had written with a broken pen.

I kept your voice in a box that's in the attic, it's safe inside a headache, it still sounds nothing less than tragic.
Remember my hands and how they shook when you took everything away, when the demons weren't at bay,
when I screamed for them to stop but still, continually,
everyone's been taken away,
so when people stay please understand that I have to push them away like waves from the shore and ****, I know that's clichè but I'd rather die than let them live in my heart for only a few days.
They still try to talk and I reverberate about how it's unholy to say my name that way, it's unholy to keep me in the fade.
It's unholy to remember me by my eyes and not by my lies.
I have good alibis and it's nothing but true when I say that
I forgot what love means,
I believe it's an illusion that most people just dream, they told me I'm crazy but **** I think I've had more nightmares than dreams so I would know better than to keep my lonely stem stuck in bad weather.

They're over there seducing themselves now, they're seducing themselves with medication that leads to hours of a permutation of all the items in her chest, he leads her to a mutation of what he thinks is best.

I only weep between sheets.

They're far too confident in their self extraction and I just don't understand how that happens, how self absorption can lead to something so terrifying, placing yourself in a box so you can delegate yourself, you're too delicate, it's not good for your health.

That voice inside that box talks in third person now, it says you're not doing too well.

My brain is your atomic nuclear warfare paintings
All the while you face-lift X-box babies
Needle-thread we're dead babe don't you make a man crave
For things he can't quite understand but doesn't want to hit the hand.
Severance is fiction in the hands of friction,
****** deviance and erratic disobedience,
Covers the covers like a silk-screen layout
Jack it up and crack it up to be ****** up takeout.

Oh yeah? Well over we're starving ripping pieces off the mountains
Dentistry mythology, who needs a medical degree?
The label on the box said the tape was all in my head
But I don't hear a ******* sound except the fire all around
Grass is misleading and graffiti complaining
The AK is God here and through towns we're raiding
You think you got it so bad this is all the life we ever had
And don't you ever stop by cause our values are just alibis.

Okay, enough! This is all a double feature burger for here or to go
This is all a Catholic preacher in a Red Cross rodeo
Life is an airplane flying overhead carrying passengers with nothing in their heads
And turning all the lights out and pulling all the blinds down so they can't see the truth.
Disguise misguide and everything in between
Have you seen the ***** film with Jenna Haze and Jimmy Dean?
Garden salad, Diet Coke, check now and choke
Give us our bombs so we can run and go and rig the new VOTES.

Let me run it by the city council one more time
We're seeing flying cars and houses of cards and stumbling and tumbling
And rumbling and rumoring the hilarious splinter consumering
Maneuvering, assuming bottles fly with seagull eyes
The trees burn here like candy canes and run in the grass like membranes
Toxic fumes and entrails for reasoning and cold shame
Shudder at the thought of a shutter in a hot fuzz tee shirt worn by the slick insane
Generating heaterpuppy psychologic fragile now, undertow, the fifth row in the theater at the Apollo.

Broken heartbeats feel like broken bones.
This soul stripped bare, so naked and alone.
High hopes turned into severed ropes...
Severed ties, bad excuses, and alibis.
Massive contusions and mass confusion...
You're a walking weapon of mass destruction...
A master of illusion.
Intrusion.
Delusion.
Deception.

And so this soul stripped bare,
so naked and alone still sleeps solo.

And for now, I'm ok with that.

Because sometimes broken heartbeats feel like broken bones.

~
Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.

Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.

Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.

Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.

Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,

Yet there's a comma after still.
~

For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people

There's some people up there hoggin' everything
Tellin' lies, givin' alibis about the peoples, money an' things
An' if they gonna throw it away, might as well give some to me
Yeah, they seen an' heard it but never had misery

There are some people who are starvin' to death
Never knew but only heard 'em an' they never had happiness
If you don't have enough to eat, how can you think of love?
You don't have time to care, so it's crime you're guilty of

For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?

Cut this jive an' see who's got the power to **** the most
When they run out of power, the world's gonna be a ghost
They know we're not satisfied, so we begin to holler
They give us a promise an' throw in a few more dollars

There's no price for happiness, there's no price for love
Up goes the price of livin' an' you're right back where you was
So whatever you got, just be glad you got it
Now we're gonna get on up an' get some more of it

For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?

For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?

For God's sake, got to have it, more power
For God's sake, got to have it, power, power, power
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you better give more power to the people

For God's sake, why don't you try it? Yeah, power, power
For God's sake, can't deny it, no, no, no, power, power
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people

For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give power, power?
For God's sake, you got to give

Songwriters
RECORD, EUGENE

-The Chi-Lites on Soul train!!!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSIr5a4L8os

Joss Stone - São Paulo, Credicard Hall, 11/11/2012
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iyd3Dgi1xY

Careful casting blessings in tongues not truly understood
It's said there is a serpent that entangles dragon's blood
And spitfire be a voice so loose with foolish finds
Looking towards inviting angels, but be the demons in disguise
Karmic value matters in existence past the alibis
So negligent some limbs behave upon the Tree of Life

Do you count the numbers or apply them?
Do the readings code the river stream?
Divine and simple too easy to believe
I'm starting to think that many will not in aeons, come to perceive
Regressing back into the caves
To fight the tigers with their blades

Spirit can always evolve, but beside the spirit remains an umbra
The serpent that binds  as the helix to merge with yours
Through the jungles in your mind and beneath your ocean's floor
Tempting to eliminate duality in disavowing ways
But comes the wave and overstep of the orchestra's score
Written by the master architect to arrest ophidian psyche force

A RE-CYCLED boyfriend, with love like new
a re-cycled superhero fell from
re-cycled bedtime stories and re-cycled songs.
(I once sat next to an ex-lover on the train.)
On re-cycled cab seats and
second-hand dreams, to second-rate alibis
using re-cycled, bated, breathing breath,
the smell of re-cycled furniture
the musk, the dust
the re-cycled mother,
some second-hand toys for orphans of re-cycled mothers,
their re-cycled apartments touched by
re-cycled hands that hold
orphans and the world that is full of these things,
these unwanted things.
(No matter where you sit, it’ll always be next to an ex-lover.)
So we re-cycle, and then we’re like new again.