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Jill Sep 28
Staplers and hole-punch
Paper, signatures, and stamps
Busy, busy work
Audit error, office closed
Oncoming apocalypse

---

“If you are viewing this instructional video, you may be having some glitches with your audit processes. Don’t panic. From time to time, any bureaucracy worth its hole-punch will need to conduct an audit.

Daily dandy-desk-documented fun
Standard sunny-systematised-stapled hijinks

However, sometimes, there is a clerical error, or worse, a process deviation. If this occurs during an ordinary, 8:45am-5:20pm workday, the standard review process can be implemented, commencing on the same day, should the error be detected before 12pm, and if later than 12pm, commencing on the next working day. The typical review timelines can then follow, ideally 3-5 business days for information gathering, followed by committee consideration dependent on the 6-weekly cycle and agenda length.

Expected. Thorough. Busy. Reassuring.
All systems nominal.
Stamping and signing rates above baseline.
Working hard, at a sensible, sustainable pace. Amiright?

Unfortunately, occasionally,
something cataclysmic happens
bottom right on the risk matrix
(likelihood=E (rare) x consequence=5 (catastrophic))

Hold onto your staplers…
A fault occurs during the audit.
An audit error in the error audit.
This results in the dreaded, circular,
Paper Ouroboros Paradox.  
At this point, the
perfectly procedured
copybook committeed
faultlessly filed
bureaucracy
will implode.

The only way of avoiding POP is
a concurrent process to audit the
audit, we call this The Meta Audit.  
The bookish amongst you may want to say
that would increase the circularity
(moving POP from likelihood=E, to D!)
Don’t worry, we run the Meta Meta
Audit to make sure that never happens.

Our favourite galactic bureaucrat avatars, the Vogons, were the first race to encounter the pure, paper-curling hell of TMA. That is why these instructions are written in poetry, of sorts. But not Vogon-authored poetry, of course, even though
the quality
and honestly
the policy
of the potential use
of these directions
or sections
or connections
for torture
Have never been directly investigated.

The KPI for TMA is known as the
Kafka-Cockroach Distance
measured in imaginary cockroach lengths (icL).

Under potential conditions of
POP, the TMA KPI KCD starts at
42 icL
     and counts down with
     every fatal meta error:
       -Information presented to audit
         committee in triplicate
         instead of quadruplicate,
41 icL
      -Audit presentation containing
        27 slides instead of 26,
        as clearly outlined,
40 icL
     -Email about colonoscopy sent
       to audit address list instead of mum,
39 icL
     And so on.

You’ll know when you reach 17 icL,
You’ll see the cockroaches.
Conveniently, this makes measurement simpler

Now you know how to calculate your Kafka-Cockroach Distance, you can audit your audits with perfect assurance and insurance.

---

This bureaucracy
Kafkaesque catastrophe
Dear Douglas Adams
Thanks for giving me words for
Processing my processes
©2024

BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge (avatar) date 27th September 2024. Avatar can also refer to the embodiment of something (such as a concept or philosophy) often in a person.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
a death in the workforce: the agency i'm currently employed with is under inverstigation of employee negligence... i have been asked to submit my social media details: thank **** i've had my facebook page a parody of self-profiling... now i'm being asked about my taxes... this is a very British, subtle, interrogation... it's the deep state at its finest... the shallow state is seeing postmen, binmen... street cleaners... police officers... security... that's the shallow state... within where society... "society": can have their LGBTQ+ marches and their Free-Palestine marches... that's society... that's not the state... it would best to make that distinction... politico ****... there is an investigation currently happening and it is done with the most subtle of nuances: more like cue:ounces:of:queue.

in terms of statehood: the architecture
and the underbelly:
maybe celebrity culture...
but there's this strata of the state:
a state is not society:
there's no biology no architecture...
the STATE is not SOCIETY

i think the Audit Men have come...
oh it's a little operation...
a staffing agency
ex military blah blah pound lb for lb
i think the Audit Men have come:
like a covert taxman
when...
ergonomically speaking...

unlike construction when a man
like the one direction might fall
from an Argentinian balcony only 15min
and scrambled eggs... **** me...
but there has been a death in the work force
suicide... some says dead-end realism
was a brain hemmorghhage...

the Audit Men have come and...
of all the people that abused him:
i was the only one
to not have any social media connection
with him...
oh it's fine: all saints' day is upon
us and we craft our new memory from
the memory of those dead:
the anti-algebra of schools
x squared in mathematics to x in the chemistry
mother mathematics:
father chemistry...          in terms of the Visigrad
4 poster child man of marble
new intelligence from the plough
Dostoyevsky's idiot
a Jesus on a cross or maybe Darth Poueuouloo:
Somoan ninja manster...
hey kindo...

             Wembley shift... these three *******...
Gaza strip paupers...
death masks and all:
wanna run up Spanish Steps: known formerly as:
Spanish...
now Taylor's Steps... ******* *****...
but bag matey'oh...
sleep one hour longer...

they are getting the audit from the +Stasi police:
the intellectual police of:
a citizen dies... society doesn't care...
but the ******* state bureaucracy:
the bread and butter shadow folk, do...
it's not shadow-state conspiracy theory:
but there are so many people around
so many ******* clerical cabinets of architecture:
remote working from home...
empty glass monstrosities...

we used to build with rock and egg and spit
now just glass and metal...

an "individual" is a construct of "society"...
fair enough: there's the playground
go and play, little child...
but...
             the CITIZEN is a UNIT of the STATE...
and there's the distinction about what
states are: immovable: unnatural: god given aids
to subdue "societies":
******* harems... ******* swingers parties:
communes: squatters' ***** ******...
an individual is as flimsy as a society:
societies wither, fade, become disgusting...
but... citizens... states... remain...
       like the Colisseum... that became Wembley Stadium...

three young asians ran up to me and asked...
are you a Viking?! are you a Viking?!
James Jarrett Jul 2014
To put our current legal situation into context you have to ask one basic question; what is law? Is law as we have been lead to believe, the codification of statutes defining what is illegal or not? Or is there some inherent property of moral righteousness that must exist for that law to have force?

I will argue that there is a moral component of law that must be present to make the system of law work. I am, of course, aware that there are many places that laws are passed that have no moral basis at all. There are dictatorships around the world that oppress their peoples and use their codified statutes to imprison and **** any who dissent.

The ultimate example of this is was the **** Germany government who made it legal to **** Jews. It was not only legal, but a system of laws was implemented to guide their extermination. But those laws, even though written out with penalties for those who did not follow them by the legislature, were illegal.

It is a basic component of the human being to know right from wrong. It is the reason that human beings set up laws in the first place. They are set up to make sure that innocents are not victimized by the predacious in our societies. In virtually every place that a human society exists, whether on a group, tribal or civilization level, there are always laws that govern behavior. Even those that break the laws have a sense of righteousness. In prison populations, if the prisoners feel that they are being treated in a fair and just manner they will comply with the rules and follow the system. Take away that feeling of just and fair treatment and prison riots and mayhem ensues. The prisoners realize that they have broken the law and when treated humanely will accept their punishment for the most part. The prisoners know that they have committed a wrong and they knew the possible penalty beforehand and knew what they risked. If torture, mal-treatment and other injuries are added to the punishment then a situation of self-righteousness is set up. The only way to control a prison population under those circumstances is with solitary confinement and complete isolation; if left to exist within prison society it would quickly conflagrate into confrontation.

In places where law exists without any moral authority there is always rebellion brewing just under the surface of society. The dictators and bureaucracies of these societies must rule with an iron fist because they know that one moment of slackness will have them swept from power and executed or exiled. Every single individual who is subject to these laws knows that they are illegal. How can they be illegal if they are written into law you might ask; Is that not the definition of law?

My argument is that it is the moral component of the law that is essential for it to work. It has nothing to with writing a statute and everything to do with human nature. We are after all the ones who create the laws, then write them and in the end follow them. It is at the very core of our nature to organize and codify law because we are innately social by nature and always end up forming some type of society that must have rules. It is also our own feeling of self-righteousness that makes us create the laws.

Certain things are innately wrong and one person should not be able to do this or that to another, and that is the basic creator of law. Laws don’t start out as regulations to govern society. They start out as basic rules of moral behavior; don’t steal from those in our community, don’t **** anyone and don’t try to take my wife. It is this same sense of self-righteousness that drives us to rebel when we know that a law is being applied without any righteous basis.

Take traffic laws for an example. Someone is driving down the highway when they suddenly see blue lights in the rearview. They were oblivious to their speed, lost in thought, and look down at the speedometer and see that they are doing 70 M.P.H. When the cop walks up and gives them a speeding ticket for doing 70 M.P.H. in a 50 M.P.H zone, there is little room for self-righteousness. Most people knowing that they broke the law, and one enacted for public safety, will accept the ticket and pay it without even showing up in court. The next example is the opposite.

Someone is rolling down the highway and the only difference in the scenario is that when they look down they see that they are only doing 45 M.P.H. They continue on for a while, waiting for the cop to go around them. When they eventually pull over, part of it is curiosity as to why he would be stopping them. In this case when a 70 M.P.H. ticket is handed out the reaction is going to be entirely different. That person will go to court. In addition to going to court, if not resolved there, they will spend large amounts of time and money to right the injustice. They will actually spend time and money far out of proportion to the actual injustice that happened because they are self-righteous.

Now imagine that the law was written like this: If you are driving down the highway you can be pulled over and issued a speeding ticket at any time no matter what your speed was. That is the point where the law goes against human nature. People would naturally begin to rebel against it because of its inherent injustice. In the second case it is not only that person’s right to rebel against the law, but also their moral obligation. They have a moral obligation to rebel because they should be seeking to re-establish moral law. If they live in human society then moral law, compatible with human nature should be the rule. If this is not the case, then they are being set up to have very bad things happen.

The Jews in **** Germany also had a moral obligation to fight and for the most part they did not (With the notable and heroic exception of the Warsaw ghetto and a few others) and were led to their slaughter. They had a moral obligation not just to themselves, but to their fellow Jews and compatriots. They were obligated to save their children, their mothers and fathers and other humans and in the end, for the most part did not.

Instead they followed the laws of **** Germany. (Just as the German soldiers at the Nuremberg trials did) They agreed to be registered because to not do so would be breaking the law. They showed up in groups to be transported away because to not do so would be breaking the law. They gave up their goods and businesses and money because not to do so would be breaking the law. There were, of course, severe penalties for breaking the law such as being imprisoned or just disappearing into the night and that drove most to comply.

I know that faith also played a part for many and I am not judging their actions or inaction. I am simply stating the results of what happened by their following the law and putting forward the fact that we are all morally obligated to act when law becomes illegal or immoral.

When law has lost its moral authority and becomes nothing more than something punitive to arbitrarily punish enemies then it is not true law; or at least not true to human nature , by which we all act. In that case all the law becomes is a fear of retribution. No one cares if they break the law for they feel no guilt about doing so and we humans, for the most part, are moral beings. Personally I don’t rob people because it is against the law. I don’t rob people because of the fact that it is morally wrong and I have no desire to violently take from another to gain wealth. I will die before I take the sustenance of another to live.

Once the moral component of law is removed only fear of punishment remains. If someone follows the law it is only because they don’t want to be fined or imprisoned; It I not because they have a moral imperative. But fear only goes so far; when the law becomes illegal its moral authority is transferred to those against whom it is used. They now have righteousness on their side and righteousness has a way of cancelling out fear.

Counter-intuitively, the more injustice that is piled on the more it is met with resistance. The IRA is an excellent example. By the 1960’s their membership was flagging and their armed struggle against the British was at very low ebb. That all changed on ****** Sunday when British troops opened fire into a crowd of demonstrators and killed and wounded a number of them. Instead of being frightened by this, they were outraged and active resistance against them doubled. A vicious cycle was started as the British escalated their actions in response to the increase in attacks and therefore caused even more.

The result of the British crackdown was the highest membership in the IRA in history and the start of a real shooting war. The level of violence escalated to a point never seen before and eventually drove the Brits to sue for peace. The danger of enrolling in the outlawed organization was more than offset by the sense of self-righteous outrage that was generated by the deaths and military lock down of entire neighborhoods. When one joined the IRA it was not a matter of if you would die or be imprisoned, but rather when. Still, even knowing what the outcome would be the ranks of the IRA swelled to enormous numbers. When the British military began a covert assassination program to **** suspected IRA members and affiliates, instead of instilling fear it just added to the sense of outrage and drove more to join and fight.

It was the (Legal) injustice of what was being done that gave the moral righteousness to the IRA and drove them to war. I bring this all up because we are now, in our own society, entering an era of legal lawlessness. We will be forced to make choices about how we respond when confronted with these laws. From the patriot act to the NSA spying, the NDAA authorization of indefinite detention, the IRS and the DOJ it is becoming clear that we are living in an increasingly lawless society.

The lawlessness is not on the part of the people, but rather on the part of those writing the law. The irony is that as the laws become more illegitimate the numbers of them are increasing exponentially. There are already so many federal laws on the books that at any given time any given individual is guilty of a crime. We have now become beholden to the very institutions that are supposed to be serving us as a society. Instead of serving us, the people, they now serve the bureaucracy instead. The bureaucracy and the institutions thereof have become the center of law giving rather than we as citizens. The law, rather than protecting us has become an instrument to protect the bureaucracy and punish those who disagree with it.

We have come to the point where our laws are becoming as corrupt as any given banana republic and if we do not actually want to become one, then we need to make a stand and say enough is enough. I am sure that while I have been writing this that I have committed at least three crimes; either by what I have written or done or thought or possibly what type of lighting I used. Do I care? No not at all. My sense of self- righteous indignation has grown to the point that I have no fear. I have no fear of death or imprisonment. The level of outrage has grown in me to the point that I will go to war.

Will they put me in prison? Go ahead lock me up with a captive audience and let me speak the truth to them; I will leave with an army of self-righteous individuals. Of course the speaking of this truth is illegal in prison, but at this point what is law? We all have hard choices coming up in the future; choices that could affect the rest of our lives and need to decide how to act. In the end how we act is going to be influenced by how the legal system acts. Let me end this with a question: If you receive a letter from the IRS informing you that you are subject to an audit, is your hard drive going to crash? I know that mine is.
Umi Feb 2019
One check of my accomplishments,
But furthermore a verification for skills,
The art of conversation shall be my judge,
And my experience so far my partner in crime,
As the master of this angelic pen I'll suffice,
Even if they find me underwhelmed,
Or leave with disappointment without another word,
It is only proof, I have too much to improve to give up!
One way or the other, I find my hand guide the way,
With gentle movements, a delicate caligraphy has been created,
Thus, a deep breath, calming my tired nerves, helps me relax,
A clear mind is required for a difficult task after all,
And so, my hand gently, softly calls for the cover of this pen,
Time flew past without distraction, confidently,
Handing away this work I wait for the results,
Starting to become nervous down to my very core,
What if it wasn't good enough?

~ Umi
Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.

Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.

The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.

A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.

Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.

Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.

Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.
Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
The Street
An accountant went to work one day
Passed a beggar on the street
“Hey buddy, can you spare some change,
     I need a bite to eat.”
The accountant took a dollar out;
Pushed it toward the man
“You know, Bud, you should get a job
Do you have some kind of plan?
I see you here each morning,
Watching while I go to work.
Asking strangers for their extra change -
Man, are you a ****!”

The beggar gave the dollar back,
“You can keep the buck.
I watch people for a living
Some are kind, and some just ****.
I record all their reactions
And I’m going to write a book
You’re in Chapter Four, I think:
‘Those who took a second look.’
Chapter One? Those people pass me by
And look the other way.
Pretending they can’t see me,
Not hearing what I say.
Chapter Two is full of angry folks
Who stare like I’m diseased,
One of them once spit at me –
He missed though; I was pleased.
Some people give me money
Covert, so others do not see
Like I’m a change jar on the dresser -
They’re in Chapter Three.
But Chapter Four, my favorite,
Is the one that you’ll be in.
You gave me grief for sittin’ here
But you did it with a grin.
And you reached into your wallet
Though I suspect you had some change,
And TALKED to me a minute
THAT’s the part that’s really STRANGE!”

“Only one in out of a hundred
Will spend a minute of their time
And add some conversation
To their nickel or their dime
To ask what brought me to this street
Or where I’m going next.
Most engrossed in mobile cell phones;
Talking;  Sending text
To others who are just like them
Scurrying to work
Too rushed to spend a minute
With the jobless beggar ****.”

“So when a person such as you
Stops to give me time of day
I know he’s worth a listen to,
I want to hear what he might say.
And if you can spare a bit more time
Let’s get some coffee down the street.
You can keep your dollar,
It’s going to be my treat.”

The Coffee Shop
They sat at a corner table
And ordered two - both black
And the beggar started talking
When the waitress turned her back.

“I’m an author and a poet
My office is the street
I find poems, verse and stories
In everyone I meet.
And I sense you have a story
It’s my intent to find it out.
So tell me Mr. Business Man,
What are you about?”

The Accountant’s Story
The coffees came, he took a sip
Eyed the poet with a smile,
“Will you please pass the sugar?
This might take awhile.
I’m a professional accountant
I do audit work and tax,
And now, it’s after April
I have a few days to relax.
I went to college at a big name school
Then I passed the CPA,
Was recruited by a couple firms,
I started right away.
Been doing this for twenty years.
Senior partner after ten –“

And the poet interrupted,
“Would you do it all again?”

“I have a wife, two kids, and I'm a member
At a real exclusive club
A standing weekly tee time
(Sometimes I have to get a sub)
Because I often work on weekends
So I don’t get far behind
And it’s quiet in the office
But the wife and kids don’t mind …….”

The accountant’s voice then trailed off
As he stared down at his cup,
Stirring sugar round and round.
“That about sums it up.”

“But I asked you if you had the chance
Would you do it all again?
I kind of get the feeling
That your keeping something in.
I kind of get the feeling
There’s something missing in your life
With your country club and tee times
With your two kids and your wife.
And your audits and your taxes
And the partnership you’re in
Now go back to your Big Name School
Start the story over again.”

Accountant’s Story Two
“I was gonna be a teacher
And probably a coach
I thought that kids could learn from me
If I took the right approach.
And then a guidance counselor
Stopped me in the hall
Hey Bud, What will you study
When you enter college in the fall?
“I said, ‘I guess I’ll be a teacher.’
He replied, ‘The Hell with that
You’re smart, and very good at math –
Accounting’s where it’s at,
They make a lot more money
Than a teacher ever will
You should be an accountant
You should use your skill.’ “
“At the time I thought it made good sense
I was very good in math
So I took accounting courses
And have continued down that path.
That is it.  My story.  How I got right here today.
I’ve made a lot of money
More than you I dare to say.
So tell me Beggar / Poet
Do you make enough to eat?
Where do you go in winter
When its freezing on the street?

Second Cup
They called the waitress over
And ordered two more Joes
The Poet said, “It’s my turn
Here’s how my story goes.”

The Poet’s Story
I’m an author and a poet
And I live right down the street
Like I told you I get stories
From the people that I meet.
As for making money
I’ve published once or twice
Pays the condo rent and buys me food
The royalties are nice.
But writing is a hobby
I went to college just like you
But I lost it when I got there
Had no clue what I should do
So I drank and took a lot of drugs
Partied way more than I should
Till a teacher took me to the side
And said, ‘Buddy it’s all good.”
Get it out.  Learn lessons. And then go out and teach.
You never know who you can help.
Or the people you can reach.’
So when it's cold here on the street
The winter winds are biting
I’m at an inner city school
I teach creative writing.
And the money people like you give?
I pick out kids that don’t have much
Add a couple twenties of my own
So I don't get out of touch.
I take them shopping after school
And I buy them school supplies.
I figure ends support the means,
And forgive my 'beggar'  lies.

The End
Now you have both their stories,
And I might have let mine slip.
The accountant paid for coffee.
The poet left the tip.

PwL  4/7/15
SG Holter May 2014
Man's love of money...
I love it too. It results in
Food, drink and shelter
For my loved ones. But...
On days when my back
Won't straighten properly,
When my carpenter's elbow, rugby
Knee and boxer's hands
Impair me
I ask myself
How many hours I've worked
To pay just
Interest.
How many banker's cigars
And Department of Finances-
*****-ups I've
Funded with
What's left of these knots of
Muscle and bone that
Are moving towards giving
Up the guitar.
Haven't owned a new one
Since '94 anyway.

So if what I've heard is correct,  
Five percent
Of the world's population
Earn ninety percent of all
Money made.

Somebody very high up
Should be fired.
When I'm dead
I'll ask to see
The books.
JPB Apr 2010
Classic bier pose: eyes closed, arms folded over chest, everything aligned perfectly.
Peaceful, opposite of the turmoil in everyone around you.
You never did think about others at all.

In the flames I can see your body still.
Peaceful pose: gone.
Now: contortionist.
Eight-year-old Chinese gymnast,
perfect 10 I’d say, but perhaps I’m biased.
Over there the judge says 7.99;
stingy, just call it 8 even (or put the taxes in the **** score).
I think it was the stress of the audit.

That’s why your wife left,
the audit.  And the hookers, you ***** *******.
I’d **** on your pyre,
but all the alcohol would catch it on fire
and send it racing up to light ME,
instead of one of your nasty cigarettes.

Tax evasion, lying
(eight, count ‘em, eight dependents:
birds #s 1, 2, 3 (bird feeder pays for itself this way, don’t it?),
chipmunk, dog, the mouse in the cellar,
bird number 4 (only in the summer, not domesticated),
even the random fox), you name it.
How did you run that for so long?

Hero’s funeral, the great pyre, a pile of ashes.
Something a chimney sweep would leave,
and about as important.  Did they ever find
cause of death—the wife?

Good, I helped her.
She needed a shoulder to cry on after you died,
and you sure as hell weren’t there (typical).

A pile of ashes,
ashes to ashes, etc., n’est-ce pas?
Matthew Harlovic Feb 2017
you called me trash, a piece of garbage
so i collected myself and analyzed what
i brought to the table.
i thought about what i could manage
and determined the effectiveness of
my current strategies
but i concluded that i wasted my
time sorting through my problems.

© Matthew Harlovic
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
I put my hand in the hand of the man from galilee

Or I thought I did, I imagined he would walk with me
and talk with me

and help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which i think may have been blind, at one time,

I have memories like that guy, Gold-something
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom. Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but
these, heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made, and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble eclipsed by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tensionpowerloss collapses the bubble?

You should think you know atoms work, like
not a cloud of super positioning, elect-
tric-magi-tech, touch screen at the quantum accounting point,
not that, but
a bubble, powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
What an electron does. It goes,
as soon as any sense can be made of it,
oughtaouta hear
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin must ahapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, m'fallin angel droppin' in olfren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth found in wines that moved themselves
aright, slurry tongued, but pisstoff

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Who told you I was naked?

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe were forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
No,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,

everything that's old is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the worth of all your eyes behold,

If, if, if you are alucky winner and you arise when I call your name
to come on down
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize,
how do you declare such a thing worthy,

A feeling? What's it worth? Depends. Safe? Priceless. Don't shout.

So we sell walls. We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened by those we make
feel safe.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Workers will work for food and a feeling. And Facebook.
They choose, believe what's easiest, they are told,
you are absolutely co-rectallatime, tekayepeel.

There are such wishes being made, on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters. If wishes were asked for, whatif
connecting to the source of haps that are
all happiness can possibly
consist of...
Oh, consist is a sticky, gluten idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand. Sistere.

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted..
Whatif, nothing is immaterial, as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
Ask the pilot. What if,
asking for help helps? Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore, quotheraven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories of all the things that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
when ya stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
In my younger days, I visited folks in county homes, the rest homes that once were called the po house, and sometimes I'd just sit and watch Jeopardy, and hold her hand, while listening to conversations with angels, all around me.
david mungoshi Apr 2016
i hear the sound of a voice
a voice true and enigmatic
and in its magical presence
comes visions of beach and sun
sand, foam and jumping fish
palm trees laden with fruit
and ancient canoes battling
waves all through the night
oftentimes i hear that voice
carrying my name on breezes
and showing me where i go
as the days roll into the future
and i look back and linger
wondering who's to be pitied
and who in the end envied
that voice is like an auditor's
wanting to know why and why
these many columns remain full
and how come my fun account
remains solid and untouched
that voice, life's inner throb
makes me sore unfulfilled
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
    Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
    Which usèd, lives th’ executor to be.
Àŧùl Mar 13
I'm again in a transition,
A non-medical scientist by my schooling,
A writer, singer-poet, and author by passion,
These days I'm at Gorakhpur to join a new job,
For another new opportunity that I grabbed,
One of the many exams I cracked,
This job is that of an Assistant Audit Officer.

I marvel at what life has shown me,
Educated at school in non-medical sciences,
Physics, Chemistry, Math, English & Physical Education.

Then I undertook the first paradigm career shift,
Started my Bachelor degree in Biotechnology
Met with the unfortunate cataclysmic road accident,
Survived the 23-day coma against all odds.

Oh the odds, do you remember, oh life?
200+ beats per minute heart rate in the coma,
104°F+ fever accompanied the ****** injuries,
Fractured cheekbone just below the left eye.

Brain stem injuries sent the global doctors in a Tizzy,
Nobody was certain about my survival or the recovery,
But I survived.

The second paradigm shift here was my survival.

They had said at the hospital,
"Only the most serious cases come to ICU #2,
And the lost cases come to HDU #7."

BUT I DIDN'T DIE.

I survived everything that you threw at me,
Everything, even negative people,
Who made weird recommendations.

What did they recommend to my parents after the accident?
— to make me join an easier degree course,
— to make me train for weaving baskets,
— to set up a toffee shop for me to earn bread,
— and what not to discourage my family,
— my parents had dreams for their only child,
— all the whilst I was in the uncertain coma,
— and the pitiable vegetative state for 30 more weeks,
— where I endured immense pains.

Oh life, you've been so hard!
You gave me COVID-SARS in 2012,
I didn't die,
I completed my B.Tech in Biotechnology.

More loneliness followed,
I still didn't give up on life,
Completed my M.Tech in Animal Biotechnology.

The third paradigm shift was next,
When I cleared 4 recruitment exams,
And joined as a Probationary Officer
With the State Bank of India.

The fourth paradigm shift now comes,
I have shifted to the job of an Assistant Audit Officer,
With the Comptroller & Auditor General of India.

I defeated death,
But I seem to be fighting a lost battle
Against loneliness in my life.
My HP Poem #1960
©Atul Kaushal
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Its 8:30 in the AM
The Corn Moon
is being routed by a
Manassas cloud bank

NPR be barking
Irma this, Irma that
my tremblin Rav4
stuck in the rush
is idling behind
a pair of gray hairs
spewing
leaded premium
out the back
of a big old black Buick
sportin Florida tags

inching north up I95
I’m relieved to be
a thousand miles
ahead of the
monstrous *****
denuding Barbuda
deflowering the
****** Islands
and threatening to topple
the last vestiges of
Castro’s Dynasty
by disrupting upscale
bourgeois markets
for cafe Cubanos,
cool Cohibas and
bold Bolivars

she’s a CAT 5
counterclockwise
spinning catastrophe
churning through
the Florida straits
bending steel framed
Golden Arches
shaking the tiki shacks
gobbling lives
defiling tropical dreams

the best
meteorological minds
on the Weather Channel
plug the Euro model
to plot a choreography
of Irma’s cyclonic sashay

they predict she’ll
strut her stuff
up a runway  
that perfectly
dissects the  
Sunshine State
ransacking
the topography
venting carnage
like battalions of
badly behaved frat boys,
schools of guys gone wild
sophomores, wreaking havoc
during a Daytona Beach
spring break
droolin over *******
popping woodies at
wet tee shirt contests
urinating on doorstoops
puking into Igloo Coolers
and breaking their necks
from ill advised
second floor leaps
into the shallow end
of Motel 6 pools

but I’m rolling north
into the secure
arms of a benign
Mid Atlantic Summer
like other refugees,
my trunk is
filled with baggage
of fear and worry
wondering
if there’re be anything
left to return to
once Irma
has spent herself
with one last
furious ****
against the
Chattanooga Bluffs of
Lookout Mountain

Morning Edition
Is yodeling a common
seasonal refrain
the gubmint is
just about outta cash
congress needs to
increase the debt limit

My oh my,
has the worm turned
during the Obama years
the GOP put us through a
Teabag inspired nightmare
gubmint shutdowns
and sequestration
shaved 15 points
off every war profiteers vig
it gave a well earned
long overdue
take the rest of the week off
unpaid vacation
to non essential
gubmint workers
while a cadre of
wheelchair bound
Greatest Generation
military vets get
locked out of the
WWII Memorial on the
National Mall

this time around
its different
we have an Orange Hair
in the office and there's
some hyper sensitivity
to raise the debt ceiling
given that Harvey
has yet to fully
drain from the
Houston bayous

the colossal cleanup
from that thrice in a
Millennial lifetime storm
has garnered bipartisan support
to  clean up the wreckage
left behind by a
badly behaved
one star BnB lodger
who took a week
long leak into the
delicate bayous of
Southeast Texas

yet we are infused
with optimism that our
Caucasian president
and his GOP grovelers
now mustered
to the Oval Office
will slow tango
with the flummoxed
no answer Dems
to get the job done

pigs do fly in DC
Ryan and McConnell
double date with
Pelosi and Schumer
get to heavy pettin
from front row seats
beholding droll  
Celebrity Apprentice
reruns

The Donald, Nancy and Chuck
slip the room for a little
menage au trois side action
transforming Mitch and Paul
into vacillating voyeurs
who start jerking their dongs
while POTUS, and his
new found friends
get busy workin
the art of a deal

rush hour peaks
static traffic grows
in concert with
a swelling  
frenetic angst
driving drivers
to madness
terrified
they won't
get paid if
the debt ceiling
don't rise
they honk horns
rev engines
thumb iPhones
and sing out
primal screams

unmindful drivers
piloting Little Hondas
bump cheap Beamers
start a game of
bumper cars
dartin in and out
of temporary gaps
uncovered by the
spastic fits and starts
of temporary
decongested
ebbs and flows

A $12 EZ Pass
gambit is offered
the fast lane
on ramp
has few takers
just another
pick your pocket
gubmint scheme
two express lanes
lie vacant
while three lanes of
non premium roadway
boast bumper to bumper
inertness
wasted fuel
declining productivity
skyrockets
the  wisdom of
the invisible hand doesn't
seem to be working

DOJ bureaucrats
In Camrys and Focuses
dial the office
to let somebody
know they’ll
be tardy

gubmint contractors in
silver Mercedes begin
jubilantly honking horns
NPR has just announced that
Pelosi and Schumer
joined the Orange team
the rise in the debt ceiling
will nullify their 15%
sequestration pay cut

NPR reports the
National Cathedral will
deconsecrate two hallowed
stained glass windows of
rebel generals R E Lee
and Stonewall Jackson
it's a terrible shame that
the Episcopal Church
will turn its back on the
rich Dixie WASPS
who commissioned these
installations to commemorate
the church's complicity
in sanctifying the
institution of slavery,
WWJD?

as I ponder
this Anglican
conundrum another
object arrests my
streaming consciousness
upsetting an attention span
shorter and less deep
than the patch of oil  
disappearing under the front
of the RAV as I thunder by
at 5 MPH

to the left I eye a
funny looking building
standing at attention
next to a Bob Evans

I’m convinced
Its gotta be CIA
a 15 story
gubmint minaret
a listening post
wired to intercept
mobile digital
confabulations
from crawling traffic
inching along
beneath its feet

this thinking node
pulsing with
intelligence
reeking with
counterintelligence
the tautological
contradiction
guarantees the
stasis of our
confused
national consciousness

strategically positioned to
tune into the
intractable Zeitgeist
culling meta code
planting data points
In Big Data
data farms
running algos
to discern bits
of intelligence
endeavoring to reveal
future shock trends
knows nothing
reveals less

the buildings cover
is its acute
conspicuousness
gray steel frame
silver tinted glass
multiple wireless antennas
black rimmed windows
boldly proclaim
any data entering
this cheerless edifice
must abandon all hope
of ever being framed
in a non duplicitous
non self serving sentence

the gray obelisk a
national security citidel
refracts the
fear and loathing
the sprawling
global anxiety
our civilization's
discontent
playing out
in the captive
soft parade
ambling along
the freeway jam
imobilized
at its stoop

Moning Edition jingle
follows urgent report of
FEMA scamblin assets
arbitraging Harvey and Irma
triaging two
tropical storm tragedies
and a third girl
just named Maria
pushed off the Canaries
and is on its way to a
Puerto Rico
homecoming

while
gubmint  bureaucrats
anxiously push on
to their soulless offices
the rush hour jam
has peaked
my WAZE
is having a
nervous breakdown

next lane over
a guy in a gold PT Cruiser
is banging on his steering wheel
don’t think this unessential worker
will win September's
civil servant of the month award

Ex Military
K Street defectors
slamming big civie
Hummers
getting six mpg
lobby for a larger
apportionment
of mercenary dollars
for Blackwater's
global war on terror

Prius Hybrids
silently roll on
politely driven by
EPA Hangers On
hoping to save
a bit of the planet
from an Agency Director
intent on the agency's
deconstruction
the third 500 year hurricane
of the season
is of no consequence

obsolete
GMC Jimmy’s
are manned by
Steve Mnunchin
wannabes
the frugal
treasury dept
ledger keepers
pour good money after bad
to keep the national debt
and there clanking
jalopies working

driving Malibus
DOL stalwarts
stickin with the Union
give biz to GMC

nice lookin chicks
young coed interns
with big daddy doners
fix their faces and
come to work
whenever they want

my *** is killing me
I squirm in my seat
to relieve my aching sacroiliac
and begin to wonder if my name
will appear on some
computer printout today?
can’t afford an IRS audit
maybe my house will
be claimed by some
eminent domaine landgrab?
Perhaps NSA
may come calling,
why did I sign that
Save The Whales
Facebook Petition?

The EZ Pass lane
is movin real easy
mocking the gridlock
that goes all the way
to Baltimore
a bifurcated Amerika
is an exhaust spewing
standing condemnation
to small “R”
republicanism  

glint from windshields
is blinding
my **** is hurtin and
gettin back to Jersey
gunna take a while
GPS recalcs arrival time

an intrepid Lyft driver
feints and dodges
into the traffic gaps
drivin the shoulder
urging his way to the
Ronnie Reagan International
I'm sure
gettin heat from
a backseat fare
that shoulda pinged
an hour earlier

Irma creeps
toward the Florida Keys
faster then the
glacial jam
befuddling congress

I think I just spotted
Teabag Patriot
Grover Norquist
manning a rampart
bestriding a highway overpass
he’s got a clipboard in hand
checking the boxes
counting cars
taking names
who’s late?
who’s unessential?

man
whatta jam we're in

Music Selection:
Jeff Beck: Freeway Jam

Orlando
9/21/17
jbm
written as im stuck in jam headin back to jersey
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)
Trying to get out of neutral....
don't know whether I'm in first or reverse...
Be my everything,
To guide and cherish me,
Be my lover,
To love me unconditionally.

Be my Architech,
Let's design the future together.
Be my teacher,
To teach me how to love.

Be my engineer,
To build our home.
Be my doctor,
To take care of me.

Be my accountant,
To audit my salary.
Be my bestfriend,
To advise me when I'm sad.

Be my clown,
To make me happy when I'm down.
Lastly, be my partner,
And stay with me forever.
Vivek Apr 2012
with flowers for the moonlight
the fright she bid goodbye
stars and leonids sparkled the night
like a wino in the midst with acquired dreams
I audit this blinky blue eyed sunrise
the two little satellites melted away
musical notes insured by a common man
harvested by the embraceable grim reaper
in this bizarre love pentangle
they arrive with their swarm of locusts
the thieves of silence!!
Love, faith and forgiveness principal are in
Christian school. Torrid anger thou must flay
While it's still displaying on the eastern tray
Ere its set on the *** laude of thy sterling
Prize. The other meek cheek of thine turn--
Though tough--to him that seek thy burn.

Gladly go not one but twain miles with
Him that bid thee. Distribute cheerfully
To widows cream bread and wine; the needy
And orphans--whether you're rolling in it--
Never neglect, and make no open show
Of thy charity: its trumpet do not blow.


Make mammon thy master nay. Believe
The Bible though you cannot It fathom
Out--the Spirit thy heart will guide. Kingdom
Eternal chiefly pursue; to goodness cleave.
Both parents and priests honour, and men
In authority obey. Keep the Lord's pen.

Fast and pray, playing not to the gallery.
In heaven's safe thy treasure store, where
Robbers and rust have no access nor share.
For worldly wants, soul, never you worry--
Jehovah-Jireh above knows thy very need,
Who gives in season due to the sower seed.

Salt and light on earth be. Thy righteousness
The Pharisees' must exceed. All differences
Reconciled, lest thy balance draws offence
By heaven's audit. Loincloth of faithfulness
Wrap. At a lady be weary to leer, and thy
***** bridle. To God thy heart wholly tie.

The log in thine own eyes first remove
Afore thy brother's speck you see. Grudge
Not but ask, seek and knock. Don't judge.
Such measure from others expect to them give--
Golden rule. Strive to enter in at the narrow
Gate: the rough, rugged road to the end follow.
Happy Easter to all at HP.
it all started when i signed the contract
i knew i was ****** just cuz im black
fresh in its like a jail cell with no bail stepped into a world with no feelings
no heart apart
from this contract i got a duffle bag m 16 rifle
Told mama im.goin' to war
she dont understand i may come back in a box hard to dodge the ****
of the government over here
fightin' for some silly *** oil
negoitating with the enemy
but at the same time i am the enemy? United states burnin' up country while we workin' for free
got **** congress makin' millions more times than me
they say it aint a conspiracy?
they say i think too much and that my feelings touched
cuz i been in combat but truth is
they dont want your kids
to know the difference between reality n illusion is but
i say **** the press the army and im coming back vicious revenge
is delicious malicious
acts been done since man crawled out the sand pit times tickin'
grease the c.o.p so gun dont start trippin' and im still.wonderin'
will i escape the pain and misery the governments done to me and my comraderie
we earned the title of a vet
but they pawn us as trophies they get good publicity
sayin' we winnin' the war
when the war is at home rights being takin' every single day CIA Linked with the NSA no more private security
what the ******* think an IP is?
watchin' over us scared of us cuz of a revolution may bust out the cobb webbs been meaning to do this art is a reflection of reality i callit how i see why so many of military corps endin' up in the penitentiary?
cuz fools is pickin' truth over a numbered name excercisin' rights brings society pain got all the conservatives goin' insane
these muthaphukkas know the real
but they braille with they mass appeal startin' race riots white vs black black vs mexican
nigguhs u aint a American
ya stolen
secret society dont want us in unity
so do what the ******* want to embrace ?Crowleys tactics ?
use that black magic and watch em go in flames
use frankincense and myrhh to focus my brain
i got wealths no riches
nigguhs cant put a price on a mind
im the son of garvey malcolm even that crazy boy Carlin
as long as they stand for true
imma stand with you
army fatigue galore guns indeed
breakin' the demons seeds
that was planted long ago in the garden of eden
serpents been on earth since
darkness was first they had to separate dark from the light wrong from right
now that im out on bail
the military losin' there sight too focused on drug cartels
when they ones who sail
the dope in but the hood gets the pen? ultimate perdition folks in the senate listenin' say its us but we ain't got no passports why the **** they hidin gold at the fort?
Knox imagine that if we were to overpower the system the wouldnt have no choice but to listen they silence the powerful voices that influence minds
fools stay on yo grind
and so what even though my comments is being recorded and audit
but im at peace with self i dont see sunshine cuz its shorted
now take this to the daily news
so these public speakers can report it uh
Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advised respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity—
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desart,
And this my hand, against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part.
    To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
    Since why to love I can allege no cause.
Dr Peter Lim Oct 2021
No one need audit me

I have done that over and over

but too wide is my territory

the picture gets no clearer
C S Cizek Dec 2014
Write everyday.
Write everyday no matter what.
Write even at a loss for words.
Write down the sounds.

I make notes of the plane crashes
I've never heard, the brook trout
that never shook pond water
onto the brittle grass when I didn't
catch it, or the thunder cup coil
I keep kneeing trying to give the overcast
over the mountain something to compete
with.

And I'm not sorry.
       I'm not.      I'm not sorry that my
reborn Christian best    friend    has   seen the    light,
and I still scoff when people pray over potatoes.
And I only believe in plastic Polaroid postcards
from last decade timestamped in the white space
with Bic black ink.
I'm not sorry for that.

And truth is, I've never washed this black shirt;
just hung it hoping that moths' would ****
the sweat spots and leave
the fabric.

I clenched the gold cap beneath
my ring finger from the glass green
bottle occupying my lips driving
down the Marsh Creek bridge.
I wanted to relate / to be relatable /
relative to the sedans, and seatbelts
too tight to breathe, passing me.

At the end of the bridge, where there was no chance
of drowning and the road color changed, I parked
in the driveway of a wooden house. Its blinds
were up, shades pulled apart with two hands
like gas station freezer doors, leaving them
vulnerable to the hiss of semi truck tractor
trailer high beams slicing through fifty +
raindrops per second going a few miles shy
of sixty-five, yet the people inside moved so freely.
I  sat Indian-style—a term I learned at four
then learned it to be racist at fourteen—
in their driveway, and ate the gravel
they walked on trying to taste security
because all I'd had in the last few hours
were plates of refried fear.

Fear of audit, of my teeth breaking off,
and of ending up like Eric Garner
when I heard that wailing
Voice of Justice
coming for me in the distance.
judy smith Mar 2017
WHEN Jayson Brunsdon learnt he had to muster the strength to fight cancer as his fashion empire crumbled around him, he was at breaking point.

Luckily for him and husband Aaron, a saviour was on the way — in the form of a beautiful brown-eyed angel — their son, Roman.

In a heartfelt interview with Wentworth Courier ahead of the March 30 launch of their book, Designer Baby, the couple shared their tumultuous journey to bring Roman home to Australia after he was born to a surrogate in Thailand.

Watching their faces light up as the now two-year-old Roman gleefully dives under a mountain of pillows on the couch at their Elizabeth Bay apartment, it is easy to see why they describe him as “the light at the end of the tunnel” after what they have been through.

And the couple has held nothing back in telling their amazing story of survival, hope and determination in the face of unbelievable adversity.

Their world came crashing down in 2008 when the global financial crisis delivered a devastating blow to their Jayson Brunsdon label, a darling of the fashion world, worn by Crown Princess Mary of Denmark and Jennifer Hawkins.

“Most of our business was international, in America and England … and we lost all that business overnight,” said Jayson, 52.

“It was around the same time that I was diagnosed with (testicular) cancer.”

He faced a three-year battle, including four months of intense chemotherapy, after surgery had failed to stop the disease spreading.

“It’s very difficult to be creative when you can barely get out of bed and you’re deliriously ill and you feel like you’re dying,” he said.

“It was a really hard time and it went on for a long time so we had to downsize and we had to get rid of our stores.”

Aaron, 44, said the cancer made it impossible to keep the business afloat.

“Jayson was the creator of the brand but my time had to be devoted to his care as well and so … everything started to suffer and it kept going down and down until we reached rock-bottom,” he said.

“It was the GFC, it was the cancer, it was everything and one day we woke up and lost everything, we lost the entire business.”

Rather than give up, Jayson fought the cancer and won — a process which caused him to reflect on his life to the point where he questioned whether he even wanted to be part of the fashion world.

“Cancer was life-changing because after you’ve been through it, you just can’t deal with ******* and there’s so much of it in the fashion world, it kind of revolves around it and I thought; ‘I don’t know if I can do this any more’,” Jayson said.

“But what else was I going to do? We had the business and … when we downsized, I could kind of get away from it all.”

The couple has since rebuilt the business and the Jayson Brunsdon black label is in 40 Myer stores.

When Jayson went into remission, the couple of 18 years could finally pursue their dream of having a family together.

“We had wanted it for a long time but (the cancer) meant we had to put the whole thing on hold,” Jayson said.

“At that time we started to realise there was a lot more to life than working seven days a week and struggling every day,” Aaron said.

“We wanted something more and I think one of the most important things in our lives was having a family.”

After doing a mountain of research, the couple began eight months of preparation work with the All IVF Center in Bangkok and they were matched with their Thai surrogate ****.

They were over the moon when she fell pregnant with Roman, using Aaron’s cousin Rebecca’s egg, donated altruistically, and Jayson’s *****.

But their excitement turned to panic when the Thai Government announced it was going to outlaw surrogacy in the wake of the Baby Gammy scandal, when an Australian couple left their son with his surrogate mother because he had Down syndrome.

The couple was told the chances of bringing Roman home were “almost impossible”.

“At the time, it was the worst news any parent could face — we were five-and-a-half months pregnant and at that point we knew there was going to be a fight and we just didn’t know how long the fight was going to be,” Aaron said.

“It was one of the most tumultuous times in our lives because we had gone through so much to get to this point and we’d had so many challenges.

“When we finally got pregnant, we thought there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

“And then for the bombshell to drop on us to say that ‘you can’t bring him home’, that was the most frightening thing that had ever happened to us.”

In the wake of Gammy, the Thai Government ordered an audit into IVF clinics.

This led to the forced closure of the All IVF Center after authorities allegedly discovered links to the human trafficking of surrogate babies.

The fate of about 50 Australian couples — including the Brunsdons — was thrown into limbo.

After much political wrangling, Foreign Minister Julie Bishop arranged a pact with the Thai Government who agreed to grant a grace period for pregnancies already in progress.

Jayson finds it difficult to articulate the relief he felt.

“It was just sheer joy, it was like, ‘thank God’, it’s difficult to describe really because it’s about our child and if you can’t get him home, you don’t know what to do,” he said.

“When it was all clear, we were just ecstatic and we could get on with living again. We were just on hold, we were holding our breaths.”

But they were not out of the woods yet.

Despite being assured they would have not issues leaving Thailand after Roman was born on January 5, 2015, they were detained at the airport for human trafficking.

“Initially they said, ‘we are not going to let you go until we see the surrogate mother’ and they asked us all these questions and they were screaming at us,” said Aaron.

“It was awful, we were so terrified.”

Eventually they were allowed on the plane — Roman had an Australian passport and Jayson’s name was on the birth certificate.

Jayson has spoken out for the first time in response to accusations that he saw Roman as a commodity akin to a buying a fashion accessory.

“That’s kind of pathetic really. Who has a child so they can have them as an accessory that they can dress up?” Jayson said.

“I just think it’s just really bigoted, discriminatory, really ill-informed and it’s unacceptable.

“Some people are just really ignorant people and they don’t understand that when you’re gay, you’re born gay. It’s like being born black … you can’t help it.

“So if you want to have a child, why shouldn’t you have a child?

“If we got him as just an accessory, we would have been over him by now wouldn’t we?

“It’s part of the joy of being a new parent, to buy the cot and decorate the bedroom and all that kind of stuff.”

Jayson said Roman had “enriched” their lives.

“He makes us so much more responsible, patient, caring and loving and we are very lucky because he is just a gorgeous little angel,” he said.

“(Parenthood) is such a fantastic experience. It’s the hardest thing you ever do, but it’s the best thing you ever do.

“It’s the best thing we ever did, it’s better than showing in New York Fashion Week or anything, it’s a much more heart filling experience than anything you’ve ever done.”

Aaron said they would ensure Roman was not deprived of anything.

**** said she would do it all over again if they ever wanted a sibling for their son Roman.

“One day in the future if you want to have a sister or brother for Roman, if she can help and do again, she is happy to do,” said an interpreter responding to questions.

The mother, who had never been a surrogate before, said she discussed her decision with her husband and family, including her two children Jonus, 16, and Nicky, 6, “so everyone knew and agreed”.

Her motivation was to help the Australians, “fulfil a family that would be the most wonderful gift to them that they can never forget”.

“She also believed this is a very good thing she did, to give life,” the interpreter said.

“She look after someone’s baby for them. She want to make that couple also very happy.

“She loves and talk to baby and let her kids and family touch and talk to a little boy inside. “Because she believe her love and care will be the best vaccine for baby to grow well.”

When she met Aaron and Jayson, she understood how they felt.

“You two very good people. She knew you are super fathers who will raise a little boy surrounding with love, good education and all good things,” the interpreter said.

“Buddha teach her to be good people, to help other people and bring happiness to people.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
now, if you the STATE seriously
and society: not so much...
well then... soecietal construct arguments
of the anglo-sphere far left
are so bogus...
i'm talking about STATE formations:
gradations,
i could seriously whiff up a solipsistic
perfume with a **** on a crowded
northern line at elephants
and castle: is there a dormant volcano
in the vicinity of the station?
it's always so ****** hot...
anyways...
                    social-constructs: ha ha...
i just saw Lenin turning in his mosileum...
maybe even blinking...
i'll send a dog actor to investigate:
bells like St. Bednards'-Pavlov's...
slobbering: woo woof... found a dead body:
let's audit!

typical Saturday night:
although no BBC radio 3 or 4...
i leave that for work nights...
when i'm off and there's some clairty of the V
and some haze of the M
and some: moozeeck...
then i turn into that soppy DJ
listening to Beyonce and: if i were a boy...
and i get to think about Edie and Reyla
and my mother and father
and the dead...
because i can't really think about
Reyla's mother or her father
so she's like the inversion of my father
and mother
whereby she can think of my mother and father
concretely...
like my father thinks about my mother's
father and mother, concretely...

but this audit is not because i'm actually
outperforming most people in the workforce...
but because there was a death
and in how the SIA licensing "scheme" is
orientated: duty of care...
tertiary police authority...
                             safety, security, service...
oh i know the dry tongue
but in this profession there are two options:
like and unlike a construction site:
dealing with caged animals and people in open
society is one glad tiding of comparative lit.
basically...
you either get physical, abuse your power...
don't understand people...
**** life... therefore you don't think about it...
or...
you get metaphysical, disuse your power...
begin, understanding, people...
the prepositions are omitted for a reason...
reason being: understanding...
begin to UNDERSTAND         of / off people is not enough...
there must be an omission of guilt:
via understanding... the -ing form is paramount...
if someone commits suicide in the workforce...
and you have a clean-slate conscious-conscience...

21st century schizoid man...
London is Blade Runner
i get paranoid in the workplace
through the silent treatment of:
how to trickle down a compliment
from on top...
to the pawn king down below:
that's not like pyramids and work force
works...
         the hierarchies and bypassing
them with flukes...
a typical Saturday night for me...
managed to find a Pirate ship that
screened Deadpool & Wolverine...

                 the dialogue... brilliance...
**** **** the stuttering on TT FF uck...
the caviats... the resurrection of scratching match...
but not my genre...
an overarching yes culturally necessary:
who started it: Superman and Batman...
cinematic anti-glory...
    watching Michael Keaton summed up
that difference
in terms of target audience...
DC is mature comics
Marvel is immature comics...

                                  "immature":
archetypical exploration
versus... dark psychological underpinnings of DC...
the fantasy of the psy narrative
associated with the self-morph dynamism
of identifying a "self": in pop culture by image:
rather than idiosyncratic: wording...
caricature of mannerisms...
the immaturity of com-cons... as image-stylists...

oh... i will switch off from this idea of work:
since most people don't see this as work
when not in construction:
no physical labour just physical endurance:
but no concept of work...
some bypass the lethargic stupor:
leperosy-catatonia...

                          but they are not the ones
on the extreme of wanting to become physical
and adrenaline fission corpus of attention-caffeine booster...
i like to think i was a stutter in
my youth:
but sometimes i BOOM and BELLOW
like not Ginsberg's howl... how how... anaemic dog's
bark: how...                     howl is such a feeble word...
like owl...        but not owl...
owl is also eagle...

                 how...                  how...
HYWH
  
   rugby goal post aH
   rugbly goal post bH

         game of Y (3 dimensions)
   game of W (wave of time,
    2 durations, 90 french minutes)

2 durations? beginning and end...
durations are the equivalent of dimensions,
the spatial-temporal realm
is subject to the
dimensionability-duration conflation... action:
not -ation Nn-Nn-Nn-Nn-Nn-             (+)

3 dimensions
2 duration...

         just thinking... within 3 dimensions...
          there's 2 dimensions of history...
    as time passes it becomes geological and squashed...
like dinosaurs...
so time shrinks
   as space expands...
and at the end of it: there will only be a blink
of the great eye...
and everything will restart...
         a rugby game is 2 durations or one duration?
it can't be 1 duration: 1 duration is life of an individual...
2 durations is life of a citizen
which is 2 durations of a rugby match
or a movie: there'a a beginning and an end...
a 1 duration system has no beginning
therefore has no end...
what would be a 3 duration dynamic?
oh **** me... i don't know!
I take solace in you, in the very essence, of you. Something so pure and enraptured. With some beauty broken and unseen. Wrecking havoc from behind the nuance of distant piano music. Hidden by dark corners in backstreet bars, poorly lit by penny dropping candles, I wait, my love. Where you stride in a hat, with a cloak, and dagger. Mystical, whimsical, she sits far too serious for the barman’s liking. The soft tread of footsteps behind your right ear. Is that them, are they near? My heart feels brazen tonight. My passion is white metal heated from the flames that ride on your words as you stare at my eyes. Who am I to see? I am blinded by your beauty. I have nothing but blind faith and your hand to lead my way through these crazy backstreets that lead to places called Love, and Happiness Forever After.
 
She sits divulging her time between counting the panes of glass in the ***** window, to naming clouds; she recalls in a day dream the hop skip jump of counting sheep under a blue pearlised sky whilst she laid by your side and the dream turned to light and the nightmare began of where she was chased and she fell and she ran and ran and ran til she was in your arms again. Take a breath now, no more midnight shuttles hold your answers. No more driving to the end of the world to see the beauty of an eclipse that turned out to be a mirage, or something like that. Moth to a flame. That was how I would describe myself now. My insubordination to the logistical temperament that loves within, lives within, sorry resides within my head. It was a short term let, now a foregone conclusion that a permanent resident you have become, naturally. For who am i, if I am not a full sum of all my parts? And in the night when you turn to me, it is I that sleeps soundly dreaming of you. No-one else.
 
I remember the days which we had forgotten about and I smile because in this movie-scene you are holding out your hand for me. God such a fool to be needed, to be wanted, to be succeeded and included and evaluated to come up smelling of roses. And now, all I can see is you, a lifetime of audit of love, and oh my sweet, what a pleasure it is to love you, to just love you. My heart tonight could defend from dragons, and rockets and wolves and, and, and...I, my sweet, never has my heart beat so kindly, so daringly than when it beats for you. Turning over in sheets on a bed we made from our bodies in the night before from the morning after, our eyes have not left the pillows and we pray for the day to never end. For evening comes and we have to bend and break and move from our respective shapes from our loves nest. Put on your hat and your very Sunday best. Come let’s leave this place and make people wonder what we have been doing.
 
I dance in your music, I am enamoured by your passion and your laughter. Your heart beats wildly like a caged butterfly on your chest. No-one to anchor your pride, you float by my side, uplifted by balloons, each one brightly multicoloured filled with an air of a previous flight of fancy. And my, your smile for me, for it is just for me, too many times have I been knocked dead on my feet, you slam the air out of my body with that very look. The whole world falls away and you are just looking right at me. Hold my hand and I shall surely drop down the cracks in the pavement. I hear you, I see you, I feel you, I taste you and in everything I sense you. You are never not far from here, tho I sit in the backstreet bar lightly counting moments, you are coming to me, my love with nothing to your name but the thought of my hand in yours and a candle to light my way.

A rose blossoms yet she knows her petals must fall, and in your hand lays the very reddest of roses
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st.
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May Time disgrace, and wretched minutes ****.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure.
    Her audit, though delayed, answered must be,
    And her quietus is to render thee.
~
April 2024
HP Poet: Pradip Chattopadhyay
Age: 63
Country: India


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Pradip. Please tell us about your background?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "After graduating with honours in Geology, I worked in various sectors including railway, banking, teaching, accounts and audit, consultancy and advertising. I feel working in diverse fields have helped me to come across people and characters of many shades and hues. This probably broadened my perspectives and laid the foundation for my poetic creativity. I have a wife of 40 years, and we together have raised a family almost from scratch. We have our son, daughter in law and a granddaughter 5 years old. They have been a source of many of my work."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "I have been writing poems since I was in 8th standard. Initially I wrote in my vernacular Bengali before experimenting with writing in English from the early nineties. There was a hiatus of nearly two decades when I didn't feel like writing. From early 2011, I have been among words regularly snatching time for creative pursuit from my work in advertising. The ***** went up till 2018, my most prolific period, before the curve went down. I admit I'm not writing as much as I would have loved to. Arrival of my granddaughter in early 2019 both added and eroded my urge to write. Most of my time was for her. I started with posting my work on Poem Hunter before coming to Hello Poetry on March 22, 2013 where my first post was 'My Name is Bond'. I post on no other site."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "The spark that begets a poem is hard to explain. For me, it can be a momentary emotion, an impulse that's too compelling to ignore, a character or relationship, intimate or distant, an event or incident that might appear mundane on the surface, even a sight fleetingly seen. I have been an avid traveller, and moments with my wife during such excursions have produced many of my poems. The river has always been an inseparable part of my life possibly due to my growing up and living in the riverine areas. So the river silted or flowing has been a constant inspiration for my work. There are also other places for my poems. The daily market, slum, a pavement dweller, a daily wager, a salesman, religious beliefs and practices, faith, a journey, ruins, fairytale and so on. I place no limits on subjects; love, relationship, humour, horror, mystery, memories. Often they take the form of storytelling through a blending of experience and imagination. All said, what satisfies me immensely is to be able to write poems for children. I have tried a few trying to fit into a child's mind, a difficult process. Most of the poems rise and sink in my mind. Only a few see the light of ink and paper. Of late I've been a little lazy or maybe a little too busy for retrieving the ones that float for only a while."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "For me, poetry is painting collages of life from within and without. The stimuli arise from the interaction between the external and the inner world. It is not to preach but to present what is seen and perceived by the poet, and leave the rest to the reader. You get down at the wrong station and see a reflection that you never thought existed within you. It becomes a poem. For me, poetry is touching upon the entire gamut of human emotions culling them from the simple happenings around us. Bringing out the hidden "more" than what meets the eye. Poetry is making meaningful an apparently simple happening. Even a mundane occurrence may contain the seed of a deeper realisation. For me, poetry happens for all that happens in our surroundings, be they conspicuously visible or not. The poet is an explorer and discoverer."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "Rabindranath Tagore occupies a pedestal. He is universal in his dealing of all aspects of humanity. I also love to read Wordsworth, Shelley, Frost, Macleish and Neruda. I am not very familiar with contemporary poets in English language."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "I love travelling and take interest in photography. Mountains attract me more than the sea. I have been to the higher altitudes of the Himalayas including Ladakh and Sikkim. Once I was a good reader but now I have fallen out of that habit."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing us this opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet, Pradip! We are honored to include you in this ongoing series!”

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "I am thankful to Carlo for providing the opportunity to talk about myself and share my views with my poet friends on this site. The Spotlight on Poets is a greatly admirable effort to showcase the work of the many great poets here. Thanks to Carlo again for this truly encouraging initiative."



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Pradip a little bit better. I surely did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #15 in May!

~
Àŧùl Aug 14
How long will you stay uninterested?
In this relationship like me, even you have invested.

My idea of intimacy is based on my lifelong emptiness.
Have you too felt the pangs of loneliness?

How long have I been lonely in this world?
Well, essentially since my lonely & difficult childhood.

And now you might ask me another counter question.
If I had my parents along, why this notion?

Now, tell me, is having parents sufficient?
Surely, we need siblings, friends, and a joint family.

Grandparents help you endure the pangs of loneliness.
Dear, have you ever been directionless?

I grew up without their guidance,
All I had were my busy parents.

How can you judge me based on your experiences?
Come to my world, but take your time to assess.

You say that you chose me as you hope maturity,
But now you know that I'm impulsive like you.

I rhyme a lot,
I whine a little.

I write a lot,
I speak a little.

Allegorical reiteration of my story,
It keeps happening, I keep repeating.

Either you like me,
Or maybe my life.

Or maybe you don't,
Either way you're mine.

Time will bring us close,
Like you say, like you say.

Time will teach you how to love,
Like I express myself, so will you.

Yes, so will you,
Dead sure, so will you.

No, you won't be scared,
For my soul is more scarred.

Than my imperfect body,
My mind is more beautiful.

From my jobs,
I earn money and reputation.

I audit the Railways,
Working for the Government.

Comptroller & Auditor General of India,
My employer.

Indian Railways, the North Eastern Railway HQ,
My paymaster.

While we audit their expenditures,
They even make our paychecks.

I invest in the money market,
And even in the Providence.

But I have reached where nobody speculated,
No, not even I could speculate this.

While I knew that I must succeed,
Even my mother was unsure.

Nobody else knew this for sure,
Well, nobody, nobody except for my father.

Whilst I prepared for the exam,
My mother provided food so nutritious.

Only my father had faith in my potential,
He laughed away all the speculations.

They suggested weird, insulting alternatives,
Sadists the people are oftentimes.

I thank my parents for bringing me here,
And it was my father who gave me the power.

He remained calm throughout,
And his oceanic calm is contagious.

My mother did convey the speculations,
But my father invested his hopes.

Although there is no need to reiterate,
Hope is the most powerful of all the words.

I'm on a train right now,
You might meet me soon.
My HP Poem #1975
©Atul Kaushal
This quiet night is too pure,
And the envious one is about
To sow the seed of jubilation,
Evil has overtaking me,
And my love one is about to
Bleed the tears of contempt,

The struggle is real,
And the jealous one is about to coat
The motion portrait of euphoria,
Why was this price not accepted
Before my first moan?
This breathless peace cannot be the
Place where my heart calls home,

Oh life, spite my weightless star
Over the southern hyaline,
I cannot not believe that my inept
Name is about to ration the little
Palmwine with the prelate ancestors,

How long will my wife’s
Womb continue to yowl?
Fate could not even wait
For my fondness to breathe my sun,

Beat the overt drums of time
And give me a *** of warm water,
For my blank soul has no other
Value except endurance and rejection,

Blow the covert horn of endless time
And let me ride over dawn and dusk’
For my greatest traitor has come
To hint me of my beholder’s score,

My sacred cloud waves are now
Pregnant with dry rain of gold dust,
What have I done to
Wound my own ghost?

I have nothing more
To sacrifice except my morrow,
Alight my irrevocable paean at the
Potent door of my inescapable darkness
And let the Gods take possession and audit
My perfect price of ornate fragrance.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com
Julian Aug 2020
Lambasted by the bushwhacking shambles of potsherds burrowed beneath enchanted rhapsodies of sunken Earth lurks a might unleashed by the preemptive dirges of Heaven
Shattering the weight of mismeasure adaptive to apt remarks of conservatory stellar repartees gilded in the flombricks of insuperable gammon wed to the divorce between mammon and guardian treasure etched by revets of colorful nuance but colorblind fortitude chalky yet with scattered sound blinking in the wink of intelligentsia a thousand parsecs of understanding in milliseconds of orbit
The periphery of forgotten stars bereaved but informed of circular axioms of axiolative thermolysis bellowing stoked smokestack locomotives of hibernal clairvoyance dare to wonder beyond limited or enhanced pulchritude the denizens of thievery stolen in a flashbang grenade of a new Grenada of fustilugs gabbling in flushed rosy red tongues of frenzy or aplomb what lurks beyond centurion sentinels of robotic half-witted half-baked semi-cooked bludgeons of cruel insensate irony withheld by vulcanized drapes of curtailed curglaff fashioned by kneaded distance and suspended for heaved awakening at riometer’s knock barnstorming the crude churlishness of the foreign at trespass of the inane scaled down by infamies unstated and flanged to appropriate provisions of measure that conquest lurks behind recess and all is grafted from the callous pachyderm skin of absolution cozy to remedies but aloof from necessities of pang and Tang rollicking magpiety like a rotten pastime aged past its due.
Yet the batting average of the uncanny visitor undaunted by glaring photogenic record balks at precedent and aims to lollygag his chicanery roundhouse above the ricochet of enamor to whilded terminus at circular diamonds soaring illimitable skies boundaries to another nothing beyond the past of something worthy of pearls piggish in appetite for oysters to inhabit
Yet these cloistered vacuums between the pleonexia of the avarice of retches of chyme and the digestion of complete guarantors of shielded heterochrony wassail on dreams Titanic and sunken living repeatedly in revised stereodimensional waves of registry beyond fundus hijacked by towering dimensions ulterior to the profaned foresight of the wretched dimensions of reprehensible coteries belonging lost even when fetched by glimmers of the profound.
The riches of aberrant mobilized fleets swung into tether pole centripetal flictions of swarpollock surpassing credibility and peace surmounting mountebanks of petty finicky itches of cretaceous extinction mapped to qwersy frugal mathematical jokes recoiling at rebarbative manifest destiny belong to the records of soundracketeer trivialization of malleable gold fashioned from Whisky Bar encounters with goldmines ascertained in magic by the suspense of upholstered dramaturgy lurking beneath tall crestfallen visagists who toss and bandy about in tempests of curdacted flow emissary and envoy to flajousts emergent from the verdure of aboriginal machinery fumbled by human ergonomic chicanery espoused by asylum rather than touted as marksman prestige flippant by inordinate gavels ****** asunder into delignated copper-brass keys of foreboding prisons on sinking ships for counterfeit litanies of bogus warning meeting inclement poverty to a drawn sine in the sand vacillating on purpose but intransigent in declension.
Starlet gnashes of odontoloxia wavers of tangential tendentiousness escaping the orbit of enumeration by sly remarks surprising the elective prerogative for convergent autumn to skittish paces of fast-forward beating the brumal bears in their gelid lollygag reminders why the 2nd protects the 1st and the primacy of interposition is the immediacy of flexed muscular DeLoreans cavorting with fringes of unfurled destiny in flashbang instants between the space among malingered pauses among secondary waves of betrayal shift the curious rip tide of stretchgraves too ennobled for widescreen yet narrowly faint in their promontory illusions as mantelpieces of emblazoned scarlet A’s for nothing more than a tempestuous flair with stigma but simultaneously the realization of true dreamy blues escalating around tensions finessed into ****** before drooping into the droll 1850s as the balderdash of detriment belonging to the salvo of picturesque still-life expressionism dripping troudasque in antiquity with flairs of impertinence celebrated more by melodrama than by billows of industrial hinderbaggle toxic to the stated alarmism of trinkochre preventing treony by the warbles of songbirds hemmed in by bushwhacking galactic police forces of granted licentiousness for backbites in the feral canine drollery of aged literacy chosen over youthful foofaraw belittled by retches of attentive brevity rather than protracted obtuseness: neither ideal for the gravity of aborning centuries
Yet we dally in convergent esprit filibustering rhymed cadavers of cadence for prurience in ebullient parvenu damsels vacant from the setting but entranced by the galloping herds of buffalo formidable with warmth because of death and locomotive drive-by shootings Daphne wouldn’t miss.
Yet what Mission Impossible has a BioCyte worthy of henpecked ransom and detached villainy of a trespassed appendix bursting in the Young crowd much to the awakened dismay of the colored affront to black-and-white hubris finicky in oligochrome yet fainter yet than stellified bronteums burgeoning in generativity separated by inherent gulfs of heterochrony balking at submissions fished by loaves of interest in the hambasket of aswallone fractious to redshort individualism in the subhastation of Jurassic prowls of replication hibernal for millions of extinct permanence scowling only by the mandibles of crackjaw Samson yielding his jaunty hair to flummoxed Cutthroat Collapses trimming yardstick furloughs of pleckigger for demotic flavork above fishy warbles of tilted pretense vagrant to everybody simultaneously renowned for arrested cacophony but bridled by few examinations barnstorming teetotalers with haunted patrons of aged wine speaking redivivus in contemplation.
Measured glare radioactive to lizards beneath Mojo Grooves monikers fielding “fly away” as transcendental harpsichord anagrams filter through lavaderos of hackneyed nockerslugs berating illusion for conflation in the influx of dacoitage among Vikings who swim flanked by sonic blares of innocuous dolphins floating dead by the carnage of bloated whales and ridiculous spates of welter above conscience ragged with tetherball futility.
Sparring with engastrimyths sapping the sapwood of sappy banality for toonardical lullabies that pacify opposition more than the Pacific is internecine to volcanic tirades of seismotic jolts of burgeoned awakening I vanquish petty sneakthievery with the unspoken power of a Tweed that masquerades not on ******* but on virtual rhymes cascading throwaway brown-brick fifties collapse on Dagon armed with gnashing poise against guttural gubbertushed victimized flippant fantasias arrayed to brook the decrepit streams of my elevated retinue for staged intrepid barnstorms against phony assassinations to prove petty Edison powerhouses clairvoyant in even their specious participles of quantum irony decisive in fliction marveling at sensible conveyor belt beltways infested by sluggards of inferior hives contrary to every inclination of self-edified skyscraper invented by the mettle of industrious man
So swanky in boast but gingerly in insightful discretion I careen ping-pong victories into a plevisable fortune of Bubba Gump wealth and Fortune Magazine ostentation as the ringleader in Barnum’s neutered circus that never spays a single sword of creation in the barnacles of progeny and progress frogmarched by cruelty and vehement in suppositions of craven popinjay popples of a whangam metropolitan artifice tinsellated with angles of trim prance above suburban ecstasy in transcendent flash and peerless reaches of stratosphere above mundane plaid macaroni witeless in the sterling grace of foreign domestication of livable conditions abiding by aborning stardom.
Harriet Tubman flowers on the bedside of ****** seances of 70’s Parisian cafes gerrymandered by hobohemias of herculean heft squaring account with encompassed brevity in byword dazes with ***** futures yet to court the cordial consensus in dodged drafts of fumiduct riots bailing upon New York Time for 44th street colored incineration of an orphaned Africa embodied in a totemic titan with reninjuble peerless majesty compromised by a frapplank in immodest incisive harpricks of fumbled swerves against the original proclamations anniversary to Boston Indians revolting against Manifest Destinies magnified in incidental clarity by bestowed churches fuming with rampant clairvoyance tamed by the grisly realism of intermittent thaumaturgy swaddled by the reconnaissance of eventual warps blistering in milliseconds to overturn the ultimate row that the mire always wades through in impoverished egestuous profligate convenience of hamstring declension against chary mettle in scruples by elementary riddles in precise junctures of sanctity the bodewash of slick partisan gibes of a puppet show vampire avenging Sarah Marshall. Harriet Tubman is an overblow of subniveal pickets of defensive clarity to immemorial churlish katzenjammer of a protracted flux capacitor dynamos in abolished feral groves of bohemian legend rather than ignoble rhapsody flirting with apartheid’s chosen engineers whittling an indelible scourge of hatred rather than a revived simian immunity scalded with potboilers of sveldtang water scorching like Helsinki after Stockholm goes up in conflagration over bonanza of wednongue dative duress in impregnated purpose skanky with ministered drivel of doytined attempts to flicker a switch exorcised by the integrity of neuroscience besides an intransigence of exuberant interruption of warped logics of pataphysical coarse arenas for submerged vapid Yellow Belly Pie Slingers aimed at 7/11.
Broadside bruisers aim at fracked 80s heyday like a Hey Bulldog reminiscence on a quaint suburban joke of alien freebooters in Franc Swiss gloss swanky on the spot of frapplanks endless in retired liturgy of surpassed peace amicable to truces among the pragmatica of checkerboard pastries willful in array backing sentinels from rearguard hindsight to flank the motatory missiles of target from ransom built like fortress of immutable graves lost to the celerity of the outpaced spectral wonder of teenage flights and hegiras into recessive parsecs enamored by a stage-fright of recocted astral wonders plasma to the ears of a strange foreign abode hospitable to most heaved alacrity sidewinding into effigy and the crumples of used demise recycled twice by intrinsic spirituel flocks of engulfed eagles spooning the pristine littoral waters of precision in nexility
Stayin’ Alive cackles resound in the hallowed furrows of a neat daydream in a scattershot imagination screaming to make myths sticky pigment rather than imbroglios of intaglio filibustering cohesive firm firmaments flexing with windfall at princely surprises cobbled from chocolate-box chariots of brisk elation shoveled by the conglomerate of prim-looking star-crossed unbuttoned snoozes with glamour in the corsair sojourn beyond the space emergent from stardust tinsel and glowered vindication of self-engineered huffs of vulpine vainglory touted as preeminent above dodgy 70s swerve in the vibrant kantikoys of covert tenure and flickers of swandamo glitterati borne of triumphant dimples on immaculate refraction.
Yet lingering on the precipice of aboriginal unity in disjointed sejungible frames of vernal restive residence decaying with anthill colonies of demarche the cadence lost to gyrovague trinkets balks from corridors of Pacific  Avenue peace that is the cardinal to the priests feasting on militias of rentgourge evicted from their own leash of lease ruffled in the plumage of horizontal margins folded into origami zenkidu gullible on Raptor estrangement chained to the rhythms of parsed sparse rumbles of the rhombos without a complexion intended for sparkled starlets doomed to regular tides in swollen tsunamis of soft-spoken surrealism the providence of aimed dreams of drastic marvels beloved to impregnate a verdant cadence latent by faltered seamstress elopes flickering for caress in the duress of finesse.
The quaint drawl of scrabbled runes of rumbled rumination streaks like a quivered acerbic winsome peacock jagged in the parlance of henpecked peak beyond the reach of the highest teacher that ever had the privilege of tutelaries spawned born to teach in Steppenwolf rhythms of rugged heavy metal impeachment yet ripe enough to preach. The last juggernaut is vile bereaved of yets to become the blemish on risky flambeaus overrun by crackles fuzzy in written retch for sudden bursts of volcanic speech.
In the quagmires of serrated heavy leaps I stroke the frazzle as the choir reaps the grim proclamation gilded by sentinels of majestic Challenger Deep burrowing tunnels of coltish ploy dilettante to all his curated adoration that toys with the children of majestic modesty ever so fractious as to balk at the priggish calumny of retinues of the tired coy rampant in emasculated spayed days of stranglehold filigree geometry bent on noisome bleats prone to annoy
So I leapfrog the redundant hackencrude fawn of gripping spectacles of alpenglow summits on acid at dawn foaming with betrothed pumice on borrowed past from potentiated future belonging once to a man yet always bred to prefer fairer damsels sprinkled with a hint of germane Soy saucy to the Bossy promenade to an Islander born and bred.
Guilt like Gravity gilded into spacious trailblazed glory sent seminal and said loudly bowdlerized the pasture of hidden thickets in sparse backwater chavish remanded by fisticuffs of elapse travail in artistry fundamental to rhapsody in distant milky affection jangling high plaudits of auditoriums of the delicate audit bulldozing fraudsters colored by defected records set ablaze in seminal disco becoming cordial homes for shaken residue blushing in crude crass mass the inertia of the classy beyond recognition without flashbang clashes of cultural class glimmering to faltered waterdrips of palatial mischief in correct lens for froward recalcitrance of jittery stash hidden in dacoitage by the police that knelt on incinerated livelihood predicated on chauvinist cash for departed untouchable caste of radical haste too blinkered for internet barnstorms limited only to lurid copy-and-paste regimented for revolution damaged by the loneliest orchestra of refineries of an alien taste.
We crack skulls against ossified hulls riveted weakly to iceberg submarine bulge battled in wars past always to suppress greater travesty yet divulged that Barbarosa was an insider coup expunged by remonstrance against finicky postulate brayed from deranged heirs to a disease of relish quartered by blue danger dancing with shadowed emancipation librettos finkly in tripwire terms of routed inefficacy killjoy to seanced second guess prisms of rootless flimsy accusation wagered by pathetic overstatement in hypenstance trimmed by the crimson paint of a glowering silk woven from dramaturgy belittled by grasp if not by locomotive passerby pause wicked by subversion inclined not to dismay by oriented by nefarious rage of flagrant hapless scrimshanks in prowess sued by process and refined by progress never erased by a five-second glower by the sentinels of parlance intrepid by desiccation to supervised superstition bemused by abundant gray twists of turnverein pillory.
Perig3e Feb 2011
Oh, Joel,
I see you've gone the way
of HP vanity
with your two score & eight cantos
            pdf-ed
                         and
                                covered
in Escheresque!

============
Wishing you brisk sales and an IRS audit :-)
All rights reserved by the author
Walani Ndhlovu Sep 2014
Our faults shimmer before the public
Like lies in the eyes of teens
But our good hibernate from others
Advertising our wrongs and sins

Friends and trust are what blaze our hearts
To hurt us ere our sights spot
And it takes us long to hang lens
To audit what's dense to float

We hardly contend our lacks
That lay fresh and young to cure themselves
And our needs emigrate the earth
After the betrayal from what we thought helps
Dr Peter Lim Jan 2019
Love is not a subject
for any audit
it belongs more
to the heart than wit-

it follows no formula
no peg but its own does it fit
analysis would its very beauty mar
and shatter it bit by bit

— The End —