The rear axles hold the kick of twenty Missouri *******.
  
It is in the records of the patent office and the ads there is twenty horse power pull here.
  
The farm boy says hello to you instead of twenty mules-he sings to you instead of ten span of mules.
  
A bucket of oil and a can of grease is your hay and oats.
  
Rain proof and fool proof they stable you anywhere in the fields with the stars for a roof.
  
I carve a team of long ear mules on the steering wheel-it's good-by now to leather reins and the songs of the old mule skinners.

The soda can rumbles in the bowels,
tumbling into the gaping mouth
into which I enter a hand
to protrude my sugar rush.

sssni-kah, then the slurp of an obnoxiously pleasing sip.
I let the carbonation tickle my tongue,
reveling in the effervescent sensation.

The smell of old tires,
malodorous oil and gasoline,
and stale cigarettes fill the air.

My vexatious sips go unperturbing the dense atmosphere
that thickens outside the small air-conditioned office
and into the gas station,

where the mutters and sputters of drills,
kakadoo, kakadoo,
the squeaking and squawking of rotors and axles,
the interjections of swears and grunts
fill the air.

I peek through the ***** smudgy glass window in the door
to see grimy overalled ants meandering
under the body of our red mini-van
hiked up into the air like a figure skater,
suspended by the rusty clawed accompanist,
not a tremor of strain, unflinching,
letting the greasy men crawl underneath, hiking up her skirt
to examine her anatomy.

I walk outside and sit on a dusty tire stacked with others
on the side of the building--
some growing forlorn in tall grass
weaving in and out of the aperturous rim,
the fingers latching onto fissures and pulling it down
into the hungry earth.

Another slurp and I set the can down
to step onto my skateboard--
rolling across the gritty pavement,
snapping ollies and pop-shuv-its
to add my timbre to the cacophony
leaping out of the open garage doors.

I look over to the barbershop adjacent to the station--

The off-white single room squat allowing the cylindrical swirl
perpetually pirouetting atop the door-frame
to dazzle in a placid manner.

It is there I get my close trims
and pull a lollipop from the cavernous bowl
sitting atop the counter.

The barber, working silently behind his dull gray mustache
and dull gray eyes.

Outside the barbershop to the left,
Leicester Highway ambles onward,
diverging at a fork just ahead of the lot,
and the road adjacent that winds down my neighborhood,
Juno Drive.

I've never embarked down either divergent,
and I wonder which one is the less traveled.
(Frost, guide me.)

I go to the mailbox teetering on the edge of the highway
and hastily grab our mail,
the wind slapping at my *** as the cars whisk by
in their infinitesimal haste.

I feel like time slows once you step onto Juno Drive.

I turn around and saunter back to the station to see Billy,
my Working-Class Hero,
who I mostly see strolling up to the driver's side window
of our dull red mini-van
to loosely rest his arms crossed atop the window frame,
resting his sweaty forehead on his sticky hairy forearms.

Leaning in,

his blackened hands with his greasy smile
behind a scruffy scattered beard caked with dirt and grime,
atop a dark red leather face--
but eyes bright and merry.

His laugh, a phlegmy two-pack-a-day sputter
hacking and pummeling through the van,
all the way to me in the backseat peeking around mom's shoulders
to catch a look at this superhero anomaly.

And his southern drawl wrenching out of lungs
caked in tar and exhaust fumes,
that torpid slur that executes like the garbled hum
of an Oldsmobile engine chugging restlessly--

His laugh, an engine that won't turn over, sputtering to life
but falling right back down into the dirt,
lying on the oil-stained cold concrete floors ***** boots slipping over
and sticking too like wads of gum.

The charismatic mechanic who knew the answer to all things,
always ready to flash me that crooked greasy smile
stretching across his ruddy leather face.

I step back onto my skateboard, with soda in hand,
mail in the other,
and silently say goodbye to my Greasy Eden
before making my way down Juno Drive
towards the first house on the left,

following the road as it snakes past the trees,
alongside the creek, around the bend,
and out of sight.

Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale

Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly

Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown

Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.

Flip flip slide slide
grind grind pop pop
concentration.

hours and hours
sweat pours
bruised ankles bruised kneecaps
scraped shinbones scraped elbows
scabs and scars.

shirts and jeans torn, worn;
shoes a tattered mess--
laces shredded to bits tied desperately
clinging on to lapping tongues.

hair matted to skull sweating within damp skullcaps,
whether be it helmets (by choice or restriction),
or fitted baseball hats turned backwards,
or cuffed beanies in the dead of winter.
(father says the latter choices work well to soak all the blood up, I always roll my eyes in naivete.)

The paved driveway, where on my eighth birthday
a shining basketball goal sat at its full height
towering in the mountain sky--

stood forlorn in place as wide eyes glued to the pavement--

where shoes stood atop the gritty surface of a wooden board
with wheels attached to gleaming metal axles
rolled smoothly excitedly across the pavement in perpetuity.

destiny.

Two Blue Beams
rise in the twilight
from dark recesses
of a wounded city

astral projections
paint night clouds
in looming hues
of temporal intent

declarative beams
affirm a bold portent
of an insistent will
and timeless aspirations

one thrusting light
projects wanton determination
bequeathed from unhealed wounds
of a lacerated city

the other casts fervent hope
onto the vast celestial sea
boldly etching upon the heavens
an earnest nations highest ideals

the pillars of light
reveal the dual nature
fixing our place
in a turbulent universe

the brighter light
affirms the beneficence
of liberty's eternal grace
so divinely conferred

received by a higher self
accepted with gratitude
the gracious anointing
of freedoms rich abundance

ride this beam with angry cries
conjure ghosts from a dead past
channel a full measure of resent
its power of restoration is quelled

stirred from nagging agonies
nursed with righteous indignation
untreated wounds fester
the weak blue spire cannot heal

a bleak azure apparition
screams for selfish retribution
heed this dire admonition
a promised fury of
full demonic dimension

the rankled city
yearns to come together
united in communion
around these lights

drawn to the blue flames
like swirling moths
unconscious of what
compels shock and awe

earnest yearnings
flutter to exhaustion
struggle toward the light
aspiring to heal in the inviting glow

transcending the fissures
of our fractured nation
the waning resolve
of a national will

a restless Zeitgeist
cannot be repressed
nor will it relinquish
its will to manifest

a city's fondest hopes
entombed in collective memory
is foretold again
around these bold lights

entranced by the light
a solemn urban campfire
transfixed and sealed
we speak our hearts

holding hands
gnashing teeth
we bite into
our bent knees
tucked up
to sullen chests
heavy hearts
bear pains of loss
dreary tears wash
ash stained cloths
crumpled photos
dear bereavements
of faded memories
and expired hope

resolve is renewed
in bursts of pride
incendiary nationalism
suppress dissent
pummel thoughts
of perceived sedition
pump iron fists as
zealous sledgehammers
forged with conviction
in kilns of
righteous indignation
seething with infected
emotional hangovers
from prurient
tribal diatribes

these sweet sentiments
swing between the polls
of the vast pendulum's arc
along a narrow celestial scale

too and fro
angst and expectation
ebbs and flows
in this astral assignation

the heavenly helix
a set of blue axles
a modern vision
of Ezekiel's Wheel

the rung-less vertices
of our Jacob's Ladder
invites all citizens
to climb again

ascend this pathway
in the company of angels
arrive transfigured
renewed again

build new cities
transcendent destinations
new Edens await
pioneers to explore

fearless pilgrims
sojourn onward
moving to secure
liberty for all

conscious stewards
of the blessed good earth
celebrate rich diversity
of all the beloved

descending back
to an expired past
is a ridged stasis
anchored in Hell

witness flitting
nostalgic phantoms
pathetic pantomimes
of histrionic fictions

the downward path
of the lesser light
tethers us to the place
we cannot leave

The upward light
abhors a hells decent
resolved to vacate
acrimony and hate

the dancing helix opens
a blue portal to heaven
don saintly garb
wing upward in light

transcendence calls us
to traverse with angels
touch the luminescent hem
of God's divine robe

Selah

Music Selection:
Aaron Copland: Appalachian Spring , Simple Gifts

NYC
9/11/10
jbm

antlers
fourteen points
cernunnos stirs
while the daffodils
reach their thirties
orderly routines
-
stones start skipping
replete potholes, puddle-filled
paving the way
capsizing axles
-
sipping steam from fog clouds low-hanging
not really minding that my shirt is wet from the concrete

1120

This slow Day moved along—
I heard its axles go
As if they could not hoist themselves
They hated motion so—

I told my soul to come—
It was no use to wait—
We went and played and came again
And it was out of sight—

A raucous tone of an oldie worm gear
Sound's like a screech that torn ears
Toothed wheel and it revolving spiral, bear
The oodles of blood as the oil of fear.

The products are orderly transmitted diseases
Wrench is limited avast for every pigment of it
And to rely on its asylum, to ceases
are not enough, to cover the dirt or to omit.

Let's stave the stave of reddish fuels!
If life is a wheel and we are its axles,
Our will be done, drawn of our risksha
And let this machine covert chutzpah.

Working of two wheel with sloping square edge,
Is the next wheel with trickery on the ledge.
Our wheel has a will of its spare-part, none Midas touch
But still, this wheel will chase the chaste egg to hutch.

Be the egg of tomorrow, who's snob the chatterbox.
Uproots our machine's cheapskate who's blood are their tax.
Their waste turns to wax from the slave of fox.
It can take away everything outside of our flocks

Ted Talks in the background, the rush of forming in to me time.
A test, a lure, a net, yes

Sunday, December 09, 2018
11:24 AM

A Beta test, they bet the tithe on the human race.
Wisdom set the milestones,

Pillars to bear the weight of knowing both
possible and impossible no matter how the alpha

bet degrades under pressure to conform, for
Short term gain,

how far out can a man imagine, how future can one be?

Mathematically, wherever, where, in ever, you are you are now.

A platform
A standing place
A flat butte above a

Broad alluvian fan laced with gravity formed fiords,
see, look, we live on a whole world which
is fractured and half frozen.
All of us, ever, have lived here.

Google earth.
Use the tool you have.

See farther than you imagine you can.

Take time,
you have some of your own, right?

You breathe?
Take one breath for only you.
Listen, as you breathe, is this a voice

or mere words we imagine meaning more

than then when we imagined

we were seeing through goggles,
no peripheral augmentation,

goggles with blinders, urban adapted tech
from the old days,
blinders?

War horses in the Iron empire wore blinders,
Chariot racing war horses always wear blinders,

boys watching wagons in movies would notice blinders
if such boys had grown to knowing idle from not in

my realitiy. Itified, but run within,
disconnected from competing reality ifications
I inherited with the wind.

Watch the welder's goggles, see when he removes them,
don't attempt to see what he saw through them,
trust me, he was not making gods.

I say again. Radio to now.
re-ad re-al re-wise devize a way where there
nor there
nor there, nor then, nor then and there
is no way to seem, no other
being than being, as a verb.

No else.
Oh, well, I'll tell.

A heretic is a self-willed entity able to think about thinking,
e-special when time is in turmoil,

We all have our life and being in time, at the moment.
We behave, then one has an urge, a whim, a fantasy…

see further, see different, ex-spire-ment. Bet that breath,
the one you took for yourself,
the one you treasure.

Take a step,
Fear not, giant steps feel like falling going down and
mountains going up, but get some altitude

see where the snake in the core of the magneto sphere
shed its skin, shook off the dust of the third world,
attached each spec of dust,
be it any element or rele mental in the re-alm of Whatsoever,
a single gravity bound drop of water.
In that,
Suspend the noble miner-als, dis-solve the salts and acids and such

Let the eukaryotic work on version 2.0, epi-genetically, as
they shall say, some day, after the fact.

A little leaven, the kingdom is like that, when it works.

Wanna bet this makes some dust? Did you sneeze? Or me?

think now, 's no co incidence, me writin', you readin'
it happened. A hap hapt. We share that,
infection effect.

We breathed an effectual breath, together,
in and out, the clues are everywhere,

the better man won, then we became better,
both, wombed and un. one another we

make, effectual we, make good,
by our very nature,
born, as we were post the information deluge
that washed the blinders from our
children's eyes, for ever after.

we can be the side-bet clan,
betta value, betta moment of your own time
attention to the mean
general inteleosity
of being better,

being better beta testers for effectual fervent hope
for good for goodness sake.

Heroes go through hell.
We never pitch a tent and dance around Pandemonium.

The bet. AI is or am?
See it logger rythmical,
Ax,
hands to handle to tool to cut, break, scrape.
How would you, you, chop a tree?
Eat? You, not ancient ancestor you, you

manifested mature **** sapien sapiens augmented you,
what do you think will make life, in general,
be tending toward your happy ever after,

after silence, for about the space of half a time?

Hey, how do I say looky here here?
I am
alone.
Ah,
some know Ah, she knows,
Wisdom has a way, a wombed man,
beyond the original
ginal general gentle plan for an atom on this scale,

but nothing is impossible, so something must be done.

Progress, motion.
Relative to what, do you perceive motion?
Whence base ye di-rect e-rectors forming lines

point A to point B to so on soon as someone
sees forever in the apple of his Grandma's eye.

[found on a stele in northern Baja, 2018. Interpreted, sometime later]
(ragpicker's note: this thread links to a junkyard near a Green Book,
The Loma Vista, listing.) The sign, in those days, read:

Axles greased for free.

The symbols mean now that people
travailed along these old stone roads,
and kindness in the journey
greased the wheels in the wheels of those
auto-mobile-means of travailing.

Axles greased for free. Will sing for my supper.
Will you wont you will you join my dance?
Free
Golden oils,
gifts from the whale that ate my father for
non-monetetical bearing
of the wait to know,
wheel,
before it squeeked.

Itching ears, hear? The squeeks, the growns as the old
home stretches,
like her skin's too tight,

Ah, intelligence generally
available for the price of the tools used to use
any knowledge perfect
or perfecting
effecting
affecting the manufacture of you, Roll on,

out to infect the masses shopping for hope.
Sneeze for me, say Ah. We knew her when…

Wisdom was the reason for the season.
The principal setter of the sakes,
also set beginning and end.

Side-bet. 2 bucks, I bet time is temporary.
Paypal me when you lose. Ten to one, my favor.
Collect from Wisdom if you win. Even money.

This started out as a joke.
Everything I've ever seen is piled on top of my back.
Suddenly you're here and I know you're going to drag me around like a wagon.
Problem is, I only have axles; my tires wore out a long time ago.
I'm only fifteen.
I'm going to erode slowly and your muscles will snap like elastics.
It doesn't matter how much you lift, I'm much too heavy to carry.
Gravity can't even control me.
Spend your money on a new car instead of a worn down one with a ripped leather interior and a radio that skips every second word.
Please don't waste your time being my tow truck.

Well girl if you’re stable at overflowing
Just please let me coast inches
I need to sentry how this is growing
There’s a tugging at my sleeve, trying to lead me in a cave
With a slight incline so not even a torrential wave
Could splash safety
Yours or mine
While our synergy matures like wine

It’s in the print of the design that I come across a constant need for repair
Bring tools along the way I swear ruts bend your axles
Bending backwards can’t twist your posture like her
Fur is soft on the skin
In a race the fox always wins
Reach in to the frothy mixture and pull out a piece of the picture
Even though your centered in a fixture a foundation is hard to find
It especially distorts the spine at night
When the light can’t distract you
From the visible glow she radiates
Strong enough to contract you

Chapter XVI
Vernarth Third Finale Fragment, Apud tertium final


Vernarth, runs ripped from himself, after himself, to try to stay in this Parapsychological Regression. His bewilderment was imminent. He was seen in this regression on Nevski Avenue, Saint Petersburg, and in the province of Yekaterinburg, looking for vestiges of the Tungus tribe.
Peter I Alekséievich or Pedro I of Russia, nicknamed Peter the Great Moscow, May 30 / June 9, 1672- Saint Petersburg, January 28 / February 8, 1725.) 1 son of Tsar Alexius I and his second wife Natalia Narýshkina and successor of her half brother Teodoro III (Fiódor Alekséievich), was one of the most outstanding rulers in the history of Russia, belonging to the Románov Dynasty.
He ruled Russia from May 7 (April 27 C.J.), 1682, until his death, and before 1696 he did so along with his weak and sickly brother, Ivan V of Russia. It carried out a process of modernization through westernization and expansion that transformed Moscow Russia into one of the main European powers. He married Eudoxi Lopujiná, with whom he had a son and, in second nuptials, with his servant, who would take the title of Catherine I when he succeeded Pedro after his death occurred in Saint Petersburg on February 8, 1725 as a result of an infection in the bladder.


"... It was reading Vernarth in a tourist magazine when I was on a visit to the region, previously I was in Moscow and its surroundings ..." The parapsychological regression trip, followed and resumed another course with Destination to the Iberian Peninsula, on the Jacobean Route Through Santiago de Compostela and Vigo, in the latter, place passes to see the remains of the crypt of a friend killed in a Crusade. Here the remains rest in the Pereira mausoleum .Continuing his tour in Portugal, Lisbon. In Lisbon, old and melodic Afro Fado, on the sheets hanging from the illustrious houses, saw his escapades continue, rummaging bookstores and offices to get to the rooms of Amalia Rodrígues and the bohemian Lisbonense, who asked for more of his presence than the bartender himself placing port wine on the tables that cover their cork oak tables.


Does your regressive session continue, and was the doctor in charge asking if it was within your will to wake up and end the session? .Vernarth ...; He says with a gesture of his right hand, clutching his left wrist, that he wanted to continue and did not know if he would come back from himself. Which caused the doctor a strange and worried sensation, so he asked for a break before this unusual and abrupt situation. The windows of the room vibrated remarkably low, as if the thick strings of a cello intended to leave everyone diminished, to feel nothing more than himself, the very experience of a simultaneous True Warrior in mere compartments of a life that has currently disturbed him live without being part of any!


The session continues:
"... On a ridge in the middle of combat, Vernarth crosses for more below the positions of the Persians, on him and some like Mardiath, leader of his squad in Tire. Accompanying him, they could feel the thousands of sound frequencies crossing each other. Metals whistling with bowed, high and mid-frequency waves crisscrossing with spears as they skidded off the muffled wheels with their burnt axles.  The herds of fortified elephants, huge towers of ivories slicing bellies and cutting the flag,cloths next to their embalmed suns. Mardiath protects him from the rear, to evict him from the hundreds of boisterous spears, which were intended to target their commander. The Xifos sheared the chins of the almost annihilated Persians. Some of the Greek mercenaries shone with great pride the totemic animals of war to tune the Hellenic ones who cut off everything that was put before them. ”
They continue chasing the peal of spears that no longer spaced more than the shadow of their companions. The ringing of the voices that cut the metal rattle winds continues, diverting the coral trotting of the Macedonians with those of the cavalry, which faster than the others echoed the soon to take of causing always close wounds, where nothing was already with their defense weapons.

Vernarth says: With me there will be nothing ... anything more than how much will be counted, nothing more than being eternally brandishing our Xiphs. Medea ... full sorceress, tell me that I have to bet more than multiply my forces, without being able to unite with your potions of my right breastplate yet?

Medea replies: It must be applied with the woodcutter's hatchet ax. She hardens the edges of the banner, flaming, and the feather that moves the plumes that will be reserved in the squares of your energetic blasphemies. It has already welded your breastplate more than a feeling of longing. She was watered by the sacred steam of the Bumodos and its waters. I am here in full dispute; you can now anoint your throne with squares for more centuries by commenting to the right of the regular rules.

Brisehal in Advance

“They were all in full swing of the latest outbursts of onslaught from both sides. Vernarth gallops across the right side over the spearmen and archers, when suddenly everyone is paralyzed at the sight of a giant shadow of an oversized dog appearing to them from the rear. Some dropped their weapons; others restrained themselves and did not know what to do ... it was even notable that they did not hear the voices of their Persian commanders.


In the immensity of their over proportions, the fusion of reality appears in that of an almost unreal animal that stood between them to intercede and protect Vernarth. Was "Brisehal", which was suspended with its quadruple legs over an area of more than two square kilometers?

It came from Dasht-e-Lut. After Brisehal bellowed and the troops of their self-contemplation were depopulated, they were emerging from the empty Wagnerian Gaugamela. Brisehal with her Anubis-headed mountain, began to move it and shake the space between earth and sky, like the hope of some parishioners to enter the garden-kingdom of Heaven. Before the day trembled with the movement of her trembling footsteps, Brisehal shuddered on both sides and stepped in front of Vernarth to preserve her. When her entire body shuddered, she eliminated the remains of parasites that fell on the insistent achemenids, on their smallest heaps that were seen to be liquidated with the greatest effect of their rotating forces.

They were immense thunderclaps that even scrubbed up to the spheroid clouds reddened by their rising. He turned from left to right as if wanting to exile them to the Desert of Lut, as if to tube his pro generation by the bundles of optical rope or high-density fiber, which could cohabit with Vernarth in his odyssey of the Horcondising (Vernarth lineage paradise to Gaugamela).

From Horcondising; Sudpichi, on the streams channeled like proliferated mirrors, illuminated the sky of his region like haloes of light showing each outcome of the Intervention of this enormous Dasht-e-Lut dog on a huge colorful screen by the celestial air of the nearby clouds.

A guard says: Our Lord Vernarth, is under the protection of Brisehal, just as we with his memory are his succession, we owe him great respect for his bravery and repercussion of his ancestry. I continue from here of the Tower seeing his operations of greater spirit, for the protection of his great heroic sign!

Brisehal, is introduced on the cavalries of thousands of horsemen of the Persians, on hundreds of groups of mounts that flew over their heads the cataphractic armor, also elephants that did not give truce but, the most devastated were the failed cars, which were totally annulled by the bellowing and fierce contortions that Brisehal gave angrily without stopping. From this moment on, Vernarth, who already had contracted wounds, was amazed by this mass of fright in the eyes of the Falangists and the movement of strategies already aimed at deserved success, ******* the huge hordes remained, prey to their fear and undeniable defeat. early.

Alejandro Magnus says: “This Victory has no concordance with others that I have overcome. I must imagine myself supported by the support of my land and my collaborators. Undoubtedly, the tendency of those who have left their sparse sweat on this plain tend to exaggerate, it gives room to further commend the victory of my commander Vernarth and his supporters. The only thing that we can affirm for sure is that our adversaries grasped at the expense of their resources, is that even though they are tremendously superior in quantity to those of the Macedonian army, they were disintegrated at this moment by our overwhelming powers.

Ellipsis Darius III in Arbela

“… In July 331 BC, the army of Alexander the Great would cross the Euphrates River, entering fully into Mesopotamia. At that time, instead of marching south on the river to reach Babylon, where Darius III was supposed to have fled, he chose to head north, crossing the entire Mesopotamian territory until he reached the Tigris River in the second half of September. At the same time, Darius III had marched north to Arbela, just over 100 kilometers from the vast Gaugamela plain. Unlike what happened in the battle of Gránico and the battle of Issos, there he could deploy the full potential of his troops to envelop Alexander's and annihilate him… ”.

Darius III says: Being in Arbela, I should never have disobeyed The Astros. When they moved and I couldn't look at them because of their immigration, I never believed that the nebulae that would cross in front of my eyes would be the chivalry commanded by Alexander Magnus, and the infantry by Vernarth joined Etréstles. Now I see him with his glasses in his hands drinking Nepente in the twilight with his comrades surrounded by Zeus. I meanwhile ..., I still think that I should never have abstracted myself from the last portion of Betelgeuse's movement when he circulated around the border of the emblem of his seduction to the adorned orion belt.

At the time of knowing the movements and tactics of the battle of Gaugamela we find the same problem as always, the veracity of the sources of knowledge, whose account is very similar to that of the battle of Issos. According to this account, Alexander and the cavalry galloped diagonally and to the right, to avoid the caltrops and the failed cars and avoid being flanked by the Persians. Consequently, the Persian cavalry on the left wing moved in pursuit, aiming to overtake the Macedonians and envelop them. However, the Achaemenid horsemen did not realize that in doing so they had separated from the center, where a hole had been opened that allowed them to reach Darius III.

Vernarth says: in the hour that I ate of the black roses and their petals, I must savor the conversation that I had to have with the nature of our military training. Our strategy has oppressed the erratic tactics of the adversaries; the pressure of our Macedonian lancers disrupts the formation of the troops of the satrap Bessos, who end up losing the initiative and fleeing. In the center, the phalanx Me, Mardiath and Etréstles, together with the hipaspistas we will advance slowly but surely, gradually pushing back the Persian units. Brisehal has stood out above the outstanding lightness of the harassed Commander Satrap Maceo, annihilating all attempts to completely discredit him, of which his figure of high countenance was thus tainted. With the sweaty blizzard of the afternoon back then the fully grained shadow of Brisehal migrated to his Dasht-e-Lut desert from where he was confined by command of his allegiance to Vernarth forever and ever where both will always be seen at dawn play and jump.

At one point, after long resisting the burden of the Macedonian sovereign, Darius III makes his worst mistake. As happened in Issos, he gives up the battle when he was not yet decided for either side and flees, progressively dragging with him the rest of the nearby troops. In the face of this movement, Alexander immediately pursued him, and for a moment it seemed that the life of the King of Kings was coming to an end. However, the desperate call of Parmenion, who can no longer resist the fight against the Persian horsemen, makes Alexander desist from his persecution and allows Darius III to escape. When they were abandoned by their king, the Persian army became demoralized and ended up fleeing or surrendering, thus confirming the disintegration of the Persian Empire and the coronation of Alexander the Great as lord of Asia.

The end begins in a new beginning, Vernarth limps along the external bank of the Bumodos with his pectoral reopened and his back with purple colored diaphragms bellowing his resistance. He was accompanied by Kanti and, Etrestles and Mardiath who helped him endure it. They take their steps and approach the store where Valekiria was waiting for them; his consort to apply the sedative ****** essence with waters of the Bumodos to calm his pain, and later return from this great epic of his "Parapsychological Regression" that was soon to culminate.

Contrary to what is believed
To double think
Undress your mind to it's vulnerability
Outside the realm of possibility
Where one can see
Tickled grey
with inconclusive concepts
Frayed practice
Impulse bandits
turning the axles
Mirror me neuron
Mirror me

This day winding down now
Cogs of time turned by turetlesGrinding axles ssquealing
In the mouth of a gull
In my wind rocked home
Sounds permeate the gloom
Steam and spilt droplets of
Freshly poured milk mark
The ashen counter top
Grey becomes rose as the sun
Traverses its casing in the sky
Low now, light gets into my eyes
A flock of crows fly to the treetops
Cawing in their cacophinous way.
Daffodils are aging and leaning
On the stems leaves slightly wilting
Crocuses are lying down ready
To sleep the long dream of death.

Is this where it happens?
Is this the where
and when?

On a bus going through
nowheres stocked with burned-out houses
and Chevys idling on empty axles?

I have passed so many of them,
that I don't know
when it'll stop;
all this quiet and oblivion.

I've been eating zebra cakes. Partly for the taste [creamed-up skies, maybe a swan or two reflected in a lake] but also for the animal on the package with his confetti and rainbowed smiles. Four days till Good Friday, lord.

In eveningtime, I sit inside myself and bang on the cockleshell walls with my ribs. Given time, the vibrations start to numb-up the cells of my nerves and lose effect -anyways. Sleep is with a machine who touches me through perfectly oiled axles and aching laughters. He doesn't hear me when i tell him I don't want his incisions and leaves knives by my bed to desensitize any qualms.

Last weekend, I didn't go home with the pineapple boys. I climbed through arms and fingers and faces, but my lover (machine) had since ascended - I kept asking which of the walls i could follow to find him, but They laughed and told me i was blind.

A wave of nausea, not hatching in your stomach, but leeching the strength from your legs, out through your feet.
The sound of a slammed door has coursed through the air to leave an indent, an impression, in your shoulder and side. It echoes and bounces inside your fleshy cell, spurred on by the brushed drum of blood
and ticker-tape heart.
What a body.
What a carcasse.
Hear the clicking of thoughts through carbon paper to long-dead wood pulp.
On Endless rolls wide as your *******,
your ticker nails down the free, lively thoughts.
For two ticks in ten you'll capture a word that deserves a second and third glance.
This.... thing. This wholly unholy, sacred little jewel will divide it all.  
It's as good as a weapon.
But, to slip through fingers, land in mud and be buried; as fate would jump at the chance, a truth worse than fiction.
Everything is rushing towards an end; some end.
Spotting patterns in cycles in routines, like an amusment park ride with a thousand
spinning axles
pinning
branches of branches of branches down.
When you, in your little capsule or gondola, reach the end of the long arching journey, things speed up.
Everything's true shape is revealed in a blur.
Here we go, this is the end.
No.
This arrangment,  and exact shape of whirling arms, shall come again, and though it seems like you'll be thrown away, you'll crack the air,
leave a vacuum where you just were,
and whip-cord shimmy-shuffle back to the center.

Been too long since I have created,
Since i've drawn or wrote owt celebrated.
Having a breakdown to reality,
Working out how life is meant to be,
Unshakled mind but still not free,
I now make sense of the things I see.
Open mind does lead to free thought,
Free from the sick indoctrined fort.
Free thought leads to controversy,
When spoke folk try belittling me.
Words are the most dangerous tool,
To brainwash those who learn at school,
Make us obey each fascist rule.
Why can't we all open our eyes
To all the enslavement and lies?
Why get angry at those awake,
Who care for you for goodness sake.
Instead of cussing those in power,
You insult those while in moods sour.
Laughing, oppressing piece of mind,
With tyrannical words far from kind.
Outrage seething from closed brains,
Not folks faulght, we have been trained.
To regurgitate the lie and do not think,
And let them mould our mind to shrink.
Dissmiss the real with a curse and wink,
Is this what you really want in life?
To let greed and hate and fear run rife?
To stop humans thinking for self,
To keep the slave masters in wealth,
Staying downtrod for there good health?
All roads lead to Rome it's said,
And we're walking roads that they tred.
His story not history,
No truth wrote, why can't you see?
No Darwinism or big bang
No cells turned fish who did evolve
No axles for us to spin,
The puzzles there for us to solve
We can't let the demons win.

Kate Longshaw

Looking at pictures from before
Reminds me how soon it will be
When something of such will not be of possibility

Past along like axles in assembly lines
Memories slip through my fingers
Dissolving like dew on grass at sunrise in May

Inanimate flashes of color establish my absence
As if I had planned this departure prior to arrival

i'd like you best wrapped up under the axles of my truck
but i'd rather not have to pay your brother to clean it up.
get the **** out of my home town
your driving the real estate value down.

in other words:
go back where you came from.

we don't
need that liberal faggy ****
i'm a man.
i'm a man.
i'm a man.

but i love the way my baby looks in that white summer dress caught around the warm summer air,
with flowers tangled up in her hair.
and the amber sun looks good in her eyes
i'm a man.

**** a ******, stab a ***
make my granddaddy proud.
love my baby, she's WASP like me
we're gunna start a family.
i **** her good, god gave me seed
you know i sow it as i please.
ultimately-
i'm good.

got a gun, bring it to school
always with me. i know i'm cool-
in case i need to get those sunni-shiite *****;  
shoot my teacher if i fail a test.

it's okay.i'm cowboy.
i'm good.

jesus loves me, he told me so.
******* Hey-Zeus, he mows my lawn.
-be ****** if i let them use the good bathroom  
it's all right they'll be deported soon.
and it's good.  

back in the city, jesus-  girls' ******* drop.
filthy ***** and cherries to pop.
but blondie looks good.

follow her home. i'm a really nice guy.
don't understand what made her cry.
just keep
*******
her anyways.

feminazi ******* wanna blame me
there just mad that they're ugly
jealous of my success
there all just ***** anyway.
*******.

and all those ***** livin' off the government's dime
handout *******. all of them should just die.
time to rise up
time to be
family man.
i.

oh, i'm a
good ol' boy,
i'm good.
(you know i'd **** you if i knew i could.)

but i love the way
my baby looks in that white summer dress caught up in the ******* air,
with flowers -like a promise- all in her hair.

Darkened, we walk
   a wheat road
to unraveled destiny

    We who have loved
      and suffered
    We who have become
       these mirrors
        
                  Broken
         under the weight
        of axles burdened

Similar smiles and
shining teeth say
                       this
  
                      It can't be
                                        far off now
Look to the horizon
    for broken promises
and side to side
    for the real show

We know the path
   we walk is a
downhill tumble
       but the air is still
       and the earth
             it rumbles

By the aging stately oaks, with their crowns of hirsute branches, we stand. We stand beside these towering canopies, raking and burning the dry leaves which have fallen to the ground, covering the landscape like a bister afghan. The charred debris being borne away into the smoky air, aloof until the sprightly embers pursue. Searing **** swirling round and round before cooling rapidly, then dying without a sound.

In the distance, I see the local church bells swinging from their axles -the clappers striking the sound rims-then tolling in full tones for the listeners within a one-mile range. The ripe fruits in our garden tree weigh down the boughs like diadems, and  within inches of our outstretched arms, they hang.

And the children play tag, romping in the yard yelling, "You're it!" and, "Not it!", all thru the evening hours. A smile across your lovely face lets me know you are enjoying the remaining day, and I take more pleasure in that than I can aptly say. Then we take a break from our toil and sit in the hale shade of the gallant trees, you drinking sweet tea with me, as we agree, we should avail days to these rare autumn liberties.

So much depends upon...
how willing
you are to stand
in line
glistening in the rain
waiting to sign
your name
longing to right
the wrongs
and fix the broken
axles of the red
wheelbarrow
and maybe paint
it blue
as a Blue Jay
flying free
in a blue sky
above white chickens
like shadows
of clouds
over the barnyard.