now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

We pride ourselves on being ‘America the Free’,
But how are we free when a he can’t marry a he?
Homosexuality is found in over 90 species,
but homophobia is only found in one.
If you want to blame someone, blame the straight people.
They’re the ones who keep having gay sons.
Not one Disney princess is a lesbian,
Not one superhero is gay.
Not all girls want a prince charming.
And not all men want a heroine someday.
They say, "Love is blind."
So why are we so blind to fact that love is love?
What has America come to that we’d rather see men holding guns, than holding hands?
Until recently, in the US military, admitting that you’re gay, had bans.
Homosexuality isn’t a disease.
You can’t catch it, and you can’t cure it.
Please.
Tiger Woods can have 19 mistresses,
Britney Spears can have a 55 hour marriage,
Kim Kardashian can get married for publicity,
But GAYS are corrupting the institution of marriage?
Closets are for clothes, not hiding.

Once upon a time, a long time ago
There was a little boy with a grimy flow
I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday
And this is what I heard him say…….

He say **** like, he be like….

Ah! and I'm a ******* biter
The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya
You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers
Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva
I go so hard when I'm flowing
So cold my flows frozen

I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean
And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion
But dam, those explosions are so slow motion
So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees
Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between
A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D

Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly
I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious
A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes
Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish
Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it

Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates
I damage this establishment
They enacted bans on urban camping
If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is
Happily on mattresses

We pass laws about things we don't like.
Or don't want in our community.
But when you look through the microscope you amazed by those you see within the lenses.

Oh, we protest the strip clubs and that environment.
But pay attention to the visitors or clientele.
Always seems to be someone we know so well.

The businessman.
The police officer.
The minister.
Hosts of others
You know, those important fellas
Especially , a few elected ones.

The same ones supporting the bans on things.

People, even protest Walmart cause of the small family's store facing competition.
Oh, forget about the jobs for those unemployed.
Forget about customers to get a slow economy back on the path of recovery.

We, don't want the street walker disturbing visitors going to the store too.
After all, they have secrets to create several havocs to a happy home.

Again, when you look through the microscope or witness the news.
You shocked by their clients too!

Same, with the dealers of drugs.
Who?
When arrested we amazed that his clients might be teachers/ministers/politicians/judges/famers and the hard earn worker.

Looking through the microscope reveals the sinners controlling us.

I dressed my core in flannel garb
Even though its 90 out
Shaded my eyes with thick rimmed, large framed Ray Bans
Because I can
I’m wearing skinny jeans
But I bought them before they were cool
There’s a hole in the knee where I was burned with a parliament at a poetry club
It didn’t hurt
I spell Vintage U-R-B-A-N
My shoes look like I pulled them out of Fred Astair’s closet
Because I did
I am too cool to care.
But do not call me a hipster.
It’s too mainstream.

Just found my
honest to god
vintage 1963
James Dean Ray Bans
in the garden where
I must have
dropped them
last summer.

Even as an old man
they make me feel
like Steve McQueen.

Now I can pretend
to be cool and smooth
again; but I doubt
my Lady will be fooled.
   ~mce

All I smell's Hawaiian Tropic
My vision seems very myopic
Bikini girls my visions topic
It's time to hit the surf

Lime and salty margaritas
Hot and **** senoritas
Bikini girls my visions greeters
It's time to hit the surf

Sitting here upon the beach
These women are just out of reach
In my mind I'd love to teach
But...you're the one I love

Tanned, long limbed and in the water
There's one beauty, I wish I'd caught her
Still, I think she's someone's daughter
I wish that you were here

Sitting here was all unplanned
Where all I see is surf and sand
It's heaven in this tropic land
I wish that you were here


Sitting here upon the beach
These women are just out of reach
In my mind I'd love to teach
But...you're the one I love

Ray Bans cover up my eyes
As I stare upon their oiled up thighs
I hear them yell and hear their cries
Youthful beauty at it's best

A boat drink full of Cuban ***
Brings me back to why I'd come
It leaves me feeling rather numb
I'm glad I'm here alone

Sitting here upon the beach
These women are just out of reach
In my mind I'd love to teach
Now I know why we split up.

Take me to your *******
@cisgenderwhitemale
in salmon shorts sport polo
boat shoes and expensive cologne—

I, emissary of the InterPlanetary
Order of Eugenically-Minded Denizens (IPOEMD),
have come to rid the world
of this contagion—

who for too long has
beguiled us with their
wicked fashion sense
and appalling profile pictures

appearing on friends’ dad’s yachts
smiling behind a pair of Ray-Bans
with a glass of champagne
drunk underage.

Your valedictorian address
bored me,
your sexist racist homophobic xenophobic (etc. etc.)
inside jokes to your friends
on the lacrosse team
sickened me—

I’ve had to listen to you
brag about your ***** size
since puberty and your discovery
of Spike TV—

I watch you mock Black English
in tweets and hashtags
from locker rooms where
the talk can range from
racial slurs to ****-shaming spurs

(talk never to ****
upon its potential revelation
in a political campaign)—

I film your weddings
where you dance all night
in your Aryan enclave
to top 40 songs
screaming “This is my jam!!!”

I scroll through your #familyvaca2k17 posts,
the immaculate hotels and poolside views
concealing the succeeding flophouses crumbling adobes
and dog-ridden streets of dirt and infinite trash—

I see you engrave in bold
ALL LIVES MATTER
BLUE LIVES MATTER
AMERICAN LIVES MATTER
on every writable surface—

and as a meninist,
lament about the harrowing trials
as a victim of reverse racism.

[The white man’s burden
is to carry the weight
of their inability
to be anything
other than
incorrigible.]

I have come to rid the world of you
once and for all:

Taking the Gideon’s bible
from every hotel
and replacing it with
feminist literature,

burning down every
Banana Republic and
coinciding shopping mall,

cutting the brakes
to every Mercedes, Lexus,
and BMW with a
“Salt Life” sticker
on the back window—

You wear your ethnocentrism
like the sleeves of the cardigan
wrapped around your neck
swaying in the air conditioned wind
like a little cape—

[Behold, Cis-Man!

Whose superpowers include:

Getting away with ****
and perpetuating **** culture,

Minimal jail sentences (if at all),

Guaranteed college entry,

Speeding ticket immunity,

and impeccable draft dodgings.]—

I solemnly swear,
I make a pledge
to never procreate
if it will perpetuate
this vile sect of humankind—

I take a vow of celibacy,
I spill my ***** into the dirt—
not one egg will be fertilized,
not one will be conceived

to the soundtrack of Coldplay,
or Kid Rock, or whatever hair metal ballad
conceived you in the first place—

You are a logical phallicy.

You want to talk about eugenics,
you want to stop
breeding all the “retards
spittin’ on your kids”
at the amusement park—

Pledge chastity with me:
Interbreed,
undilute the strain—

and together,
we can end
the White Man’s True Burden:
Existence.






(p.s.
And it is with great irony
that I write this as one of you—
the Judas to your
Megachurch TV Caucasian Christ—

I write it because
if it were by one of
whom you’ve held
under your [jackboots to boat shoes]
since time immemorial—
they’d never stand
to read it—

for even mutiny
among these ranks
has its own
privileges.)

since when did anatomy become strictly a school subject and not a ******* art? Stop practicing "oh no that's too much skin" "oh man she's a ****" "aw dude you can see her ******* poking out" "she must be asking for *** with this picture/outfit/gesture/whatever the **** it is" well I want to say I'm TIRED of the shaming, the judgement, and harassment of people, not just women but people, being themselves and showing their bodies. we are all the same, we are all human. We all have the SAME. BODY. *******. PARTS. And if you can't handle that, a fact of life that is in your face every single day, then what the hell are you doing? Skin is and will always be strictly skin; it is an amazing thing, protecting our insides and keeping us sheltered, so why are we ashamed of it? Why do we place bans and judgements and assumptions on something so beautiful and substantial to living? Why is it so sexualized that a woman can't even breastfeed her child in public without saying "ew gross I can see her *******". Who ******* cares? EVERYONE has *******, and ******* for that matter. I bet people weren't saying that in Rome when people were always naked because it was considered "purity" but now that is the opposite in today's terms. So many wonderful pieces of history are being watered down or suppressed simply because *** and ****** are too "touchy" of subjects. Well I will not let such an artistic, beautiful, and innate thing such as my body be limited to what someone has to say about it or who it offends.

At the party,
I saw faces
    painted passionately
In  smiles and laughter;

Eyes sparkling
          like Crystal
In every hue of inebriation;

Hands clapping
     Extended waves
Of cheerful celebration;

Lips smearing
      lavish layers of
Love on captive ears;

Friends toasting
   The Life
With Ciroc, Moët and beer;

Hollywood wannabes rocking
     Bootlegged Ray-bans
In the dark;

Buzzed ex-lovers
         waging battles
Of the heart;

15's smashed
      into 10's,
Flashing rolls of flesh;

Uncle Johnny
    in his Walkin' glory
Stumbling way past 'when';

'83 Hustlers
         in furs and fedoras
Feasting on free treats;

Soul Train rejects
    moon-stalking
On two left feet;

iPhones and Samsungs
     Making memories
For the curious web;

PotHeads
   in the smoky loo
Getting bloodshot red;

At the party,
  The  living colors
   of life
Piqued my creative core...

And
   I saw
poetry
      in motion...

~ P
(#AtTheParty)
3/3/2014

Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.

Were you ever in love with someone not
Listed as an approved relationship
By roaming mobs of false analogies
In either-or assumptions basely masked?

Friendship and love are regulated now
Not by a written fiat of the state
But by the decibels of imbeciles
The bellowed mandate of the club and fist

The law of love is now the law of bans -
They’ve politicized even the touching of hands

If I could extract the
evergreen envy from
the eyes of friends.
I would paint it between the lines
of the Sugar Maple tree limbs.

Tainted red orange leaves
of such trees is the end
of the sweet summer pollen.

For the apricot forests
and chilled mornings,
dipped into pumpkin spice lattes-
Leaves me knowing that
the everlasting sunsets
that we once held
is slipping through the cracks,
of our now frozen fingertips
and chapped lips.

From tank tops to
sweaters with holes
that my thumbs peek through,
as I grasp my tea where
the warmth of
your hands should be.

Traded midnight blues eyes I fell into
and engulfed in the beautiful galaxy
that was hidden behind Ray-Bans.
To blank stares that I've learned to trust
but they don't glisten like us.

Can I please,
fish through my purse once more,
aimlessly wander the street corner,
dig between cushions
and hear the click of the hours reloading
as I fill it with orphan coins
and rewind?

the slow kisses that turn into hot breaths exhaled into each other's throats
biting at your lips thinking i can pull out your words. stuck in your head. with the blood i draw
the marks i make are war wounds, baby, and i am proud of each vessel i pop
purple looks good on you. what a ******* color.

beat beat through the silences and internalizations. the anger and the insecurities.
******* trample that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel like you are nothing but the skin on your stomach.
you are not just the skin and tissue and chub on your stomach.

lovely, you are more than your stomach. and your ray bans. and your binder that does such a good job at pushing in what is unwanted and pushing out the breath from your lungs-- your very sustenance.
my dear, you are more than your eyeliner, or lack thereof.

you are more than the way you ****** me last night. and this morning.

pretty ,darling boy. i want more slow kisses that turn into hot breaths. more lip bites drawing enlightenment. blood slicking the tips of my fingers from exploring.

i want morning breath dreams still entwined with your exhale onto my neck. bickering mom and daddy.
who knew we had voices other than moans. who knew gender theories would cross our lips and *** analyses would be common car topics.
the "fffffffff" you make in bed also start the sentences of your fury. yelling at the gas station ****** who misgenders you.

******* *******, I JUST WANT MY **** CIGARETTES.

Leather coat. Oxblood.
Denim jeans. Faded gray.
Rhinestone belt. Black.
Wrinkled button-up. Charcoal.
Old Ray-Bans.
Silver necklace with a brass cross.
Canvas boots. Burgundy.
Three Moleskines. Brown.
Two pens. Red and blue.
Six picks.
Twenty seven dollar and thirty four cents.
One beaten down carrying case. Black.
My guitar.

The whole is greater than the sum
of its parts
but just barely

I might as well be a polystyrene box floating through the city
dodging traffic
bartering breakfast
strumming heartsongs in subway dens

Oh. One glass pipe. Clear.
I forgot that, it belongs on the list.

Okay I didn’t forget it.
I lie, sue me.

Getting high
or low is just a part of me though
and some people think it’s all of me.

Some people look at me like
I don’t have a home, which makes me angry,
not because they’re wrong,
but because they always look disgusted
with I think they should look concerned.

My guitar case likes to change itself from time to time.
Sometimes it’s with the seasons
and sometimes it’s with the sun,
but generally its with the sparks in my head
and how it reflects them.
I’ll wake up round 6
underneath the Williamsburg brudge
with warm bacon in my nostrils,
cold sun on my skin,
and my case will show me the WD
on it’s back
and tell me it means “Wonderful Day.”

On snowy Sundays in Battery Park
it’ll flop down on a quiet curb
and whine, “Warmth ******.”

I’ll amble up Prince Street through the holidays
looking for breathing buildings.
He’ll jump from my right shoulder to my left
and whisper, “Where’s Dad?”
He goes back to my right shoulder.

I like to laugh when I walk past Starbucks,
any old Starbucks,
because everybody in there is from Seattle
and they came all this way for a cup of coffee.

I came all that way too,
but I don’t think it was for a cup of coffee.
I lived with a girl named Cat
or a girl who had a cat
in an old walk up across from a Quizno’s.
Cat gave me coke.
The girl
not the cat.

I remember she
or we
had an ivy green front door
because I’d stay up and stare out the peephole
watching people come home late.

My neighbor and I still hang out our wash,
(I, each Thursday, taking my chances.
She, according to weather forecasts, I think,
or maybe by what she feels in her bones).
We laugh at StarTribune's report of some suburban bans
against clotheslines.
We wonder out loud whose tomatoes will first turn red,
and whether cucumbers will make it at all;
this year, it's been too cool and dry
for normal progress to the fall.

Tenacious dandelions, spread as stars across green-earth skies,
drive in spike-like roots, take hold of earth, and won't let go.
Kids squeeze bunches of stems in tight fists
that will open only to release the buttery bouquet to Mom
who hurries to put them in water, in a crystal vase,
wondering how soon she might mourn both flower and child.

While hanging bright, white unmentionables (some somewhat tattered)
on our clothesline, I, unembarrassed, remember my mother:
   with one clothespin held in her mouth
   and half a dozen more in her apron pocket,
   (thus needing not to walk over and over again
   the east-west path to the back door  
   where full supply of pins hangs on the ****)
   she does her woman's task with flair,
   spacing each garment so as not to block the sun or air.

You'd think she'd held some tool to calculate
where the sheet would best allow the breeze to circulate
or where to place each pillow case and sock,
so each would recognize and meet their mates!
And I know she theorized regarding how to hang those socks,
always with the toe pointed upward, so as not to show,
when dried and worn, a crease or ever-so-slight evidence
of the pin's pressure displayed for all to see
on the exposed ankle,
as if that might be a matter
worthy of shame.

i woke up this morning ******* from the night
before about something petty
my ***** itched from sweating all night
forgot to turn the heater off
passed out drunk, didn’t really forget

work called me in early
so i missed my morning ******* and ****
coffee was cold; who am i kidding the coffee was old

******* in korea with more threats, government bans
something else, electric is due and i’m tired as ****

work sent me home early
said i stunk from last night, who are they kidding
i’m still drunk

bomb went off in boston, who ******* knows who
did it, bunch of ******* wack jobs living in this country,
gun lovers, gun haters, baby lovers, baby haters, *** lovers,
*** haters, very few lovers of love but even they fight at
night when the shower runs out of hot water

all i know is my ***** are blue and stink with pain

SO WHAT.
Deal with it. It won't stop
probably so deal with it or
haha nevermind silly, just
move on to something else.
Who gives a **** about headphones
advertisements in the middle of
hypnotizing music from her stores?
The larder is – behind that door – you
can't enter no matter how hard you
try, that is music there. There's nothing
physical, no floors no walls no just music and you can open the door.
What you hear won't make sense and it will blot out all other
senses but there she is striding past me and walks
inside.

because that's where she belongs. This is not my comprehension. In she went,
and I will never see her again but hear her as she has infiltrated the
realm of organized sound to contribute to the beautiful lustful chaos. She
has only just begun, I realize. There is no end, though there was a beginning;
she has fractured infinity casually as sipping water from tea cups in faux-innocent
sunlight filtered through a hangover on something you're pretty sure was called a
veranda but that's more a polite curiosity than a serious one so you content yourself to take in
this retrospectively invented image of her in Ray Bans and anything but pants with her scars
embossed and tattoos in a rare moment of silence preceding the moment of sound where she asks  
why you're looking at her like that, and you hadn't realized you'd done it again, shifted to the
future you reflecting on the present moment to grasp the intangible, to outline the undefined to
alter the fixed and whatever other paradoxes you happen to be causing at the time because you've
accidentally, temporarily transcended again, so you're really just along for the ride with your
pretty little thoughts of her and this veranda or whatever while she's smoking a cigarette you
offered her so enjoy it while it lasts. Whatever you do, enjoy it while it lasts, and go easy on
yourself, you're just a kid after all, remember. Remember. and don't forget

He's a rather proud man
  Rather proud of his appearance.

Crisp suit
   Bowtie just right.

Ship-shape shined shoes.
   Lapel aligned.

Hair slicked left
   Right hand tucked in his pocket.

Ray Bans perched on the bridge of his nose
   And the slightest little grin
Almost trying to say
   "I told you so."

He's a very precocious man
   A man who knows.

We roll
on the magic carpet into the outward reaches
to wrap abound bodies in communal hugs
atop magical tye-dye mountains and black and white rivers
of Peter Max the hushed whisper of
red bird hair ***** into a conversation
flying further into the horizon that is my dawn light glowing chest.

We roll
over each other on the floor sofa laughing,
like you see in the movies
of delinquent bohemians celebrating life with beers and
pills you swallow. Feels like the puppet strings
on our wings have withered; free to flail.

We roll
our bodies & eyes
backward-forward-sideways together with the music
wryly dancing as the world turns into a desert--

every molecule in our bodies warms--slowly,
like a hot bubble bath,
the earth takes its time spinning....
unlike our Sufi brains still rolling
rolling
and rolling like a stone down a hill betwixt a meadow
between two excited lovers in a cliched scene where
they are running toward each other--
naked with tattoos on their arms
and a smattering of neon orange and blue paint speckling their bodies
while they wear a native american headdress and Ray-Bans.

On a Pan American traverse,
we skirted across the Altiplano
somewhere near Titicaca,
worked our way
through the chicken bus line
up to the lone road stop.
A mere shack
with government thugs
hiding inside,
suits wearing ray bans
& checking tourist-bags,
as if they were
making a difference
with the war on drugs.

I rue the day I lost faith in myself,
let negativity take over sober thought
and say to me my chances are shot,
to be content at a morose trot fowling maps of my life that strangers plot.

Is Life just a spinning gun? , a game of luck.
Revolving on, in endless loops leaving me stuck in the muck.
Waiting for my turn to tug the trigger as the steak gets bigger
and my goals and dreams are self-dammed,
the fires that burn them self-fanned.
My mind imposing dark bans on self-success as I tell myself “I’m a mess”

what would happen if I focused and give my best?
What would happen if before I play i open the magazine and abandon the bullet?
Would I do better if I wasn’t so worried I’d shoot myself?

If before I play i dare to prepare and tell myself I will win because the bullets gone and that negative voice binned.

I Think I could.

ducks need water
possums need acting classes
a horse needs to run
ligers need fans
and monkeys need macadamia nuts
I need some ray bans
dogs need love
cats need mice
like mice need hide-aways
I REALLY NEED those Frye boots
mosquitos need blood
and fire needs air
water needs a pathway
I need a new weave
feet need ground
sails need wind
Louis needs a direction
and I need their new cd

Sitting in my red Lambo
the wind breathing down our backs like a perve
I look to my right after working up the nerve
She's sipping that malt like nobody's business
Her hellcat smile barely containing a playful tongue
Funny, I never thought I'd be jealous of a straw

My Ray Bans refract the setting Sun's spit onto her shades
We play tag with it before tossing the light through the windshield
Doctor Dusk gave us the full dosage
The tires grind on the gravel of our asphalt Neverland
I Peter Panic when she sheds her masquerade
She's got stunning mocha eyes frosted with truthful lies
I see her spirit phasing into my chest
A pair of luscious lips giving my heart a crimson kiss

She tells me I carry the scent of leather and sorrow on my sin
On hers, I discern daddy issues and untapped sin

The girl's as broken as I am

Sure, I might occasionally be smarmy and sick
by no means, though, a consistent ****
Her giggles wash all the bad days away
so my Lucifer impressions melts her ears with a

*"Baby, wanna play?"

She is as far from a morning
Person as her Volvo V70 is from

The speed limit as she drives me
To the riverside bus stop.

Leopard patterned one-piece
With little leopard ears on the

Hood, pilot Ray Bans covering
Eyes as red as her station wagon

And as narrow as her appreciation
Of my pre-5am sense of humour

When I giggle at how those little leopard
Ears bounce along with every

Bump in the road.

Giulani ...

looking much like

a radiated & mutant tortoise

from the walking dead,

& the always golden-hearted

Judge Jeanine Pirro

casually chat

on Fox News

all chuckles & smiles

about Muslim bans

& refugees,

while youngsters

languish in camps,

die in cities,

get cold

in mountains.

Chuckle on
you two
chuckle on.

February - 45,000 people in one week watch performances of rokabirī music by Japanese singers at the first Nichigeki Western Carnival.

February 14 – The Iranian government bans rock & roll, claiming that this form of music is against the concepts of Islam and is a health hazard. Iranian doctors warn of the risk of injuries to the hips from the "extreme gyrations" of rock & roll dances.

March 12
Billie Holiday is given a year's probation by a Philadelphia court following her arrest and guilty plea on narcotics possession charges in 1956.

In Hilversum, Netherlands, 'Dors, mon amour' sung by André Claveau (music by Pierre Delanoë, text by Hubert Giraud) wins the third annual Eurovision Song Contest for France. Domenico Modugno places third for Italy with 'Nel blu, dipinto di blu' which, retitled 'Volare', will reach No. 1 in the US Billboard Hot 100, and will win two Grammy Awards next year for Record of the Year and Song of the Year for 1958.

and amongst other things, Sylvia Plath writes a poem,
a modest insertion to the world of history and chess,
but nonetheless more spectacular -
all that candy, all that ******* candy,
the smiles the pristine pomp - the goody suede shoe gimmicks,
but there she is, ravenous woman of the swamp,
one of the Graeae - question is, one tooth cannibal
shared or one eye to see Pericles?
ever wonder why poets solely keep the Grecian myths
alive and not involve themselves with saintly tales
akin to Assisi? boring as cow **** fried with shrimps,
that's me and father jack (father ted, a sitcom)
on the matter... but seriously, the celestial beast that
Sylvia Plath is given her housewife circumstance,
no girl this dying age would write such magnifique
superstition - well, that's pomp in-itself,
i don't know, call me stupid, but globalisation is
hardly an argument to expect being well informed,
i have a graveyard for a library, or the other way round,
i'm reading books that desire to be kept in a winery,
for example... well, anyone will do to fit the following
words: a château 1865 - pompous ******* 'n' all,
but you see, what gets me going is 1958 and the poem
Perseus: the Triumph of Wit over Suffering.
i don't care who won the chess tournaments,
or if Elvis was a high-tonne larder than usual -
whatever the hip-replacement tactic of Iranian doctors
was like, for ****'s sake... this is a religion that
puts emphasis on prayer and "music" five times a day...
the Islamic call to prayer is sang, it's not hamstrung,
it's not smoked salmon, it's not Catholic petition
murmur, it's sang... ting a lick'ah ling...
******* church-bell uvula (i know i swear, oath words,
i told you, in polish kurva is a conjunction word
akin to the Achilles heel,
mind you, a cure seeing **** than seeing f&!k
might help with the **** addiction, and...)
i mean i wept listening to an adhan once,
but please don't get me wrong,
if you'd take Mozart to be rain tapping,
and a bunch of cooking saucers to be a drum-kit what then?!
i don't like Islam for one reason... i love music too much,
and, from the way i see it, Islam doesn't like music,
even though i don't like castrated choir boys either
penetrated by the almighty papa who pretends to
be a Jew with his kippah, i'd rather listen to music than
that godforsaken recitation about 72, and how
pomegranate juice will sustain me better than
a whiskey on the rocks... the end, pa pa!

He's tending the garden.
Earth on his hands
Sweat on his neck.
Sprinkling seeds
From freshly spent flowers.
I can't see his eyes behind his Ray Bans
But I know they're focused, delighted
Observing the occupants and visitors
In his cultivated oasis.
To keep the garden nurtured,
protected,
is critical.
He worries when the storms roll in.
How will they fare?
But he does what he can.
He rids the area of weeds
And cares for slender stems.
It's a promise kept
To tend and till.

In the garden he's a father too.