I. the apparition

i don't fear death,
i fear never being born;
i fear not my last breath,
but all the breaths in between;
how do i know i'm alive?

II. the left foot

for what purpose is the sun without its light?
for what use are eyes without their sight?
for what good is a left foot without the right?
and for what joy is a string without its kite?
will i ever be complete?

III. father

as branches grow to the shape of their roots,
as vermillion bloodies every spring with a drop:
could i escape original sin?
could i become a better man--
could i become my own man?

IV. aneurysm

would lightning dare blaze up a tree
that has yet to bear fruit?
would the gods dare strike down an artist
with a painting unfinished?
fate is neither cruel nor fair.

Photographs by Avedon

This was written in a friend's home in the Berkshire Mountains, on a Saturday morning, a few years ago.  Up early, I went exploring their bookshelves and found a book of Richard Avedon's photographs of average Americans out west.  Google "richard avedon photos of the american west" - then read the poem.  Please, for without seeing the faces, for this will make all the difference.  In the Berkshires, it is always chilly there, even in the summer sun.  This and other obscure references are better detailed in the notes.


Join my warmth and
my chill,
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
warms,
but still not
strong enough
to dispense
the lingering,
residual, remaindered,
breezy chill
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
emanates from,
the shadows
of the
deep wooded hillocks
of the
Berkshire Mountains.

Join my warmth
and my chill!

Upright jolted,
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.

For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
bookshelf explorer,
retrieves a book,
to find a new route
thru time and space
to the center of his brain.

Photographs by Avedon,
of my fellow Americans,
the Have Nots,
his "Havedons"
of the
American West.

These uncommon people
with whom I share
uncommonly little,
these drifters, the carneys,
the would-have-been cowboys,
busted blackjack dealers,
rattlesnake gut n' skinners,
coal and copper miners,
the hay truck drivers,
dirt so deep in
their pores ingrained,
colors and bloodies their souls,
browns their veins,
are the ones that
too oft,
go off first to
fight wars
in my name.

Photos untitled,
words unneeded.

In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
called the
United States of America,
top of the line here
would be
insurance agents,
secretaries and maybe even,
the waitresses.

But their eyes,
oh their eyes!

Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
immeasurable ache,
heritage pride,
heretical heartbreak,
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.

Disjointed,
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...

Yet, nothing eradicates
this ******* chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
eyes discolor
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
Avedon's words:

All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth

Pass over,
pass by,
The Evil Son at Passover
asks ever so sly,
what have they to do with me?

It is the Sabbath.
We luxuriate in our rest.
Rest is the greatest luxury

What is this Sabbath?
Heschel's cathedral -
existant both
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
one can.

Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
American cousins
share my Sabbath?

Are they allowed
this luxury,
or is it endless exertion,
severity and deprivation,
all and every day
of their lives?

Constant risk every day.

Who cannot fail to see the
precipitousness of life
edged in the lines of their
hearts and minds?

Day to day hardens them
and teaches the
discipline of
severity unended.

Is the prudence of
self-forgetfulness,
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?

Among the resolutions
I need
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:

How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.

Will sunset end these
troubling questions
of which you have
your own,
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)

Perennials flower everywhere,
in Auschwitz,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
that lead
to the mecca of
Las Vegas.

Perennials flower everywhere.

In warmth and cool,
in time and space,
they flower in my heart and
my brain and in
my prayerful tears.
flowing down my cheeks,
as I lay me down to sleep,
to dream these of
impoverished words

Havdalah^^ thoughts,
separations celebrated.

Distinctions noted,
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
Sabbath and
the six weekdays
of labor,
between sacred and secular
and
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.

I know
just one thing
to be true:

The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
whatever day
you choose to
abide there

I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
and the
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.

I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
restful sleep
in the
Sabbath Cathedral
in my heart.

Together,
at last,
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.



August 29, 2010
Lanesboro, Mass.

Bird against the night,
White fingertip against
A negative held up to light.

Whisper, soft by definition,
Work your maledictions
So I have something to react to.
The way you talk it would seem
Those words have been
Asleep for years. I’d
Hardly want you to
Strain- sprain anything.
Spring it on me,
Show the Bruce Lee
Of your larynx. Strike
Me or smite me, bury
Your fist and pronounce
That solar syllable before-
Before the storm cedes.

We’ve all been waiting for
The blue flick, the
Clear blur, the handle
Toward your hand. Spit
It into the light. I don’t
Really care, I just need it out.
Cut around it anymore
And you might inadvertently
Break the clouds. It’s a cheap
Trick but it’s all I ever had
Over you.

Night bloodies the beach.
A moral goes unheard  like
An ignored spectator.

from self-published collection The Blood You Don’t See Is Fake (poems, Sept 2013)

available on Lulu

auteurs

I am in your house
being you

when the boy
enters my house
with a sack of ash

to tell my wife
he has come
to avoid
a whole

personality

–

my wife is one to believe
she was carried
by child

–

listen,

a baby’s cry is the oral future of what touches the brain

individuation

in a previous imagination the boy was able to overcome his attention span. it was there he pummeled his pregnancy. I wanted a clearer image but was told to take the boy as is or not at all. I could feel his sister trapped in the same horror she was later revealed to be outside of. up until then, I was sad her whole life.

stressful events

a father and son argue outside a small town barbershop in windless ten degree weather. inside the shop, which is closed, the barber’s wife is clipping away at a wig. nearby, and quite by accident, an invisible man uncovers a fainting spell before which some will disrobe. namely, women declaring that the eye is always naked. who are these women?, ask my teeth, which are snow.

lacuna

Ohio 1976 I was given a word. a helluva word. I went unborn. a word my mother swallowed. a troublesome word. nervosa sans pretext. my father slept until his sleep became self aware. he paced. then gave me his word. stood over me.

Ohio 2013 you ***** on my shadow in an abandoned building outside of which a pregnant woman bikes herself into a garage door and bloodies her nose between sound and horn.

recovery

I fry a single egg
in a pan.

the sound places me
in one of my mother’s
teeth

as it dissolves.

I bring mother
the egg, and she believes
I am the same son
who brought her an egg
yesterday.

she eats the egg
over and over.

her attempted suicide
is not something
I know of. she keeps it to herself

in the person she was.

youth

a jailer
talking through bars
to a ventriloquist.

youth / spent trying to yank a doll
by the ear.

the wave

we let the phone ring out because it keeps the babies quiet. we have this dance we do to straighten side leaning semi-trailer trucks. the sports we play require that one’s sickness occur only when it’s run through the others. we limp beside any creature that limps. the great romance of a complete thought is something our parents plan to leave each other. our father is two mathematicians who argue. our mother says her feet feel as if they’re still in prison for what she’ll take to her grave. our guesses mean little because they are facts. at school we are voted on and kissable. if you see us coming, *** is a small unplugged television on top of a small casket. details belong to god.

stray dog leaping

the poor are beaten
from the future

they get off work
the day is hot
it’s ungodly

as ungodly as placing a single chair in a garage

the poor get home
the chair remains in the present

the dog
can’t afford to be here
appears mid-scene
in the backyard

the poor imagine
an electric fence
scrounge together
the amount they would pay
to fix it

& smile as they would smile
at the mindless sap
whose job it would be

whose chair it is

orb

the back of my mother’s head was spotted in an Ohio movie theater by a boy whose eyes were covered or maybe closed. I received word secondhand from the boy’s stepfather whose own recollection was marred by the violence he shied from to reach me. in fact, the theater was even possibly a drive-in where the boy remains in the bathroom standing on the toilet to avoid the knowledge he is no longer deaf. like most information regarding my mother, it hasn’t aged well. she’ll set the table at noon for two and drink her coffee and I’ll join her convinced no child dies from its hair being pulled. more secret than my son is his ability to withstand miracles.

earthling

not there when your mother
cries into a poison soaked towel
to a childish god
while kneeling
before the remnant heat
of an open dryer.

not there when your father
by the sound of it
breaks your arm
pressing it into
the shrunken right sleeve
of a shirt that should fit.

not there when your brother
spooked by a deer…

not there when my body
stops the procession

that one might be held in its image.

virtuoso

mommy I am stones. I am in the blacktop river. my veins have been used to unpiss cows. like my father after me I don’t want you to be my mother but you are. the men catch me with the fish they’ve eaten. they slap at me beneath a robe to make the robe move. I recognize my photo shopped savior as airbrushed. I blind whole neighborhoods with snowplow models of their choosing. if you receive this it means there is much more you haven’t. there are ashtrays no one makes anymore and tumors we don’t call phone-shaped. I am beautiful in the baby you sing to.

notes on the saints

younger times, I’d lose some of my hair when bathing the sick. now older, I am not a private person. I foresee helping father with his winter gloves and him thinking I’ve returned his hands. if sick, one shouldn’t be grateful for the inclusion. there’s a **** son in all of us.

I don't eat no beef
No **** no lamb no swine
Only on the verdurous etch
Doest I within my thine I dine

I don't eat Jellie and sauces slick with ill
Confounded with animal ****

Nor powders and honeys dripping and grime
Spent with the wretch of genocide's time

I don't hunt for game or trophy ****
I don't glorify **** or bile or swill

I don't bow to the customs and conventions of now
Now matter what serve of the demonic a sow

I don't **** my brother or sister for food
It's not blood on my hands that's reddened and hued
So why take the life of an innocent babe?
An animal born here of terrestrial habe?
What for the taste of delicious a flesh?
To accompany sauce Cantonese wan szech?
Or is it to sate gastronomy?
That bloodies the hands of you and me?
That forces the carnivore?
To act the ****** *****?
And ***** an animal innocent and bright
Is this self deified act requite?
What do you proclaim to be?
To ****** an animal's right to be?
A god with insight and power so great?
To forsake your right to heaven with hate?
Or a devil or demon anon?
To justify your sleepy murderous throng?
Or merely a human who follows the lead?
Of our common culture's bane banal creed?
So what is it that drives you to the deed exact?
To cut the throat of creatures in act?
Are you saying that murders ok?
And you'd enact this upon your own whether or may?
If you could knock or whack a human for merely the taste of its flesh?
And not because their discord did not mesh?
With your idea of what justifies life?
And end a being forever of strife?
Is it ok for aliens to prey?
Upon our earthen developments stay?
And enslave our species to sate their gut?
To fawn and feed and slupper and glut?
Because they have a higher IQ?
Or more dextrous fingers with which to hew?
Are you sure you want to be an unthinking one?
Of the masses maraud and to the deed done?
As somnambulist reaching with a laden gun
And end life forthwith no winner or won
Unless you count dinner to the taste of your tongue
Trained since a child to sing the song sung
Of the glory of meat as to salivate and savour
As if bowing to the idea of what will crave ya
Haven't you ever heard of an acquired taste?
Well couldn't we now apply this with grace?

How many ways can humans prove each other wrong? Let me skim the Library of “i know and i know” i can blow you kisses or punch your face, call you a loser or get you drunk with lips that pour sweet nothings. Sugary or bitter, with noise or dead silence, “your wrong” is the song to be sung. In a castle of pride locked and tortured by criticism, even a friend can turn foe in the realm of ‘i know, i know” But who can ever let go of the self-sacrificial blade that bloodies the soul into the sweetness of unseen pride? OOO our language is tainted with poisoned lips that drip gross mentalities of perfection on earth, something’s killing me in this world of ”i know” So here i go, eating bread crumbs that lead me back to where my heart once was and in that darkness so dank with tears, i found what i really KNOW…..NOTHINGGGGGGGG

lacuna

Ohio 1976 I was given a word.  a helluva word.  I went unborn.  a word my mother swallowed.  a troublesome word.  nervosa sans pretext.  my father slept until his sleep became self aware.  he paced.  then gave me his word.  stood over me.  

Ohio 2013 you ***** on my shadow in an abandoned building outside of which a pregnant woman bikes herself into a garage door and bloodies her nose between sound and horn.

Markings

    He asked the farmer, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the sun that burns
    his crops.

    He asked the fisherman, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the sea that drowns
    his ships.

    He asked the laborer, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the earth that burdens
    his body.

    He asked the soldier, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes
    it is the battle that destroys
    his home.

    He asked the priest, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the cross that bloodies
    his soul.

    He asked the child, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is his father that treads
    his worth.

have recently self-published a comprehensive selected work taken from the fourteen full-length, also self-published, collections of mine from years 2007-2014.  the book has a title, the women you take from your brother, and is 351 pages.  a PDF of the work will be sent to any making such a request of me at email bartonsmock@yahoo.com

link to the work is below, book preview is book entire:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/the-women-you-take-from-your-brother/hardcover/product-21758824.html

it includes work from the following publications-

the paper dolls have been cutting your hair
Grief Of Arm
Angel Scene
mating rituals of the responsibly poor
Ahistoric
Aggressive Kin
Hallelujah Lip-Synch
in the asylum we’d sun ourselves with angels
think ******* nothing on a farm machine
abandonesque
Stork Blood
town crier
We stole not the same bread
PLEA

sample poems:


lacuna

Ohio 1976 I was given a word.  a helluva word.  I went unborn.  a word my mother swallowed.  a troublesome word.  nervosa sans pretext.  my father slept until his sleep became self aware.  he paced.  then gave me his word.  stood over me.  

Ohio 2013 you ***** on my shadow in an abandoned building outside of which a pregnant woman bikes herself into a garage door and bloodies her nose between sound and horn.


the gospel

I lose the fat hero to thoughts of my own weight.
I make the bully too evil.

I shy from death
to be made
its lure.

I have a wife
board
what else
a train
to transport
the sadness
a *****
can’t.  

     my son
wonders
aloud
if all females  
are mothers.

if animals, talk.


jesus on the cross

my sister is sometimes obese.  she has mild heart attacks in cramped third floor apartments.  she gets beaten by schoolmates who impersonate hospital staff.  I am always going to see her it seems when she is in someone else’s bed.  it is to this thought she has recently clung.

U**nder this gleaming metropolis of glistening soot and dusk-wrought neon where the glint of warped metals meshes with the matte stone of forgotten monoliths, alone among the smoking alleys at the feet of the colossi, where the refuse of life struggles to cling to its short existence – dug into the niche of mortar and debris…dies the man.

     Through blistered, twisted lips; across a swollen and useless tongue rushes the smog and ash of a moribund city. Among the remnants of plenty and bounty, surrounded by the epitaphs of hopes and dreams sags the flesh of a forlorn and desolate being. Behind the cold, grey lens – worn long thin by atrocity and anguish – falls the gaze of the wise embittered soul.

     Across the winding paths of debris and twisted shapes, stretched thin by lives too quickly used, that infinite, tired stare falls. Upon the familiar and torturous vista of rubble and decay and struggle, recognition bids its due; and acknowledgement greets this truth: “All I see before me – this dull, and sorrowful struggle – all I see will meet its end. What looms before my eyes and hides beyond…all will perish.

     “As my brother bloodies his nails against the façade and spills his passion upon false altars, he will seal his fate and his soul will know no rest. And my sister will cry alone amidst the vastness at the expanse she has yet to cross; and she will cross it still, until her bones crack and grate against the pavement…and yet, she will crawl until her life, too, is spilled to mark her passing. And I will stand where they have stood, and bear witness to the crimson testament of their stubbornness. And I will not grieve.

     “For I have left my warmth to false gods. I have marched upon the zenith. I have bore witness, and bathed in the sorrows of my fellows, and cried at the torment I have found, and stood among the jagged peaks – these headstones of steel and strife – and there have I known my purpose.”

     There amidst the cold, hallowed edges of night and eternal sleep, the man lies alone. Atop the bones of his life and his companions rests the weary traveller, where strength has no hold and pain has lost its fangs; where the zenith meets the twilight and the wound bleeds no more. For the march will end, and the worshipper will fall, and the ash and the light will mix with the hum and stench and all will be lost to the frail, last glimpse. And give way they shall as the man removes his sight from his dark and dreary life and looks upon the stars as they dance through the whisps and ghosts and whisper his name and beckon his soul, and usher his life from the stones.

Travel to oblivion
And leech life from it
The throb of your arm
Bloodies the jar
Of some vainly collected cosmos
Irreverent in the face of your mandates
Or your pleas
Or your jurisdictions
Apparently the fool you are
Hasn’t met the fool you’ve been
Those calloused knees
Can’t help but crawl to heaven’s gate;
Two feet from it
And you collapse again
In some self-righteous descent
Back to Earth
Where Mother Epicuria
Spits in your face
And offers a novel treasure
“Oh my Savior my God
Spare me from this pain I abhor”
And in the same breath you beg
To be amorphous once more

Don't don't don't don't let it out they will hate you, it's not irrational it's not it's not it's not
You think to ******* fast, bile tumbles out of my mouth and poisons their ears
Shut up shut shut up shut up the shakes and spasms are the earthquakes of memories of a sword with a dull edge and a deadly hilt
They are not sore, and he bloodies himself with a ghost
Wrong ******* wrong, they all hate you, kindness as empty as disappointment

A wild god grants no wishes, but miracles spill from his lips; thick and crude and unpolished words that snap and bite at your ankles. And so do your footfalls cause the earth to tremble, for his gifts are not for receiving. A wild god’s blessings receive you.

He eats the flesh raw. A wild god carves no arrows, strings no bows, crafts no swords or axes. He scoops you from the river and sinks his teeth into you as you squirm, tender flesh giving way to the mouth that bloodies itself with doubt and hesitation and tremors of the mind. He deals in terror, takes fear in exchange for a glass of wine.

A wild god dwells in temples, sleeps on marble floors and wakes in the night for the hedonists that chant his name, singing Io, Io, Io! He slips into the crowd to mark the ground with footsteps and spittle and *****, chanting Io, Io, Io! What glorious decadence! What beautiful debauchery ensues on the mountainside.

A wild god ruins parties with the shades of lessons unlearned, entering cracks in the mind and festering, bringing forth memories of agony and aches and falling apart. A wild god makes walls when you run from ghosts, and smiles as you fall to your knees in tears.

For a wild god grants no wishes, but miracles fall from his palms; smoldering like charcoal and lighting little fires to keep you warm in the night as you learn to make your own. Up and up and up they rise, and the flames seem a beacon of hope.

A wild god raises the ground you stand on and whispers “Io.”

the end
is nigh

when ink blots drip on stark white pages  
curling and crawling along
the crisp white of paper
telling a chilling tale
of something sinister

it lurks in depths of devilry
heavy darkness scraping down strong
dragging its spiny black fingers along
the remnants of cordiality
puncturing at the corners of rationality
drowning all logicality
for you know it writes scouring all identity
building demons in intensity
peaking in tantalizing brutality

its contempt robs the light of your pages
albeit, this is a story familiar to all ages
for you know the chronicle of this beast
he who bloodies his teeth
as a begrudging and hateful feeder
whose name

is Jealousy
dear reader

heil to the Wharton chief firebrand -
more worrisome than an ovarian cyst
every race, religion, nationality,
gender, creed, et cetera with impunity dissed
brigand able, eager, ready and willing
to punch contenders throwing his fist
against rival – one nasty and brutish soul
after reading, you get the gist
how dictator wannabe lurching
with tremendous oaf fish shill

blatantly, flagrantly, and glad-handedly
zapping usurping power, breeding dissent
soundlessly slithering,
spreading vile disinformation
onto social media platforms
targeting undecided electorates
analogous to casting dark shadows
across the edge of night
hissed tory revoked eclipsed
loosing unfettered horrors.

Das boot trump out-
(oust him to) Waterloo
Eagerly awaits you
the bully in the white house and true.

Whit that, yawl get a lucky strike
if ya keep yar show
as my Reince prescience foretells this poe
fur one quarter off hiz terminal daze starring down
(with bad medicine), thee ole scarecrow.

╰☆╮ Thankfully, I'm not a royal heir
to the power monger hoarders╰☆╮
which comb hen might handy when borders
hermetically sealed - per heil hit lore
caw zing a furor with his stark jumbo je lay bean orders.

I don't wanna don a duck dynasty outfit,
or that of a woodchucker but...holy mother f*cker
and kudos to any heckler,
who deems steam roller trump as a mean trucker.

Thus - for the umpteenth attempt to post
without any intention
to induce rabid reaction to roast
my *** (albeit scrawny just to be cheeky),
I **** rye America will burn like toast
the legacy of democracy
transparent as a ghost
if....mister money bags - to the finish line
of presidential electorate, he doth coast.

My anti Donald trump screed continues tut try
tip picture conjure pixelated stress less or more
WE MUST DO MORE THAN YODEL LOUD:
(and preach to the choir)
out....out...get...life not death, he seems to ab ****
ding **** Donald drake...out...of...here...
without...his security detail or...coat....of...
(Emperor wears no clothes) armor.

I will not condone political measures
from that mane lion kapo -
jabbering indiscretion.

Herewith follows a poem
(concatenated with above lines)
I dashed off in a huff - to douse
dat auld don trumpeting joie de vivre
fin de siecle utopia of yesteryear
puffin sewerage bilge -
strike n horror n ma eyes -
for opinion aye espouse
based on scary political fracas
and looming nightmare -

whar mo' will grouse
to obstruct trump access
to black keys to white house
that a looming presidential nightmare
doth not become real - gruff louse
he will crush sacred freedoms,
whence western civilization goes off bluff
analogous to a rabid cat terminating
the life of more'n Mickey Mouse.

DUCK AFTER DUMP - PING THE DON -
a pipe dream that will never take shape.

Air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century mwm ape
serves as genuine s cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night)
on his witch a ma call it...
to escape temporarily the cares and concerns
of an uncertain world,
where as an outlier from madding crowd I gape

at the sheer insanity
trumpeting strumpets donning an innate
prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod --
seize ***** viz Caesar -

forever linkedin with maxim
Veni, Vedi, Vici - idolized statecraft motto
Trump perfects with his witch's brew he doth stir
his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir
wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir
paying Deep Purple bodyguards
to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the masses will let this country
go to hell in handbasket -
blithely purging the Iran Nuclear Deal,
The Paris Climate Agreement

plus rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret
Boom, boom, boom gotta get get
that totalitarian rule will force every man,
woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
turns a third blind eye speeds away
in his foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy Ross,
Condoleezza Rice, Nancy Reagan,

Barenaked Ladies, and Goo Goo Dolls,
how did the fickle finger of fate let
this pompous *** allergic
to law and order sowing,
loosing, and fomenting insurrection
crowdsourcing, wherever anarchy met
vacuums up majority votes
across world wide
quartered, (tattered), and webbed net
to finagle vox populi,

and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
with smashed face as his smart pet
GoLong Daddy story short -
pondering my rental circumstance
will be upended if this ret
chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish Don will set
the spark for world war three -
via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet
tureens within the sea to shining cyber sea

American crucible melting *** -
with verbal whips,
whose invective blast sucker punching
DACA, and those
who strain to uphold economic backbone,
he does NOT STOP to undermine stoop labor,
which anonymous backs,
he bloodies via twittering whetstone
unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman
or the Sabrina can oust him yet.

Hatred keeps the books
Taking stock of every thought words or deed
Revenge is its follow up
Until got spreads venom

Carries lot of baggage
Mind heavy with the luggage
Awaiting a draw
Ready with daggers drawn
Enemies standing  in every corner

A mind so hollow
Wastes time on things so shallow
The fight played in the mind
The shootouts bloodies the rest

Shooter and the shot
Ends up the injured lot
Added it to the log
Deep rooted hatred the fog
Prevents from seeing it all

No greater waste of time
Wishing Ill for someone else
I'll retained affect the imagination
Creating images of opponents everywhere

Bitterness and contempt
Loathing and antipathy
Toxic for the mind and body
Makes the Soul *****

Imaginary adversaries become
Reality
List of friends becoming empty
Reflecting the inside of the body
Mind comes up with new stratergies

Not worth the trouble going through this riddle
With no solutions in it
A labryinth without exit

Drug induced state
Of anger and hate
Step by step process
Start by giving it a recess

Aimless life meandering
Focus on the others falling
No growth for the self
Wishing same for another


Makes you live
In the past
Recalling every negative thought
Present not in the know
Future blinded forever

Balm of forgiveness
Only way out
Before the roots grow stronger
An axe becomes the need of the hour

Addictive in nature
Refuses to leave ever
With age growing mature
Peel off later by layer

Love for oneself
Peace and Rest
Love for others
Tolerance and Forgiveness

He wears an open mind
Like barbed wire
Thoughts pricked
Circling
A championship stance ready
Out waiting the gait  
To un click and spring open
Hurled and pounced
Flat and broken  
Mind bugging slaughter house failure
**** boy twisted  
And gangsta leaned
New swaggering fueled
Ill intent  
Trades mind set
For black heart  
Clank
Downed iron walls  
Downed time  
And street apprenticeship  
All bared bones  
And ivory closure
All turkey and no jive
Calls himself sweet feet  
In the canteen line
Mood fine seemingly  
But in the letter
An I miss you baby
Hold me down he begs
The phone line is long
But hear me calling
I never did  
She fails to see
The barbed wire  
Had sealed his fate
Thorny sting  
And a Mother gone
To too much  
His life had been never enough
But excess  
Of pseudo freedom
Piles of postcards  
And unused stamps  
Delivered
No where special
Days and days of trailer park revival  
And pressing a bunk
calamity’s currency  
Provides peanuts for clamshells  
Steamy art
And shadowed textures
The tattoo gun sting
Provides your name  
On his ***
And whipped into fury  
By slow trickled tepid shower
Regret slowly smirks his frown
His assault on liberty  
Bloodies his fist
Full contact sport
With solid walls  
Exhausted by the effort  
No strike will un loose them
He has lost so much
To permanent hold

The following words worth your time to read
no matter said poem crafted
maybe at most, a scant half score years ago
when forty fifth president
granted carte blanche to gut American government
poisoned seeds of life and white lily with dog speed
leaving the one tended garden of eden gone to ****.

Heil To The Warthog Chief Firebrand -
more worrisome than an ovarian cyst
or being brandshed with pugilist fist
upending the webbed
wide world of democracy he doth insist
guaranteeing United States of America
ship of state will severely list
then slipping into the behavioral sink.

Das boot trump out-
(oust him to) Waterloo
Eagerly awaits you
the then bully in the white house and true
as my Reince prescience foretells this poe
whit, that, yawl get a lucky strike
if ya keep yar show
fur one quarter off hiz terminal daze starring down
(with bad medicine), thee ole scarecrow!

╰☆╮ Thankfully, I'm not a royal heir
to the power monger hoarders╰☆╮
which comb hen might handy when borders
hermetically sealed - per heil hit lore
caw zing a furor with his stark
jumbo je ne sais quoi lay bean orders.

I dont wanna don a duck dynasty outfit,
or that of a wood chucker
but...holy *******
and kudos to any heckler,
who deems steam roller trump as a mean trucker

thus - for the umpteenth attempt to post
without any intention
to induce rabid reaction to roast
my *** (albeit scrawny just to be cheeky),
I **** rye America will burn like toast
if....mister money bags - to the finish line
of presidential electorate, he doth coast.

My anti Donald trump screed continues tut try
tip picture conjure pixelated stress less or more
WE MUST DO MORE THAN YODEL LOUD:
out....out...get...life not death, he seems to ab ****
ding **** Donald drake...out...of...here...
without...his security detail or...coat....of...
(Emperor wears no clothes) armor!

I will not condone political measures
from that mane lion kapo -
jabbering indiscretion!

Herewith follows a poem
I dashed off in a huff - to douse
dat auld don trumpeting joie de vivre
fin de siecle utopia of yesteryear
puffin sewerage bilge -
strike n horror n ma eyes -
for opinion aye espouse
based on scary political fracas
and looming nightmare -

whar mo' will grouse
to obstruct trump access
to black keys to white house
that a looming presidential nightmare
doth not become real - gruff louse
he will crush sacred freedoms,
whence western civilization goes off bluff
analogous to a rabid cat terminating
the life of more'n Mickey Mouse.

DUCK AFTER DUMP PING THE DON -
a pipe dream that will never take shape.

Air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century mwm ape
serves as genuine esse cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night)
on his witch a ma call it...
to escape temporarily the cares and concerns
of an uncertain world,
where as an outlier from madding crowd I gape

at the sheer insanity
trumpeting strumpets donning an innate
prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod --
seize ***** viz Caesar -
forever linkedin with maxim
Veni, Vedi, Vici -
idolized statecraft motto
Trump perfects with his witch's brew he doth stir

his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir
wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir
paying bodyguards to evict
ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the masses will let this country
go to hell in hand basket -
blithely purging the Iran Nuclear Deal,
The Paris Climate Agreement
plus rack up stratospheric global debt

cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret
that totalitarian rule will force every man,
woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
turns a third blind eye
speeds away in his foo fighter jet

argh...heavens to Betsy Ross,
Condoleezza Rice, Nancy Reagan,
and iggy pop  goo goo dolls
how did the fickle finger of fate let
this pompous ***
vacuums up majority votes
across world wide net
to finagle vox populi,
and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
with smashed face as his smart pet.

GoLong Daddy story short -
pondering my rental circumstance
will be upended if this ret
chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish Don will set
the spark for world war three -
via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet
tureens within the American crucible melting *** -
with verbal whips and chains,
whose invective blast sucker punching
DACA, and those
who strain to uphold economic backbone
he does NOT STOP to undermine stoop labor,
which anonymous backs
he bloodies via twittering witless
birdbrain rot, unless....
Katrina and the Waves, superman
or the Sabrina can oust him yet!