◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

(Authors of (obligatory)
Redemption: what is true genius if it ain’t dead yet?
Let you, who **** it, not be present for its resurrection.)

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

i had a nightmare:

i opened the door of my ranch-house in the boonies of
southern pa.
out-into the grasses of the old Congo;
There stood the Lion.
20 feet away
i, frozen in the magnitude of his vision;
spirit, dominated by his
completely;
Not even a growl.
i remained
paralyzed—he licked the backs of his paws
and combed a wiry mane...
…a halfa-second was a year if it was a halfa-second now...
but
somewhere in there
i regained my legs and without knowing
pivoted,
grabbed the doorknob. Twist. Open. Step inside.
turn to close the...doorway is gone, the house has vanished
And
HE WAS RIGHT ON TOP OF ME

i was nothing but-a body of plastic fear
molten,
melted and cast into mannequin limbs and head.
i could feel the Lion’s entire, real
spirit crushing spirt
on my hollow caste self.

his breathe stunk of blood that
forced my replicaego into infant curl…
…Finally, the beast roared a canyon
i shivered!
a shiver that shook inside my head
thru the spine to shake
my bones inside the bed.

Thru the constricting red curtain of bloodclot eye
spy the tiny eclipse
of the Black Crow inna massive sheet of african sun;
i must be dead already.
The Lion feels the Crow perched onna cape fig nearby
and his muscles tighten accordingly, his beastly hunger
displaced by boiled-blood anger.

Eye-to-Eye
with the beast
where Fear has reached saturation-point;
it is Nothing if it is Everything…
…the Crow lets out a hiss
like spikes of radio-static, interrupted by series
of whooping-caws…
…stomach vibrated by the Lion’s low,
almost internal growl. For the
first time, his tranquilizing orbs
divert from mine
to capture the Black Crow perched on the dying cape fig.
uncertainty taps my shoulder…then…i feel my body;
the weight releases
and as i motion to rise from the grass and dirt, the Congo dissolves and i’m
sitting up on my mattress with broken springs in the humid
summer slumber of southern pa.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

-What security?
programmed,
under deep-cover;
jungian re-uploads. Them. Resurrected witha blackmarket
medicine a Witch Doctor devolution;
Replicate, regenerate, forever
<01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01100100>
Bottom feeding grave robbers and tomb vandals are all they are!-

-Better check what ya put down here…liable to shape a ghoul,
and you know this haunt is made-up of enough spooks-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Professors of chaos preach:
O wanderers!
write me the manifesto
walking atop a line of hot coals
-I smell me some burning soles-

(They intend to:
Pour, pure from cold-clear spring-spout
      into muddy-brown-clay, dissolved,
rushing against dried-up bones of gully-walls…
…the Crow just sits above
         and laughs there

Don’t ya see it?)

History
is not about the past,
but
about what the present
can mold the past
into
for the future.
-the marble’s trajectory sure to
flip onnit’s axis d’pending on which record you dig-

(One mistake
can a coward make
or
one accident happen
up-on that a martyr stake’d.
etched in the rut of each separate fate;)


The lion
must roar for his P R I D E
        (or?)
lion wears his hide
as a mascot
Black Crow eats crow egg blues
        black crow spotted me yellow in the bushes
pants down, gun-in-hand
-send your prayers-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

the
boonies
where you are
in the outback, and
the middle of nowhere, but
y'all like callin' it "God's Country"
because it's a place which is tended by God
where businessmen have yet to overrun and ravage
to fell forests,and clear acres of land for cozy developments
and it's a place where you are dangerously closer
to the wild elements and are self-reliant
comfortably near to the natural
free of the 'pressures' who
could encroach upon
your space and
freedoms
wow

“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole ******* sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.

“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.

White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.

Most get dropped off or fly
Hate to say goodbye
12 hour bus ride
Half by train
From so-cal to nor-cal
Part of two worlds
That will never unite
One my hometown
The other where I spent my adult career
Towns differ buy I made my way
Hippie town healthy living
Other full of brown proud of the town
sunny days shine on city
Rainy days in the boonies
One I get love the other filled with hate
I don't care where I'm at I want to be great

There are so many in the world who suffer
Whose lives are broken, bitter, rougher
Who are forced to grow up quicker, tougher
They aren't just in the ghetto
They aren't just in the boonies
They are all around
like oxygen
All these people trying to begin
again
And maybe if we could unplug our earbuds for a minute
and plug them into their hearts
we would listen
and we would know
and we could hug
and we could donate our shoulders
and our hands to hold
To people who suffer, the young and the old
Then they wouldn't feel so lonely,
Cuz they would hear our hearts too
and we could sit on park benches and know it was true.

i have to catch up on all you sent. but yes very intense, and been my life for years now. to tell the truth, longer. but good news we saved the world , we all did, turns out there is this guy in the boonies of the ozarks who they say seems to be tied to all existance or at least powerful people with pwerful toys tie events to his moods , and he like suddenly fixed it all in the blink of an eye, with the help of everyone and of course our good Lord, and Grace and Love. wow, who would have thought , some hillbilly with flaws and a tourtured life , intensified in the last ten or so years, turns out to be that guy, yep that guy with the job no man would ever wish to have, the job of intitiating the saving of all existence by making it so, simple as that. jack. here check it out and be sure to read all the other peoples posts in the maion area thatr are rather interesting in the effects the world has when a man feels it as much as he sure does. wow the guy feels a lot and i mean wow, so much so the world reflects what ever people do to him, glad all the world love and not hate, and are caring to ensure he is hapopy as he ensures he is happy, cause arent we all tied to the existance just the same, . well most i would suspect, but if it is  hypothetically just him that is, then i cant think of a better guy to have turned down the parts that were offered, and just did the job that was needed for all to benifit and not just be greedy like so many have been to him, he really did us all a service by just being that rather wonderful and kind man he realy is. i thank the guy. truly. here is a link.
http://hellopoetry.com/ricci-moon-scott-crow-moon/
hellopoetry.com
hellopoetry.com
Oh p.s., amazing how well balanced the guy is, no massive ego, no power tripping, just forgivness and kindness with a tantrum here and there as well, a real person should have. but, yeah, amazing and he is not too bad looking , well, if you are into that  sort of look, but i can forgive the odd things he does, i mean, could you imagine the stress a guy must have doing that job and never asking for it, in fact refused it time and time again so people would not worship or mistake him for some other guy. i mean wow, freaking thoughtful and careing guy, he even humiliated himself several times just to cause the argument to be realevent that he could in no way be the main power guy, cause chossen one or not, he sure a heck held the good things in the right and justly chose to give and also recieve the possitive and teach all that pain is real, and emotions are more, and well a bunch of stuff that said, hey open your mind and consider the odd things, whether true or not, cause we can not have a future of amazing and joyous if we limit our thinking and feeling, and he did it all under the eyes of the world, even editted to look like a bad guy, not unlike bane joker or some weird o who uses crayons to paint the scenes, yeah, some folks thought that would be fun, glad the world saw through the lie of those trying to harm him, his family and the world, cause he really withstood and seems many great people really sacrificed a lot to keep them safe, and i am grateful, turns out hes not a bad guy. even if he endulges in things we all turn a blind eye to it, i mean, come on, you seen that level of preassure in a job with no time off ever? 24/7 365  all day everyday. wow the guy is , okay. i guess. just hope i can do half what he tried to do, cause i am sure it took one heck of a toll and he is just ready to heal and enjoy saving it all, with the help of everyone and well all only by the grace of God, God's will not his nor anyone elses, God sure did save the day when this guy decided to say, hey, enough. and asked the lord for help. smile. you saved the world matthew. thank you. really, i mean it.

A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection

HIGHWAY TO HELL

It took several weeks for me to get my act together to go to LA. The first thing I had to do was find a ride. Fortunately (or, as some would say, *unfortunately) there was someone in the Mission in my hometown who had also been recruited. He was to be stationed in LA permanently. He offered to give me a ride with him. So I packed my bags, and off I went to see the Wizard. But it sure didn't turn out to be no yellow brick road...

First of all, this guy had a bad temper. He seemed to go off at the least little thing. I really didn't like him very much. He didn't mind me, really. He was just like that. A man with long sandy brown hair, a light beard on his gaunt face, which was permanently set in a sour expression. He didn't want to stop for food. So we brought our own vittles and sodas. He didn't even want to stop at the rest area so we could eat. He just wanted to go go go...

Now, I told this guy that I couldn't drive. From the very beginning of the trip he knew this. I was 19 years old and I had only driven once before in my life. And it had been a really horrendous experience. I had been out in the boonies learning to drive with my boyfriend. In a rainstorm. And the roads had gotten flooded... Along with the car. We were stalled for about an hour, with wet brakes, and water everywhere. Well, this guy was  inexperienced, too. And after we were able to start up again, HE PUT ME BEHIND THE WHEEL ONCE MORE! It seemed like it would be okay. I drove for a few miles and everything was hunky-dory. But then I approached a T intersection... there were two cars approaching my vehicle! Not only that but there was a stop sign. I applied the brake. NOTHING! That Pinto WOULD NOT STOP! I had NO TIME TO PUMP THE BRAKES EITHER! So I put on the accelerator full blast! If I had not done that I would have been T-***** by both those cars! So I was going about 35 miles per hour across the road through a barb wire fence! And into the weeds! I then fishtailed the car until it stopped. There were two Cowpoke's standing outside of the grocery store that was at the T intersection. Doubled over with hilarity! They saw me fishtailing and shouted out, "YEEE HAAAW!" Not a stellar experience. Therefore I was a nervous driver...

So halfway through this road trip to LA this dude got tired. He wanted me to drive. I told him I couldn't drive, and that I had told them from the very outset that I could not. He got furious! "I'm not stopping at a rest stop and sleeping!" He insisted that I drive. "It's a straightforward highway! No rocket science!" So, much to my chagrin, I got behind the wheel.

I already knew the basics. But there were a lot of things I didn't know, as I was to discover. It was actually fun! I played the radio real low so he could sleep. Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Eagles. Santana. The miles rolled on. Then I looked at the gas gauge...

we were nearly on EMPTY!

Well, I tried to wake this guy up. He seemed to be like a dead man. Except that he snored like a steam shovel! He would not respond to any of my shouts and prodding. Then... A miracle! A gas station, by God! And on my side of the road, TOO!

I went to pull off. After all, how hard could that be? I slow the car down to take it down the off-ramp. But the car, of course, accelerated on its own due to gravity...
Nervous as I could be, I hit the accelerator instead of the brake... we went through that gas station doing 40 miles an hour!!! Nearly hitting a gas pump and a PAPER BOY on his BICYCLE!!! I've never heard such navy blue language coming from a youngster in my life!

THAT woke the dude up. He put his foot on mine and slammed on the brakes... bringing all our LUGGAGE in the BACK SEAT UP to HIT US BOTH UPSIDE THE HEAD!!

I've never seen a man as enraged as that guy was. He was puce with trembling FURY!! needless to say, I didn't drive again. And he was a LEADFOOT Bigfoot, yelling at me at every opportunity, for the rest of the trip to Los Angeles.

The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ******* with a sultry sweat on the brow!”

The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”

A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”

Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.

God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.

Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.

The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”

The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.

i went for a drive today
the rain pitter-patterned as rubber
tires hydroplaned across the concrete and i
pressed play and sang to the mix tape

i couldn't see the moon or the stars or
you. i couldn't see more than 20 ft. in any
given direction. i listened to the cadence
as thunder crashed and thrashed H2O
across my dashboard

and for a moment there the whole
world froze, a hundred million raindrops
posed in suspension and i wondered if
this might be the way that i die—out too late
on a Wednesday night drive—and i thought
if i crashed and burned if the rain would douse
my charred corpse in time to leave a body
for them to put in the ground. would you
fly non-stop to Orlando just to see me lowered
down? what is the dollar
amount that's just too much? could i even say
i'd do the same for you?

then time resumed and rick-rocked me back
to reality and i felt a grim smile tug
me away from the brink as i passed an abandoned
church flooded out in the boonies. lightning flashed
above a lake in the distance and i realized i'd spent
almost 3 years god-free. so why was i
so worried about you?

have i been pulled apart in a 1,000 different directions
criss-crossed like stretch marks
a demon's clawed across my stomach?
i try every day to meet the eyes of
the man in the rear-view mirror but
i can't even remember their color anymore

The factory is dingy.
Black floors wear
oil lines, deep scratches,
and metal scraps.

The tools are worn
with rust and age lines
like the ones in ancient pines.

Giant fans block out
all normal sounds.
Spider webs cling precariously
to the orangeish red moving things
that hangs from the ceiling.

Cracked and ***** large garage doors
beep like garbage trucks backing up.
Rotten wood rises. Wind rushes in
cooling my sweat soaked skin.

A rusted cage openly displays
all the expensive implements
the workers need to get through
the long nights and longer days.

Office in the middle;

Black and green machines
run so loudly.
Scattered all around
those rough machines
are stacks of metal stairs,
spools of metal wires,
and puddles of water
which from the roof
that needs worked on.

This place is ***** and chaotic
out in the boonies.
I like it way more
then the antiseptic one
I worked at before
because it has more history
and character.

I would have sworn I could see
him out in the boonies of Vietnam toting a rifle
not worrying about a trifle
or pushing a broom and working
nigh custodial work
Not all the above, it's just the sense of
"regular man"
He wouldn't get a ten
in looks
but his weather beaten skin shows he knows
too about the blind man on the New York subway
pushing a tin
as in cup
just to get a little sup
and now maybe
it's not Agent Orange,
the "regular man"'s
ruddy skin
but he's working in a field just to get a tan
You know
he's got what
would be called a weird sense of humor -
nothing like guffaws
in the Harvard Tumor,
I believe that's what one of their funny newspapers is called
and this "regular man" is worried about being tall -
just so he survives with a nice-tasting cigarette
danglign from his lips
and holding a nice beer in his hand
from which he wants to take a sip
I like to think
I know where he;s coming from
and that he's not ****.

*Charles Sturies

at the outdoor bar on the beach
And all the golf carts gather around.
Some Elvis and a few more beers
No millennials until sundown.

In that little deuce coupe,
the Beach Boys run around,
Surfer girl's a Pasadena lady,
And surf boards are all aground.

Now I long for yesterday
When oldies were the craze.
There goes the sun and I say,
Hey Jude, here's to better days.

I ride back to the boonies,
thinking when oldies were newsies.
Wake up little Suzie,
we gotta go home

i would have
withered away
the way insects
do at the bottom
of a local water tank

an old stray dog
panting between
street signs in the
boonies,

I have never fully
feared obscurity
but I would if I
slept like the dead
and found comfort
beneath a neon moon.

What we are aiming for
Is a good ways off; in the clouds;
Someplace yonder in the boonies;
Beyond our reach, or, in the middle of nowhere.

It is a pipe dream we’re lighting,
So remote we don’t see the smoke.

Our goals are far-flung;
Like another world’s offerings,
Where the deep blue skies are unattainable.

We are reaching for the higher fruit,
For a single bed in the Ivory Tower.

Visionaries are blinded beyond the pale;
Beyond the bounds, a good ways off;
Instead of grasping for the unearthly, the Utopian,
We must look next door;
Not at the moon or Mars or some galaxy
A million miles away,
To find what’s in our reach,
And grab it.

What a girl is bullied
Call Fat
Or other demeaning names or slurs
She decides to starve herself of food
And a physical and emotional beauty
She’s at the hinterlands of her existence
Boonies of life
Outskirts of society

As a man
Working with your hands is the most rewarding feeling one can know
I enjoyed building fences with the crackheads
Tearing the door frames off of a worn down trailer home in the boonies
Even washing dishes with the Mexicans and reformed jailbirds
I took my pitiful wages with pride because they were earned through these hands
The frats—effeminate men—and women never seemed to understand
Everyone says to do what makes you happy until what makes you happy doesn’t afford you a Bentley
Then all of a sudden
You
       Aren’t
                   Doing
                              ****.
Your ambition is called into question

Out passed the boonies,
and out passed the docks,
off of the paved road,
and on to the rocks.

No sidewalks, no street lights,
no stores to be found,
only open skies and pines,
song of birds only sound.

Crystal clear water,
as smooth as glass,
a deer walks on by,
mouth full of grass.

No cell phone reception,
and a cooler of beer,
a bag chair and tent,
I'm glad to be here.

Fishing rod and tackle box,
and some sandwich stuff to eat,
being on the backside of nowhere,
is one hell of a treat.

When you were lost, I showed you the light.

You could be living out in the boonies with 15 cars in the backyard.

When we met you were about to flush your life away. I gave you the courage and love to be strong. I lit the light ahead. I held your hand.

And when you found your path. You let go.

How is that ikizim?

It still hurts so much.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                        Camouflage in Trump Country

I walk into the cafe’ wearing a boonie hat
Although the boonies were fifty years ago
But I don’t look like a worthy comrade -
In Trump country you need good camouflage

I walk into the store wearing a barn coat
Although I have never owned a barn
But I don’t look like an NRA-rade -
In Trump country you need good camouflage

A patriot shouldn’t need to be a mirage
but -
In Trump country you need good camouflage