They say we are too young to know what true love is.
They say that long distance relationships never work.
They say that being "like us" is a sickness
So, I guess I'll never tell them how my ribs hurt every time my heart beats too hard when my plane
          lands and you love me with vaccine kisses.
I'll take my medicine without insurance because, you only live once YOLO
Unless you believe in reincarnation.
And I have to, because how could we be so perfect, know each others faces like a married couple
          knows the crows feet stories they grown into for 60 year, and I have only looked at you for 4
          months?
Lover, you asked me to come to church with you, I said yes.
I needed to thank him, or her, or whoever for answering my payers in a difference country.
To thank whoever for taking two candle burned pages and making them a book, a bible that I
          pray to every night.
And I may not believe in God but I believe in you and your past, which is chiseled into the banks
          of my bloodstream. The burred edges being eroded away by time and heartbeats.
They say we'll never make it.
They say we are too young.
They say Time + Space = heart break.
I say bring "it" on, specially if "it" means more ***.
I say I have been old enough to see slow wars silenced by fast hands, see starts die, see memories
         so old that only the boxes in my basement remember them.
I say Their Mouths + words = shut **** up!
They say a lot of things.
But I say "I love you" more.
They say a lot of things.
But kisses are silent, and or are the breathless laughs and eye rolls you share every time I honk your
          ***** like a red nosed clown at a birthday party.
They say a lot of things.
But I talk way more and my tongue has more use in the subject matter that is you.

Squares have disappeared,
and edges burred,
a root of the round
now abounds.

anathematic steel
has succumbed to rust.

horsepower has
reverted to horse and –
the kingfisher
will truly be king.

And the trees now thrum
and grasses dance
in the old bluebell wood,
the oak,
the ash,
the elm;
everything will be
as it should --

with the green man-
at the helm.

One more day is all that I ask
I just want to see the sun set before I pass
The light as it plays off of the river bend
This is weir I want to be burred in the end
Take my hand now mother pleas don't cry
Tell our family that it ends tonight
Pleas tell them that I am going home
and someday we will meet again
I want to go to the river bend tonight
hear the nightingale sing as I look up at the sky
Mother tell Father that I am ok
I will love you both forever and always
I want to go to the river bend
Lay me down to rest
pleas don't levee me till I've breathed my last
And sing the songs of ages past
I am gone to the place weir angels rest
Mother tell my brothers that it is all rite
I don't fear my death a little tonight
I want to pass at the rivers bend
Because as the sun sets and the colors are bright
maybe the angels will find me all rite

You carve your trade
Above your door
The chisel bright and keen
Looking for work
Like a collie dog
Mallet wagging
Weightless in your hand
Rounding the letters

The letters speak of rowan
Fetched from a'side
A mountain burn
Fed by snow-melt
Even in summer
Hot sun through thin air
Burnishing each day
The wild, burred grain

Adorned with marquetry anemones
Each petal in fine horn
Further etched with pewter
And you will love that sign
The thought of that sign
Even if you never carve a single letter
Nor ever hang it until
You have something to trade

Couldn't be more grand!
They "catch your drift"
They understand.

The company of writers
The company of folks
Who "get" your pain
Laugh at your jokes!

They know the need
For being heard
Most people think
Our "play" absurd
And how expression
Can be burred
And inspiration
When it occurs
Can clear the mind
of weeds and burrs
They don't know
The written word.

Through a world
As black as pitch
It's a puzzle
It's a *****
I don't know
I can't say which
Is worse... the scratching...
Or the itch!

But you, my friend
Are part of me
You have my eyes
So you can see
Though we may bicker
And disagree
We are poets

Our mind's are FREE


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2015

They say we are too young to know what true love is.
They say that long distance relationships never work.
They say that being "like us" is a sickness
So, I guess I'll never tell them how my ribs hurt every time my heart beats too hard when my plane
          lands and you love me with vaccine kisses.
I'll take my medicine without insurance because, you only live once YOLO
Unless you believe in reincarnation.
And I have to, because how could we be so perfect, know each others faces like a married couple
          knows the crows feet stories they grown into for 60 year, and I have only looked at you for 4
          months?
Lover, you asked me to come to church with you, I said yes.
I needed to thank him, or her, or whoever for answering my payers in a difference country.
To thank whoever for taking two candle burned pages and making them a book, a bible that I
          pray to every night.
And I may not believe in God but I believe in you and your past, which is chiseled into the banks
          of my bloodstream. The burred edges being eroded away by time and heartbeats.
They say we'll never make it.
They say we are too young.
They say Time + Space = heart break.
I say bring "it" on.
I say I have been old enough to see slow wars silenced by fast hands, see starts die, see memories
         so old that only the boxes in my basement remember them.
I say Their Mouths + words = shut up!
They say a lot of things.
But I say "I love you" more.
They say a lot of things.
But kisses are silent, and or are the breathless laughs and eye rolls you share every time I ruin a
          romantic moment with "that's what she said" jokes.
They say a lot of things.
But I talk way more and my tongue has more use in the subject matter that is you.

Things don’t get better
They get worn
Burred edges
Buttered soft
With age.

From the first quickening
To the last sigh
We are slowly
S l o w i n g  d o w n
And our poisons
Once a gaffer’s
Lung-full
Peter out
Until they are as shriveled
As drowned balloons
Leaving us to
Wonder
What we were
So angry at
To start with.

The words do not always come
Sometimes they can not be wrote
They are just thoughts stuck in the mind
Burred in all that is lost

I like walking in the cold on a stormy winter day just as the clouds darken and the sun turns golden and just before the little gingerbread houses set their lights a twinkling; it gives me an excuse for the constant chill I feel. So I bundle up as if it stops my chattering teeth and step out, my head watching the ground, my feet following the curvature of a path I've walked a million times and I try to stop the shaking. Not only of my body but of my tired mind as the furry veils of my eyes close. I notice the cracks in the road, and the gutters filled with rotting vestiges of life that once hung on these trees that now stand cold and gray against the even grayer sky, their roots begging for warmth just as my toes are. I heard a foot step startling my dazed thought about the cracks and I glanced about wildly to see what it was, a man walking a little brown and white shepherd with no tail, with A lit cigar in his mouth. I return to the road it was now curving just slightly to the left, it was hardly noticeable. I can smell the cigar smoke that man left behind just faintly drifting about in the air. Cigars have a sweeter smoke than cigarettes and thus were no quite as appalling, and the slightest bit *****.  It was in that moment I realized once I leave this moment of my life; I will never truly be alone again. It’s definitely an odd thought, to be concerned I will never be alone again as I abandon my friends and loved ones and yet it rang true in my mind, whether I was on ship, in the barracks, eating, even renting a home away from the base I would have a roommate of some sort whether it be a husband or a comrade.  I may never get to watch the cold winter ash drift down across my feet as the fall out of nightmares consumes the world.
I drifted from the road to a gravel trail. Instead of cracks I watched the moist pebbles drifting below me, their pattern was random, but it seemed to repeat. A little pink one always drifting just a few inches to the left of the others I was observing. On my right the bushes, all bare with yellow branches forming the mangled orbs that most bushes of the sort seem to form, melded into a wide stark white fence with gaps displaying the empty river below. I know the cliff there was a couple feet at most but as I watched the drifting pebbles the burred grass made it seem like a few hundred causing me to stumble and look away from my pebbles. I felt the cold stinging air float in and out of my lungs and listened to the gentle beating of my own heart, it’s tempo near matching that of my feet. A gentle tempo like that is not often found, the unique beat of one’s own heart has a sort of soothing rhythm and mixes with the cold wind rustling the naked branches if trees, a chilling melody was formed.
My trail drifted into concrete which drifted back into the dark chip road. Cars tend to speed up this road, I don’t know why, it leads up a dirt road into a neighborhood, there’s real no reason to go so fast, but it happens all the same. I hear one approaching and flinch as it goes by, absorbed in the cracks in the road I could never know if it was planning to end me or simply passing by. The lights are beginning to be turned on now but they are barely visible, their twinkling was futile against the lingering gray daylight yet they persisted. On this road I constantly had to trust that there were no parked cars and that , when it bent away from me, that I was just crossing a cross road. These roads are so interwoven that each one can form a loop with other, this endless circling adds to the bleakness of the cold evening, and even the gray skies do not change that blistering heat. And as I step under the same apple tree I've stepped under thousands of times, I was glad I wouldn't be alone anymore.

A sea of slime and sludge
crawls into our boots
and slithers into our socks
gangrene swarms at our feet

Hands frigid and frostbitten
bodies burred beneath the earth
worms and maggots feast upon rotten flesh

The wounded weep,
bloodshot eyes stare at the darkness of the sky
the cannons crash and the bullets rain
as lighting and thunder rip through the sky

The rats scurry out of their burrows
and feast upon our cheese and bread
our food runs scarce

Blood dries on the bayonets
the soil is our graveyard....

I can't reach you
they do not move
nailed to the cross
broken arms

Shattered at the bone
blistered and diseased
muscular atrophy
broken arms

They want to feel
they want to grow
they want to give warmth
broken arms

Would you lend your strength
so that they can give you
one last hug?
broken arms

Will you please nail them
back onto the cross
so that they can be numb again?
broken arms

Will you please walk away
and leave me in agony
sorrow is the new happy
broken arms

Do not pity me
pity is for the weak
my knuckles drag on the ground
broken arms

Rotten and deformed
decayed and putrid
burred six feet under
broken arms

uninvited GUESTS linkedin as the themes of mein kampf.

Despite countless factorial permutations
& combinations, this cyber surfer
avails left and right alm
seeking succor Out Of Human *******
invisibles shackles bind head,
shoulders, knees and toes
mom mee **** sic cured courtesy grim reaper,
boot metastatic cervical/ovarian
carcinoma snatched such balm
when tethered in utero umbilical connection,
etched bromide, which hankering calm
embryonic sensation this corporeal being lacks

constantly subjected to exams
from the brutal school of hard knocks,
which I bewail sets back and glom
mine aim to revel in blissful contentment
but circumstances decrees otherwise
cursing this chap tubby haunted
by veritable elfin grotto dwelling phantoms
hovering over sweet clover - dials a mirage
yes...iris sieve blurbs from gals and guys numb
burred in the billions,
that span the World Wide Web, and exude

premature ejaculatory ecstasy, puzzled if fie
totally tubular trod a tedious trek
along the boulevard of broken dreams,
what happenstance oft finds thyself to flail
amidst difficulty to maximize
optimal opportunities searching for Holy Grail
or whatever constitutes such lofty
personal objective, perchance being hale
and hearty of body, mind and spirit
spurs the furies of fate tut test this primate

while he aims to gallop with mighty industrial
vim and vigor leaving a virtual soundcloud
of dust, though mindfulness helps
to pass go, and chance avoid jail
time, then maybe monopolized feedback offered
to this toothless married quasi herbivore
enjoying poetry stone soup, yet also subsisting
on supplementary vitamin packed glue tin free
NON GMO fruity tall tales for a male
thirty six years shy sans Bing a centenarian,

which span of life best cut short with a nail
(possibly nine inches) hammered into
faux coffin, cuz this imp doth turn pale
at the prospect to fill up a space of land
best utilized by birds - such as quail
Mongoose, or ibis (though aye ne'er saw
one), where cremated ashes sail
across some verdant plain under
cerulean skies putting to rest every travail,
which thoughts of dem eyes spells

relief since potential homelessness,
pennilessness, and wretchedness,
the main impetus explaining
this rambling, shambling, and troubling spiel
the warp and woof ova gauzy veil
imperceptibly looms closer upon
turrets of my digital sea faring gunwale
and thus desperation finds
pleading for monetary
and  spiritual salvation.

Before mine danse
macabre doppelganger draws dagger
punctures the skein tight
as a yank key notched belt
housed within mine impenetrable
hermetically sealed invisible bubble
drapes with blackened Hades
hued habiliment therein dwelt
sinister saboteur mastermind
marauder of the Hubble

tattooing and piercing fiery
oculus rift presence unseen but felt
demands sacrifice to traverse
river Styx with unadulterated gelt,
which known phantasmagorical double
diabolical self amidst aftermath
from Armageddon rubble
astride charred global
ruins entire civilization melt
planetary paroxysm prognosticated

by Maya sages with 11th hour stubble
birthed Darth Vader nemesis
with evil upon earth he did pelt
annihilating, decimating, and hashtagging mankind,
the derelict species that fueled trouble
hence evil twin appointed
apocalyptic malevolence spelt
desiccation, humiliation, and laceration
upon once verdant veldt
with mass crematorium
desecration left horrific blistering welt.

Countdown to **** sapiens extinction
predicted millenniums in past
never occurred as predicted on December 21
two thousand and twelve after common era,
whereby catastrophic spark
detonating inferno incinerating blast
eradicating extant flora
and fauna bereft sans hegira
with no means to interrupt
the die since the dawn of civilization cast.

Impossible mission to escape ominous
predetermined fate of human rat race,
nor turn back hands of time
with origin of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday
without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and providing Gaia
to redeem terrestrial space
vestiges of teeming billions
soon erased criminal minds without a trace
forcefully relinquishing simians
planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa
for another dominant species
to claim the place.

Sirens promulgate emergency
toward impending inescapable cataclysm
yet no place to run or hide lest
one boards a rocket light-years away
which makes suspense thrillers
birthed by countless dystopian authors
enviable plot to keep
total Earth's destruction at bay.

Matthew Scott Harris,
a lifetime America Online
Meme bur hastens to convey dire
crisis sparking to offer electric nom de plume
duyeer93, a papa who did sire
deux darling daughters,
yet for ages hive stung
with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire
meow n childhood's end fostering people
strangers even fork
getting this communication,

per S0S sprinkled with auk shucks corny,
Egret - letting opportunities take flight aspire
now pleasures soft as gossamer feather bedding
down play hardened angst
riddled psyche, where ire
Ronny gully stubbornly thrives
amidst adversity as father time spins gyre
row scope at greased lightning speed,
intimating with dead reckoning to hire
grim reaper, who **** patient

as Job, and exemplary at ridding mire
and muck bogs down this dada robbing
existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre
doth flickr-beckoning GoDaddy, cuz
Juno I haint gonna hear angelic choir
or equivalent enlightenment re:
home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire
so haim trying keep sea legs
one step ahead of tipping point
envision self pitched into abyss -
thus end of poetic wire.

A black cat hesitates.

With my friends filtered, cascading sheets of Jameson, the path fills me Warning the porch of presence.

Continue to sleep. I will go away to the city and work in the folded webs of my skin.

Is it you who functions when I sleep?

A breakfast for champions, my dear remove the flakes of sincerity.

With your hair hidden by my hands away from the window's critics, my boots loosen and the knots twitch less against the thin layer of resting protocols.
Tools to sedate my neuroses.
The glitter of chrome fails in my camera's lens. A failure to assure my hopes not to climb into my throat.

Answering machines. Counting few pennies which were several.

It is not you or the grey cat stealing from me.
In cups, I plot the orange cat's plans.
Visiting his memories this way for answers about a future.
Revealing to us all, my ideas should stay in your stomach.

I loved you for seven seconds.
My heart stolen on the eighth.
Weeks passing and bringing the rosary to a withered end.

The work-day is over.
I walk. Fainting on the bridges, on top of stone pathways once glowing

Blinking my eyes. Only the impression I close them, it hangs in my head.
My hands fumble for the lives I've touched correctly.
Night falls, I notice it. My eyes close and open in the aluminum.
Yeast and a burred edge meet me in reflection.

Parallel tragedies. You heal mine and I see yours.
Raise your hand. Show me how it moves against the ceiling.

Very sedated. Insane to feel so happy without proper dosages.

Hello, yha its me
I hope your all rite after I chose to leave
They said it would get easer after I was gone
but from the looks of it your finding it hard to move on
I just wanted to let you know
that after all it was me who chose to go
so don't blame yourself for what happened
their wasn't anything you could have done to stop it  from coming

Hey mom, can you hear me?
I'm in heaven but I am not gone
I can see you when your crying
but don't you know that seeing this makes it hurt worse?
I would rather you forget all about me
than live another day crying because I wasn't strong enough to go on
I forgotten what it felt like
to be taken from the world
so mother pleas forgive me
I never meant to make your heart hurt

Hello Dad how are you?
how's the family
how has it been after you burred me down beneath the earth
I hope you know im sorry
but I couldn't stay much longer
Everything seemed to hurt
and even thou I tried my lungs still burned
so tell my brothers that im all rite
and that it wont help to cry

Hey, can you hear me?
are you listening
All I wanted was to be happy
Its so different now that I cant speak to you
So I hope your doing all rite
im sorry for what I have done
Im only calling you so you can lurn to move on
Forget me if you have to
Don't let my death ruin you

Hello, dear family
I left because although you couldn't see
my chest hurt so badly
and with every breath I wanted to be dead
so if you hate me I get it
I never meant for you to have to deal with it
so I guess this is it
im sorry if you stop listening
just letting you know
that I don't want anyone to follow me down
I hope you relies that I have made my choice

Goodbye my mother
and I love you so much my brothers and father
no matter whir I go
I will love no other
goodbye
so long
I will see you again when your time has come

I just have so much to say.
I was afraid.
That the words coming out,
were going to be worse than
the words coming in.
The way you and my anxiety
fit so well together.
Isn't it funny
how only the living
can tell you you're dead?
The greatest thing we can do
is live, Even though we're dying.
We'll never feel each moment the same.
Because every moment is a time capsule
burred in our brains.
So we can visit it on a later day.
On the days that we need sunshine,
for the flowers to grow.
So I can make you a crown.
And I can Say that the grass is growing,
The grass is still growing.
So I can use it as a pillow for the blanket
I used on our first date.
Our First date.
Was a mix of Grilled Cheese
And Lawn Mowers.
And you still came back.
When I thought picking the grass,
was the best way to pass the time.
But instead, my head is filled.
With every excuse to grab you,
and pull you in.
Like if she still talks to me tomorrow,
I'll be counting that as a win.
A win for the butterflies.
Because I'm afraid of them.

THE OFFERING

He sat, silently smirking over
his cardboard cup of coffee,
leaning, to lap it like a cat.

Lips oiled and curved and bluish,
hands knotted with filth, he
stroked his pocket.

Like a child picking wildflowers -
he paid court to every set of eyes
in the busy hum of the fast-food
place.

He chose me and pinned me to
his moment in time.
Lascivious, leering, laughing,
he opened his pocket just for me.

A half-dead sparrow leaked
part way out and burred its
broken wing.

It sang as sweetly as if we were
in a glen, a meadow, a dale of
helitroping sunflowers.

Then he licked one lip and
ran his bony, bent finger down
the bird's spine, causing it
to flutter, as if some phantom
wind blew by...

I.

These prayers are written in a place of space:
Our love would last forever.
We are meant to be together

II.

Seventh profound graces, adorest, Gabriel wings
Sixth. A shell, a fantasy of stone, icy cold.
Fifth silver cranes soon flutter at drips meadow,
Fourth. chamber quartet burred with melodic skeletons.
Third spires thrusting in soul’s firmament.
Second had bristlecone(evergreen) in cloudy chamber.
The first was an ascending lark, soft is caul of breaths.

III.
Fire ceased when all ashes left are the bones.
Lift him to the spiral stairs of freedom.
Eternal light in this place called home.

IV.
Together, we sang and to have timeless passion
We sheltered his eyes, with lighted roses
External tree of life endurance heaven’s gate


Velvet memories are never grow old
These prayers are written in a place of space…

i don't know why it happens: the stuff i like that i've written falls on deaf ears... perhaps like Ezra Pound i'm about to lament: so few come to my fountain, thirst i guess is wasted on the people who'd rather hallucinate an oasis... i feel out of place... intellectually: i guess i have to be dead to get the sort of traction i deserve: but first death...

i wondered today, why did i buy this beast of a bicycle?
it's horrid: in that it's massive...
this Trek Merlin 5 is humungous...
i might as well tell people as i cycle past that i'm
donning a ride of a motorbike...

and for some reason i keep repeating listening
to Jane's Addiction's Three Days...
it's the bass... i'm a sucker for bass guitar...

then again: like today i woke up and something
ancient: inborn within me woke up
to count how many shadows i owned...
luckily just the one... although: two tongues...
my mother's tongue woke up
in my mind... it's always awake in speech...
but not awake enough to scribble
something down...

mind you: i found the only ideal imitation
of Hebrew in English... i'll show that later...
as i will something else...

mój głos jest przestrzeń -
    a moja myśl (jest) czas...
o tym so powstało w lesie pewnej nocy...

translation? my voice is space...
but my thought (is) time...
about what was created in the forest
a particular night...

  well... two nights...
one night i was drinking heavily on the bench
in Havering County Park...
the night summarised me with
not being surprised... i had
to walk through night, shadow, fog and blindness...
i ended up screaming an aria of bile:
of caged venom of absolute carnage...
mayhem: a tornado on my breath
an earthquake on my tongue...
a volcano in my lungs...
a crucifixion and the absolution of the moon
by a rain of meteors in my heart...
nothingness in my mind... i screamed: i... ROARED...

where have you gone? echo? where?!
that was one night... some other night
i walked back and became frightened...
someone in the woods was silly enough
to brush against an incantation...
i heard them: Satanus in Excelsis!
****... what did i just start? did i give someone
the benefit of doubt or rather: faith?
i was just ******* about a pebble...
i couldn't see... i was marching blind through
the forest... the moon failed me...
it was winter... i was cold...
that's what i mean: my voice was space...
if i were in a cave and i didn't hear
echo... the "shadow" of the voice...
my body is a form that's also a shadow....
stretching.... stretching... mind you:
Game of Thrones... i'm not a big fan...
iron is the currency of that universe?
in my universe? RUBBER is worth more than gold...
but at the same time... it used to be paper...

- let's just say my relationship with women
is... cordial... i heard whispers from a well forgotten
past... i has tattooed by Chernobyl...
a birth mark of plum on my shoulder blade...
as if someone were to remove a wing
and i should have been born an angel...
this nurse... tried to choke me: to spare my mother
the troubles: of what? a freak?!
i have witnessed better freaks live out their lives...
she tried to choke me... the story went along
the lines of: the **** of the milk-bottle
had a ****** too large for your to swallow...
you started choking: your heart enlarged...
plus the hernia... i was born out of agony...
it's all burred: unconscious in me....
but how are you going to treat women,
if the first women you encounter are... ******* willing
to **** you?
that's my relationship with women...
i love prostitutes... the only "class" of women
i love... i like sniffing out lies...
i like lip-reading... i've read enough to be able
to lip-read...
i abhor people who think they're smart
but? are dumb as doughnuts!
i can't insult donkeys...
    i smell fear.. i smell lies...
          as every chameleon ought to...

i should be less bothered:
i just missed the marker... those who are willing
to read me haven't been born yet...
it's best seeing it that way...
i'm not going to bemoan having written
the Great Gatsby... and then... ugh?! what now?!

i see the seat: SEDES...
that's... the part of the toilet that's the "rim"...
the plastic that closes in on the ceramics...
SEDES...
              i see...
write English with two variations:

(a)
  / (waɪt) /
              / (ˈɛlɪfənt) /
      / (nəʊ) /
                    / (ruːm, rʊm) /

wait for what? i thought i said: white: wide: white?!
phonetics my ***... the English version
is half-bad... still bad... but it's not h'american
hwyte bad: that's ******* teasing the Welsh
tongue to come forward!
you want sheep-shaggers in your midst?

that's what i love "naturalization"... you pick
up on local traditions... on local stereotypes and local
preferences and local discriminations...
although... i love the French... biggest bicycle freaks...
at university i had two portraits on my wall...
Napoleon and Marquis the Sade...
who do you think this French girl attacked?
Napoleon was the = of ******...
not a brilliant man... no... no... KO...
    i did manage to lose my virginity with her...
which was nice...
Isabella... third year psychology exchange student...
she looked like a Dracula's *****...
she had ills against Napoleon...
but no trouble stomaching Marquis de Sade...
then again: she probably didn't
recognise him...

but when it comes to the Frenchmen and
the Polacks... Napoleon created the satellite state
of the Duchy of Warsaw...
i... i can' give thanks?! i ought to! Napoleon
gave the Polacks a homeland back...
from that terrible experiment of theirs of their
elected monarchy...
great plan! applause! let the Polacks decide on
a king and make him the younger inheritor
of the throne of Sweden... then watch as brother
turns on brother and invades...
with Sweden bringing the deluge of an invasion
against the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth!

these people are are either too free or too subordinate!
they can't decide...
i stopped caring...
there's nothing i can do...
i'm away from the land of my birth...
ii'm looking toward churning out
an imitation of Hebrew in English...
i'm sure i can... i can...
i can replace the NIQQUD...
    
Hebrews hide their vowels...
what you see are consonants...
you don't actually see the vowels...
i can do the same...
but i will not use the niqqud system...
i'll use the Braille methodology...

this language is mine!
                        i don't care whether i was or wasn't
born with it: i have inherited it!
this language is my dog on a leash!
this language is a cat sleeping freely in my bed!

i will not look into the squiggly nature of Arabic...
someone else is waiting for that
assortment of interest...
me?
i'm bound to investing interest in Hebrew...
the niqqud and Braille... and English...
you ******* smart orthofox Jews... "think"?!
i too think!

    (b)

          met the shadow baron and his host...
i.e.
              M⠑T TH⠑ SH⠁D⠕W
                            B⠁R⠕N
                        ­  ⠁ND H⠊S
  H⠕ST...

                            i see, i don't see...
ONOMATOPEIA:
U's missing...
    ⠕N⠕M⠁T⠕P⠕⠑⠊⠁(⠥ - y, o and u too!)

oh... you think... that just because
the Hebrews suffered a Holocaust they can be
freed from their deity: their
god eating god deity?! Moloch used to be a god!
Beelzeebub was a god!
Mammon and the whole lot of them!
Behemoth!
              Belial!
              right... your people hide their vowels...
i'll invested an idea too! to hide vowels among the blind...
i know it will have no decent traction...
i know it's a complete an utter failure:
but... i know you will see the momentary genious
of it!
hmm! America is... ripe! it's... Rrrrr-ipe!

I know I cannot have you
(even though I did).

I know that seasons change
and people die.

I know that we spend much of our lives
fighting against such things.

I know that certainty is taxing
when it does not favor you.

I know that knowing becomes a sacrifice
when the truth is out for blood.

It takes time to know these things.
It takes many walks through tall grass
brimming with burred burdens.

Thick skin—
I've been told that I need it. Otherwise,
I'll be painfully privy to the stings of a reality
that remains inconvenient.

Otherwise, I will look at you
(or rather, the image of you)
and feel pain. Otherwise,
I will feel that tug on my lungs—

the collapse of the hope I built so carefully
on the foundations of so carelessly
loving you
back when time and space allowed.

Back when it was easy.
Back when I could have you—
back when I did.

Sustaining such carelessness only ushers in
wicked knells of realization—the weight
of infatuation in wait, stretched thin by miles
untraveled and unseen.

Circumstance becomes unsightly—obscene
when what I know escapes its chains.

So, I refrain from the tightening tether,
skin tanned, but far from leather—
I attempt to clear the ledger and forget my winnings.

I drown all that we took in my misgivings,
now that we're living
where prices rise and bills come due.

I say I know I cannot have you
because it haunts me that I do.

The coldness of your shallow eyes
Only light up when the tears have dried
And when the thoughts are burred so very deep
Your mind takes you where you want to be
Away from anger
Far away from fear
So far from reality
That you would have no need to care

America - This nation will remain
the land of the free only so long
as it is the home of the brave.
courtesy a local Indiana man,
one named Elmer Davis -
(1890-1958) was
a journalist and broadcaster.
He worked for the New York Times
from 1914 to 1924.
As nightly news analyst
for CBS (1939-1941)
he had an audience
of 12.5 million viewers.
Roosevelt appointed him head
of the newly created
Office of War Information (OWI) in 1941.

Most likely long hours,
maybe even days or weeks
after most contentious election
witnessed within the United States
after voting machines satisfactorily deployed
(meaning at long last contender identified)
once winning candidates declared,
EVMs again kept inside the strong room
and the room locked and sealed,
which again done in front of candidates
or their representatives,
plus signs taken as well.

I don't wanna be stayin' alive
come Tuesday, November 5, 2024
particularly if the presumed winner
as forty seventh president
none other than antithetical,
despotical, egotistical, fanatical,
heretical, impractical, lunatical...
oafish hull windswept orange
and yellow spray-on
hair dyed, coiffed,
and barb burred septuagenarian,
whose tidy quasi toupee
looks like a foreign racoon
migrated onto his head.

Cuz the death knell of democracy
willfully, woefully tolls
all across the webbed wide world
because Joseph Robinette Biden Junior,
whose insistence to remain in the drawing
drew droves of electorate to the polls,
handing victory margin,
whereby countless elephants
trumpeted far and wide
affecting a Republican landslide.

Impossible mission
to keep doors shuttered
over subsequent pandemonium
to hear donkeys braying,
bobbing, and babbling
doleful "hee-haw" sound,
not because their tails pinned incorrectly,
but rather courtesy yes
screaming fans of Mötley Crüe,
(that Doctor Feelgood could not cure)
sparking seismic activity equivalent

to a 9.9 magnitude
(so take that Taylor Swift)
deafening roar that rocks the crowded house
ushering bono fide pandemonium:
the name stems from Greek pan,
meaning 'all' or 'every',
and daimónion, a diminutive form
meaning 'little spirit', 'little angel',
or, as Christians interpreted it,
'little daemon', and later.

The aftermath of a Biden loss
(not just him - and his coterie
being called "loser"
the rest of life),
but would be a field day among
die hard Republicans,
and even some renegade Democrats
that would cause
the Grateful Dead to become awake
turncoats that would find
lovely bones of Benedict Arnold

rattling and humming with U2
courtesy hullabaloo quintessentially
branding, hashtagging, vetting and
rocketing nonestablishmentarians
as political outcasts
forcing an aging long haired
pencil neck geek such as yours truly (me)
forcing us (socially conscious voters)
to forage as a foreigner alienated, ostracized,
and penalized on another planet
survival incumbent upon

the outer limits of the twilight zone,
where dark shadows morphed,
jump/kickstarted, exaggerated
into monstrous shapes
along the edge of night,
which spooky, haunting,
ghastly, eerie place
more appealing than
then prospective tragic loss of freedoms
such as life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness.