"I know your vexed great spirit, miles away, a gentler more playful you thrives on a journey of life. There among a ridge, the plateau where you dance, leaping, ripping yourself out of the air,escaping towards the light. Free from the weight which chastises and locks you up. Out of the medicine cabinet quaffing your deepest breaths, urging your hours shorter and shorter. You cascade like glass buttons scattered on the desert floor, let those wet cloths be forgotten, may your sorrow disappear amidst that great arenose simoom.  When the ghibli makes you stutter before the bright outlook you once displayed, do not forget to visit the flowers that bring you the most  peace of mind"------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------ It's here. In the pile-ons, wrapping around your head like a cool, wet bandage, keeping out a headache, or the rancorous guilt of an ugly night. It sits on the top-layer of your forehead, beading off in fresh droplets of self-pity, uncomfortable and self-defeating restlessness and despair. I rub it with my hands, removed each new wave of desperation and soothing your hairline with a swath of my hand. I raise up, your cucumber colored walls, that bright pink bedspread, nothing different ever changes. The masonite paintings still there, that old familiar **** carpet, a thatch-work of menage-a-tois and fifth grade-style arts and crafts. The light bulb has been out for six years, third drawer right-side down is still stuck, a mystical blow dryer blocks it closed, and the door won't ever quite close- I take a shower with the world wide opened and you trailing a fastening steep. And so your fever rises, your feet soak in a tepid iron clad bed frame while your mind rattles against your skull. Thirty days have past, lifeless, echoing in this wicked upstairs chamber. The West Wing. Slatted blinds, the white dresser, the Chanel books, the pool party photos, the blue swim-meet t-shirts, the fake gold trophies and the true gold hairs on your head, my fingers dash across your forehead again meeting your brow with the cool folded washcloth, I reach for your back and you turn, slightly rolling; something routine, unsteadied, even wicked limps in a stress ball inside your bottom lip. It's just a quiver. Nothing different ever changes. It's the devil inside, and I am nowhere to go. Maybe midnight or maybe twilight. Every hour of morning is another hour of night I'm ever taking my sleep back into. I don't count the days, just mark them in the thoughts of worry that flurry through in brief thoughts. I am obsessed with care-taking now. Three hours have passed since I showered you out of your black party dress and sparkly Gucci slip-skirt, since I took bits of post-digested food from your hair, held your nose with a tissue and told you to blow it all out, again, another night of building a sick room and sauna. I never tire, I just make arrangements, I build a small room and I wait the weight out. Nothing different ever changes, and I don't expect the unexpected or dare to meet your smile again.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------ Three months ago, thrifting on Valencia and 26th Street. Walking from Blue Bottle to the Bay then to the Breakers. I climb atop A Buena Vista with man Adam, you scale a mountain-sized hill with your teal green and cherry red Nikes. We make a photograph in front of white dogwood blossoms overlooking a steep Ravine to the East. A bird chirps, a homeless woman barks, and four children smoke cigarettes and joints in a treetop. Every ***** goes up and down, each footstep dithering amidst our biduous ascent. I buried you last Thursday beneath the dogwood, your cherry red and teal green gym shoes planted at your doggerel.

the regret, that depreciating voice in your head
that chastises you, calls you stupid, a coward
and you look back and agree with it
ignoring that hindsight is always 20/20

and i know the one you're with now provides you with all that you ever needed
possibly more than i could ever have
but that doesnt make it feel any better
as incredibly selfish as it is to feel one should "belong" to another
and as much as such a bond could destroy a beautiful friendship such as ours
despite fantasizing "stealing" you away
as if you were an object
as much as the guilt of that very thought
weighs down my spirit everytime you cross my mind
the temptation to bear my soul to you gets greater each time
it hurts
deeply
and i cant help but wonder, what if

and now i hate myself for it

Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
Though we break apart as I
Enjoy the fruits of wine and bitter,
In those dark hours of the morn I’ll return
To that gold that tastes sweeter.
We’ll meet again as old friends,
And I’ll keep drinking it until the end.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.

Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
It heats the room in its glow,
It makes the band sound sweeter
And my baby sound softer
While the drums of my heart beat louder.
It takes all my troubles away
And puts them in a corner for another day.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.

Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
It leaves me on the roadside
To make my own way in the night,
And chastises me in the morning
When I didn’t kiss her goodnight.
And in my dreams it flows through my head
And gallops every moment when I’ve left my bed.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.

will my endeavor be fruitless ?
did I neglect slumber,
live in solitary for days,  
numb my sorrow with alcohol
trap myself within the same walls I get lonely in
being only distracted by the scribbling of this pen on a paper
just to leave thou with discontentment ?
a poets worst nightmare;
(an underappreciated piece)

I am writing a poem for one who has words in the palm of her hands
like God has the earth
I am writing to one whom words bow down to her feet
like prophets to God while on his throne he seats.
Is my piece profound enough to make thy beautiful brown eyes water
or make your skin prickle with goosebumps ?
will my words speak to you in ways no one ever has that my piece becomes your drug when you want to flee from all that chastises you ?
I can only hope the first stanza grasps your attention
and you get lost in poetic bliss
and the last leaves you breathless
to the point you crave my kiss
to restore air to your dying lungs.
But that's probably just wishful thinking
your least liked piece is probably more breathtaking than my most cherished  
you leave your readers satiated by your words and rhythm that they now worship you.
they yearn to ease their angst by reading what you vent.
how intimidating it is to write a poem to a poet
great anxiety as they fixate their eyes on the paper
you hope, you just hope they don't roll their eyes in disdain at the last full stop.

Her fingers are velvet
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dipped in aptitude
swift sure masseuses
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kneading loose
voices carved in
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assuring them sweetly
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They want me to subscribe
seek to prescribe
me Their prognosis of capitalism
content only when
I approve Their content

Her prophetess grace
unravels unlaces
Their societal disgraces
chastises the beasts
of Babylon with a wrist flick

I hear freedom ring
as Her fingers sing
cajole the oppressed
voices before drowned, now
staccato into stiletto
her tryst with strings
Joy their union brings
Her ac-cello-batic
prowess shrining springs
loose raven’s wings
each note a miracle brings
into world new hope
Subscribe? NOPE!!!
~
NM
5/17/18

CONSCIENCE
TIME OF THOUGHT: LOST
DATE OF THOUGHT: LOST
OGUNLABI OLAJIDE YUSUF-Nativepen

The incorrigible judge of the universe
The voice of man's spirit
The breaker of the stone heart
You should get one

He pounds the accusssed heart to confession
A mortal pessil
The rod that punishes
The accused mind

He chastises the mind of kings and priests
He makes the most secretive to voice out
The arch angel in our heart
Who dare resist him

He changes the mood of a friendly one
Whenever they misbehave
He never condone any indiscipline around him
Whenever he sights any bad deeds

The ever faithful companion
He is no respecter of anyone
You should get one
You sincerely need one

Dear friend
Do you have a conscience?
Dear friend get one
You really need to.

Soft yellow moistness
leaves nostalgia in my mouth
Little seeds that get
stuck in your teeth
that your tongue
struggles to get out
When you use your
fingers your mother
chastises you with a soft smile
Sweet and tangy
You lick the crumbs off your plate
“Another!” you say,
but you already ate them all,
too late.

I lay, of my own volition, in a space meant for her:
a confined and achromatic scene.
My hands, malodorous, muddy and splintered,
leisurely rest on my chest, free from labor machines.

Here I rest, hackneyed and discouraged
in a pitifully human attempt to simulate death
I curse my virtue; it chastises back as it
mourns the curious exploitation of my health.

It was meant to last only a minute,
as sorrow chains my putrid despair in place.
Yet I, to this day, cannot begin to explain
how the darkness manifested itself a face.

I attempted to strike a movement but remained still
as the daemon began to smile.
The plan was to endure without oxygen for seconds,
yet the creature stayed my conscience for a while.

In a surprising and trepid consternation,
I find myself in service to mendicancy.
The creature, a devil with venetian red oculi,
salivates at its newest and prized delicacy.

I cry at the fleeting mastery of my faculty,
yet the tears remain inattentive and departed.
Time blesses the creature with a dominant sentence
as reality registers a dialog that I had started.

“Where is my daughter? I demand to know.”
The creature’s smile grows ever wider.
He then takes the form of the stuffed turtle toy
that used to sleep right beside her.

The creature, in a droning and unmelodious voice,
utters a perplexing, yet commanding noise:

“ATIV ARETLA NI MAN ES ED OLEF”

Frightened yet discouraged, I aim to find the sense
in the puzzling command the creature produced.
“She’s been missing for days! I need to know where she is!”
The beast speaks again, letting its anger loose:

“FELO DE SE NAM IN ALTERA VITA!!”

Suddenly, albeit boundlessly, the stillness was lifted,
and my structure was free from this tenebrous stead.
I raise myself and clasp at the summit’s precipice
after having danced with a beast in this wooden bed.

The vacant coffin remained pristine,
fitted with natural calico cotton lining.
The devil you fear the most is the one you create
and mine emerged with impeccable timing.

The creature’s malevolent ballad persistently tattles
as The Lapse rebroadcasts the “truth” it wanted to utter.
It had told me, “Become a felon of oneself,
and thine own life shall be traded for another.”

I refuse to concur with the creature’s decisiveness
as my unyielding faith will ensure my daughter’s return.
Her weighty and boundless absence must cease
and lead to the terminus of my inexhaustible concern.

The poison that works within my soul

Chastises the angel that lives in my mind

Ahead is a battle, a fight I must win

Aside are my brothers whose arms they do bear

We warrior clan that fight only for kin

With swords as our cross to protect us from sin

Roads that we tread are often retraced

Once more into battle, once more we must brace


The poison controls and runs deep through my veins

My sword severs limbs, my angers now rage

My shield is pushed tight, the smell of his breath

Beneath I stab hard the, warmth of his flesh

And on to the next as we stand side by side

Driven by brothers, their blood curdling cries

The crush is unyielding pushing air from my lungs

My armour is heavy but my honour is strong

Yet on do I surge as the poisons runs deep

Chastising those angels that lived in my mind

Hat pulled low over my face, I pull the lever of the pump,
getting back in my car,
hands placed on the steering wheel as if I'm going to drive away while the gas is going,
I just sit.
Alone.
Trying to clear my mind before the day.
That's when I see them.
A pixie-like little girl in denim and cotton,
tennis shoes untied and scuffed,
long hair trailing unkempt,
summer hair,
barely brushed,
she skips beside a man who is undoubtedly her father,
a serious-looking man dressed for a day of adventure,
the same nose as the sprite hopping along beside him.
At once,
I spiral into an invisible shoe box of photos...
then it's me with my hair down and my shoes untied and a big smile on my face as I accompany my father in the most mundane tasks.
Everything is an adventure with daddy,
everything is a game,
a brand-new experience ******* in shiny ribbons,
even if it's just going to the gas station.
They reappear from the store,
and the little girl excitedly pulls a bottle of chocolate milk from the plastic bag.
The colorful snacks look silly in the father's large, rough hands,
but he opens each package carefully,
handing her napkins,
and in her unrelenting grin,
anyone can see that she owns him heart and soul.
I shift uncomfortably in my mental shoe box,
and I see myself again,
overalls and a small bag of donuts,
licking the glaze from my fingers,
my father reaching over with a towel to wipe my face clean of chocolate glaze.
He chastises me, but he's smiling,
and he pops a donut into his mouth, too,
two best friends on a summer adventure,
nothing can stop our fun.
The father starts their rickety old suburban, and the little girl bounces excitedly in her seat, eager for their next stop. The mode of transportation could be a rusted row boat in the middle of a swamp,
but to her,
it's all a part of a beautiful memory that she'll never let go of.
And one day,
when her daddy is gone,
she'll drive up to the gas station in her own car
and sit in the driver's seat to take a breath,
and she'll see herself, fifteen years younger, prancing happily along her father's steady gait,
and she'll fall backwards into an unexpected
invisible
shoebox.

I am not the ruler of my emotions,
Nor the master of my heart.
It goes where it likes
And i reluctantly follow.
My heart is reckless,
Uncontrollable and foolish.
My mind so sound and logical
Scolds and chastises
To no avail,
My heart won't listen,
Wont sit and stay.
My heart will run to you
Across a busy road
And will lay down at your feet
And i shall follow it
Shall follow it across the endless desert
The steepest mountains
The deadliest terrains
To the very end of days,
And when it lays foolishly
And loyally at the end of your bed,
So shall I.
And when you send it out in to the night,
I will follow
I will follow until the tears dry
Until the beat dies
Until my heart loves no more.

Rotting men walking rotted streets,
as rotten scents choke the pungent air.
Their tired, weary, restless feet
pound the agitated concrete,
which is as worn and weary
as the people who so rudely
stomp its grayed features.

They make their way to their jobs,
their means of survival, the place
where much like zoos and reserves,
they are poked and prodded, pestered,
and provoked by smiling, grinning men
who are above them on the evolutionary
totem pole that we call the rat race.

So they laugh off the abuse labeled as 'jokes',
they suffer and endure countless injustices
from their fellow animals and their zookeepers,
all so that they continue to earn their measly peanuts,
all in hopes that they can save their nuts,
and maybe buy something that will
give their own existence some new meaning.

A new car, a new TV, a new bit of restless noise,
new white static that will fill the void of
emptiness that they all suffer inside,
and then when the new becomes old,
the process starts anew with another
new trinket or new toy to make more noise.

And so they return home from their misery-laded
job, to a home of misery where their wife
chides them and chastises as a way to
vent her own frustrations at her own personal zoo
where she was poked and prodded and made
to question her own self-worth, her own happiness.

She yells at them for forgetting to put the clothes
in the dryer, although she had clearly said the night
before that she would take care of it and then
she fusses at them for forgetting to put his cup up
even though they were JUST getting ready
to throw it in the dishwasher if she would just
give them a minute to finish their sandwich.

It takes all their strength to not just scream
right back and give her something worth
yelling over, but as their teeth clench,
and their eye twitches, they simply nod
and yes dear until she is satisfied, and leaves
them to go work on their sudoko after-dinner.

With the dishes put up, the clothes in the dryer,
as they are sure to not make the same mistake
twice, their children approach them, begging for
attention and affection, and while they can't blame them,
right now they just want to take a minute to relax
and not hear any more voices of any kind.

But as the child raises their voice to scream,
they wave them off and give them what they wish
for hours, until they tire themselves, and mercifully,
most mercifully, they can be put to bed and put
out of mind for the rest of the night.

The midnight hour fast approaches,
and so they resolve to enjoy the last few hours
of their night, but right as they prepare to
enjoy the newest episode of the newest tv shows,
their smartphones bleats its high-pitched ring.

Its their zookeeper, asking if they can come
into work tomorrow early, even though its the weekend,
and they were promised to get the weekend off,
for the fifth time in as many weeks, but they REALLY
need them to come in and help the cause.

They want to scream, they want to shout,
but they know they can't refuse, because
the first time they dare to, they will be treated
like even worse dirt on shoe if not outright
replaced by a more willing circus animal.

So, through a forced grin,
that can be heard over the phone,
they accept and thank their keeper
for giving them the opportunity
to work once more, and as they hang up,
their wife asks who it was calling at this long hour

They explain it was just their work,
wanting them to come in again, which
makes the wife mad, as she yells at him
for not spending enough time with her
and the kids and why can't he just say no
every once in a while, it's not like they'll
fire him for not showing up one time.

The wife doesn't understand that
his job is what funds her spending,
her lifestyle, their lifestyle, for that matter,
in spite of their best attempts to explain,
and so they fight, and fight, into the night,
until they just decide to give it up, and go to sleep.

The sun rises, and they get up, and
eat their eggs, and put their cup up, and
get dressed, and get ready for one more day
at work hoping that at least sunday will be a free day,
but they have an odd sick feeling in their stomach
that they'll be called in once more early in the morning,
and be forced to make that same rotten walk
to their same rotten old miserable job.

that pig
pink and swollen
slots in its back
chastises me for my contribution
or lack there of
decorated with an enamel
floral and embossed
shaken and silent

im poor
and so are you if you didnt know
well we all are
i had this terrific idea yesterday
i dont remember it all now

but

it had something to do with holding hands
yours are slightly moist
and mine dry

i forgive you

Death is a fornicator
A ransom note for the disposed  
whose banner is waylaid
along the dusty road.
The Valiant are shorn of hope
as an immortal fog chastises
their very existence
mishappen and duly noted
Hope can no longer bloom.

Dog Days of U.S. Politics


Our dog days of pols and pundits are here
Like pathogens thriving without antidote
Or insects immune to every repellent
They adapt and survive; their goal is your vote.

Twenty-four/seven they're on the attack
Inventing solutions with simple sound bites
Then eager reporters with blow-dried ambition
Primp, and turn fiction to fact overnight.

"Democracy" poisoned by anonymous donors
Congress panders to a privileged few
Their money controls and dictates the fate
Of pols who have pledged to represent you.

The U.S. readily chastises others
Advising and preaching democracy
While our congress is bought and sold on a scale
That is laughable for its hypocrisy.

So political ads infested your home
You call EPA who deal with pollution:
"Please dispose of these, sir, I am sick of the lies."
"An infection of Broadcast Toxins," he sighs,

"For which we have no solution."

there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
a roiling mass of fire and smoke
burning me to my very core
strangling me until i weep and choke

there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
her embrace is a gentle deception
as she fills my mind with pernicious night
and darkness bridles my perception

there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
serpentine whispers ensnare me as she sings
words of loathing to all that i am
and becomes the blade with which i cut my skin

there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
her incremented tail wraps around my thighs
“food is a bane,” she chastises
as she waves my weight before my eyes

there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
and i believe her pseudo truths
i am a burden to those who care
and should accept her fatal noose
 
there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
and there are thoughts in my head
thoughts of starving, of cutting, of hatred
and of how i deserve to be dead

there’s a Dragon on my shoulder
but there’s a teacher of hope in my life
who says violent Dragons are grueling to tame
but will carry you the furthest when they fly

We all have dragons on our shoulders
We all have burdens We shall bear
until We become dauntless dragon riders
and when the strongest rise
We’ll be there

Our lives are what matters, situated against scattered stories and pending plots.
I’d take fear of the unknown every day of every hour when defenses drop.

We spoke briefly of quiet things, a midnight kiss that could never exist in the sun or a pacing parade that trampled through the tunnels of our town.

Things are different now, and it’s most likely our fault - just not by choice.
There’s a part of me that chastises myself when I hear your voice.

I’m a method of apology, you - you’re my saving grace.
I choke on the words that aren’t said, not knowing, if said, they’ll find their intended place.

I’ve tried to trade my transgressions for time alone,
and all that I’ve found out is that my fears exists, right there, below.

I gave all of me to yours, in the end, it’s hard to wonder what else is more?

Help me handle hope better.

Even then in my final hour, my mind wandered there, to her.

A static memory, barely formed that did its best to bend and break.
Stacked against me, whispers and weeping, it was my own life I feared I’d take.

A silent cancer soothes my soul, it mumbles “the end is near,”
Yet love comprehends and overflows - making it hard to hear.

Just one more day, another mile, make the new become old,
everything that matters has vanished, it’s this new life that’s gone unsold.

One door closes, and another opens - a chance at something more?
I check the handle, reside to my fate, what is this lock for?

Fly into the abysmal depths you call maturity.
Fall with the rations, die with the nations holding them.

A barbaric ideology keeps me from living. I curse the creator of mirrors. May I go blind quickly.

I can smell and ******* hair, finally. It grows with me. The memories in my head increase tenfold without me.

Fly into that burning sun, if you so desire, my friends. My brother and sisters. Run us aground if you wish.

We fight not to keep sane, nor to plague those blind. May we fight to live as we wish.

Plucking flowers is my life goal. Plucking flowers over my mother's grave. Burn them with her.

The youth I lost, which I had not realized prior to then, was all that kept the realizations from realizing me. Depression; ye, it is gone with one of two actions. One path longer, yet both last a lifetime.

Set a time; not to awake but to rest. May I take control of my dreams, for my dreams are all I have left.

Malice chastises my pure intent, though my judgement is uncertain as of my second birth.

I thank the world for listening to reason, if only a part understands. Thankyou, all those who ignore my pleas, or are too expensive to listen.

To those who care, and die alone, thankyou, I say - for the curse that is my judgement.

rebated, rebirthed rebooted, and rebuked
ill shod Unitarian atheist

Though avast percentage
of stonehenge temple piloted ghosts,
harking back millennia
constantly zip unseen thru aerospace,
they unwittingly espy
woolly sheep hush fleeced herd
profoundly religious peep pulls
plodding fast as their
cleft hoofs take them
along well worn path
of former crusaders.

Among acquiescent devout subjects
one self repentant
quest shunning skeptic poet
suffers interminable emotional flagellation
employing righteous indignation
against his own iniquitous misdeeds
sullying the sacrosanct marital covenant.

Unpardonable egregious transgressions
committed (well nigh
***** deeds done dirt cheap
a dozen orbitz ago)
think adulterous flagrante delicto
constituted consummating rutting
sabotaging high fidelity.

Passionate ******* incorporating
communicating non verbal
vernacular animal needs
spoken on behalf of laity
comprising unlearned, nevertheless
superstitious population
indulged verboten fruit appetite,
yet adroit oral (tongue in cheek)
spread courtesy word of mouth.

Most pious take as gospel
every word in religious tomes
their collective soul asylum polestar,
and doth decree important doctrines
with especial accord
equal insignificance applied toward
Judeo-Christian holidays
across the chessboard of life,
thus Easter ranks as no exception
to the golden rule,

where Santa Claus reached an a chord
follow auspicious signs
alit in the night sky
shaped like a drinking gourd
perhaps amassing plentiful harvests
upon hamlets strewn
across ******* populated Earth
asper cornucopia exhibited secret hoard
sharing plentiful Horn
(and Hard art lesson learned)

to stave off barreness, ignored
going forward seeding nascent
March Madness with help from Lord
and Taylor as midwife hoot
tended Ville Nova moored
by striking Wildcat fanatics,
who unbelievably
espied heavens cleft asunder
and golden rays poured
while collective spectators

loudly deafeningly screamed
while housed within the soundgarden
analogous to ferocious cats
who hissed and roared
witnessed history scored
earning players knighted
with Excalibur sword
thence entire team handed
Taj Mahal shaped award,

which aforementioned
*** hide lacks, cuz zit
happens tubby April Fool's joke,
thus above iterated verses somehow needs
just a little bit of relevance to yoke
thine admitted ambivalent
reaction to sports,
yea aye pay figurative ****
hen to Rabbinic, generic fanatic primal
tribal village people clan destine woke,

and swinging focus of this poem
back toward Religious perp ported berth
when (sans antiquity) trumpet signaled
thus, any superstitions blew away dearth
when distant shofar heard
in every home and hearth
anticipating arrival of the Easter Bunny,
who brings mirth
and hop poly distributes sweet treats,
which children as grown adults,

no matter necessity
for teeth to be removed
the sugary over indulgence wool worth
today thee American Dental Association
chastises candy manufacturers
bandying more weight
gaining deadly, debauched,
and decadent, trait
then adultery - verboten fruit to sate
hash-tagged (vamoose skat
dad dulled) reprobate.

I’ve got a few things I want to say,
A few thoughts rattling around in my brain,
And though it may seem impolite,
I’m going to give you a piece of my mind.

I know I haven’t been around a long time,
Just a decade and a half.
However, I’ve still learned a thing or two,
About this world filled with gaffes.

This world’s a scary place,
Full of scary people,
And if you’re not careful,
They’ll eat you alive,
Chew you up, and spit you out,
With no regard for your life or your health.
We’re dancing in a fire,
Of our own making,
As people continue whining and complaining.
We need saving,
Oh, how we need saving.

It’s ironic,
How our greatest foe is ourselves,
So much petty bickering,
Chastises the thinking,
Until we’re at a point where we can’t do anything.

Who can you trust?
Your neighbor could be just,
Or a sociopath,
Hiding behind a mask.
Is everyone a friend?
Or is everyone a foe?
Or is there more nuance?
How are we to know?
Till it’s too late,
And we’re beaten down,
Lost everything,
To a monster.

Highschool’s a mess,
No finesse,
Filled with stress,
And depression.
On a quest,
To reassess,
And to suppress,
All unnecessary emotions.
Don’t want to sound too forlorn,
But is it too much to ask to live in a world,
Where everyday doesn’t feel like a chore,
Just to push through?
So much strife,
All through life.
Is it right,
Or wrong?
When does life,
Become less about surviving,
And more about living,
In this crazy time?

Seven hours,
Seven different subjects,
Piled onto a developing mind.
Some unnecessary,
Others are vital,
Few are a waste of time.
While everyone discovers their niche,
A fight for survival,
Some parts are primal,
Survival of the fittest they say,
It’s a shame that not everyone makes it out,
To fight another day.

To quote one of my favorite songs,
By a man named Alec Benjamin,
Titled “Gotta Be A Reason.”
“There’s gotta be a reason that I’m here on Earth,
Gotta be a reason for the dust and the dirt.
Oh, the changing of the seasons never changed my hurt.
So what’s it worth, what’s it worth?”
I believe that things happen for a reason,
Good or bad,
Then you have to question,
What the reason truly is?

This world’s a crazy place,
Full of crazy people,
And if you’re not careful,
They’ll eat you alive,
Chew you up, and spit you out,
With no regard for your life or your health.
We’re dancing in a fire,
Of our own making,
And no amount of raining,
Can drown out the whining and complaining.
We need saving,
Oh, how we need saving.

So there you go,
I opened up the vault,
And gave you a sample,
Of what’s inside my heart.
Take it as you’d like,
There’s not much more to say,
That’s just how I feel,
This specific day.
I have a feeling of dread,
As this year approaches its end.
2025.
By mid-March, I’ll be able to drive.
God, how time flies…

rebated, rebelled, rebirthed, rebooted,
and rebuked courtesy
one ill shod Unitarian atheist,
who means NOT to affect
any sacrilegious fallout
nor offend devoutly religious
man, woman, or child,
when the most important
Christian holiday notated,
a veritable “movable feast”
occurs Sunday, March 31, 2024.

Though avast percentage
of stonehenge temple piloted ghosts,
harking back millennia
constantly zip unseen thru aerospace,
easily being mistaken for led zeppelin,
they unwittingly espy
woolly sheep hush fleeced herd
profoundly religious village peep pull
plodding fast as their
cleft hoofs take them
along well worn path
of former crusaders
analogous to Riders on the Storm.

Among acquiescent, concupiscent
fervescent, juvenescent
obmutescent (äbmyəˈtesᵊn(t)s),
and unreminiscent church going subjects
versus one self repentant
quest diagnostic shunning skeptic poet
suffers interminable emotional flagellation
employing righteous indignation
against his own iniquitous misdeeds
sullying the sacrosanct marital covenant.

Unpardonable egregious transgressions
committed (well nigh
***** deeds done dirt cheap
more'n a dozen orbitz ago)
think adulterous flagrante delicto
constituted consummating rutting
sabotaging high fidelity.

Passionate ******* incorporating
communicating non verbal
vernacular animal needs
spoken on behalf of laity
comprising unlearned, nevertheless
superstitious population
indulged verboten fruit appetite,
yet adroit oral (tongue in cheek)
spread courtesy word of mouth.

Unlike doubting thomas here
sitting on his rumpled stilted skin
most pious markedly take as gospel
Jesus Christ as Superstar
every word in religious tomes
their collective soul asylum polestar,
and doth decree important doctrines
with especial accord courtesy the cars
equal insignificance applied toward
Judeo-Christian holidays
across the chessboard of life,

thus Easter ranks as no exception
to the golden rule,
where Santa Claus
didst dodge Duesenberg
reached an accord
following auspicious signs
alit in the night sky
shaped like a drinking gourd
perhaps amassing plentiful harvests
upon hamlets strewn
across then ******* populated Earth

asper cornucopia exhibited secret hoard
sharing plentiful Horn
(and Hard art lesson learned)
to stave off barrenness, ignored
going forward seeding nascent
March Madness with
swift help from Lord
and Taylor as midwife hoot
tended Ville Nova moored
by striking Wildcat fanatics,
who unbelievably

espied heavens cleft asunder
and golden rays poured
while collective spectators
loudly deafeningly screamed
while housed within the soundgarden
analogous to ferocious stray cats,
who hissed and roared
witnessed history scored
earning players knighted
with Excalibur sword,
thence entire team handed

Taj Mahal shaped award,
which aforementioned
*** hide lacks moxie, cuz zit
happens tubby April Fool's joke,
thus above iterated
verses somehow needs
just a little bit of relevance to yoke
thine admitted ambivalent
reaction to sports,
yea aye pay figurative ****
hen to Rabbinic, quixotic

iconic, Hebraic, generic,
fanatic, ecstatic primal
tribal village people
wu clan destine woke,
and swinging focus of this poem
back toward Religious
perp ported berth,
when (sans antiquity)
donjon we now donning
gay apparel trumpet signaled
thus, any superstitions

blew away dearth
when distant shofar heard
in every home and hearth
anticipating rabbit arrival
of the Easter Bunny,
who brings eggs sited mirth
and hoi polloi doth hop poly
distribute sweet treats,
which blessed children
of the korn as grown adults,
no matter necessity

for teeth to be removed
the sugary over indulgence wool worth
today thee American Dental Association
chastises candy manufacturers
bandying more weight
gaining deadly, debauched,
and decadent, trait
then adultery - verboten fruit to sate
hash-tagged (vamoose skat
dad dulled) reprobate.

My humble apology
for inducing thee
to manure yourself
thru figurative following ****,
best flushed down the toilet
of the behavioral sink
why yours truly wretchedly reaches out
cuz I never experienced popularity
as witnessed like craze of yoyo hula hoop
impossible mission to categorize
one feeble hominid specimen as belonging
to **** sapiens group,

nor doth mine spiel attempt to dupe
luck hate, or sell thee anything
except the pleasure
of befriending, daring ye to risk
fondling me buttucks -
their shiny happy cheeks,
cuz that came fresh out of a shower
whatever twerks for flirting
maybe even an affectionate boop
thankfully me schnoz
just cute as a button
and said nosu not outsize nor adroop.

Yours truly solitudinarian by default;
Nevertheless, I recognize the necessity
to evince good humored nature.

I evince amazingly graceful social politesse,
whether non verbal acknowledgement
courtesy a genuine smile
or querying passerby
with cheery non-threatening risky
"how art thou?"

Hence a poem embedded
within aforementioned poem
Acta non verba... speaks volumes.

The above ad hoc Latin catchphrase,
which means 'Deeds not Words'
(concatenated with two English words),
I regale chance reader
immediately sets saddles ablaze
title of poem with timeless adage,
aptly suits this solitary
older male, whose daze
spent on planet Earth

aimless, colorless, goalless,
and objectless curriculum vitae
configures a zigzag maze
significant blocks of time
poorly aye now appraise
and rue so little forethought
wrought starry eyed glaze
amiss to any Amish,
colonial, horse drawn observer

passing by in their chaise
puzzled, asper my
doggone catatonic gaze
indicative as if me mind
lost in a foggy haze
yours truly attests,
concurs, he now flays
chastises, fulminates, lays
hard and heavy lament,

albeit cloistered frivolous,
lackadaisical, unproductive... ways
apathetic, estranged, indifferent...
ambivalent state comatose phase
toward life, when at young age
lacked joie de vivre evincing braise
zen lee oblivious zombie behavior
upon quick observation displayed craze
zee demeanor synonymous

with institutionalized craze
zee wardens of the state,
and at present realize futility to raise
hullabaloo, when 20/20 hindsight
shines figurative light on
how appeared to laze
about lost in space,
within outer limits
of my own twilight zone ways.