"coded" poems
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops
no reason for surprise;
for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,
neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing
he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!
no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap
and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden, so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature
We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems
He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing
not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue
7/18/18
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Amid the smoke and light and laughter
Along the smiles and cheers thereafter
A sound is bled, wrung free from strings
It bounds and treads and wholly sings
Inside each song a secret moves
Not right nor wrong or frequent proved
The message dances from bow to ear
A coded trance of love and fear
From left to right the story rings
Of death and light the Cello brings
The covert tale engulfs the room
It vibrates truth to those who loom
The Cello knows for why it’s played
Its secret lost, both gone and stayed
Amid the smoke and light and laughter
Music lies and cries thereafter
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
Keep rolling, like sailing, rowing the science voyage.
Discovering a new discovery, then much happens:
a new crescent, new moon on a new turn is found,
yet a night to be invented eclipses it furthermore.
Will the voyage float at the newest dark energy frontier?
Will it now pierce verily the virgin-skinned heaven’s last barrier
that divides the seen and unseen, holds the uncharted water?
Will it by design decode or recite the word, the language
the lock is coded in, the very command written on the stone?
Till then it won’t move, nor does one see the skin black or white,
and till then one won’t stop the sun lighting up the night!
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:12 PM UTC
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.
Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.
A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations
Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?
In Mexico city
they were preparing to take Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return
In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Emotions are the world's greatest mystery
Found only in the heart and the mind
Invisible puppeteers of our lives
Our emotions create.
Thoughts,
Ideas,
Actions...
All products of our mind.
These are all bound together,
Creating a book
With string made of our feelings and subconscious.
All of our thoughts and ideas scribed,
A self coded text.
As we decide what action to take we read these books
Study our history
Our emotions
But what happens when you can't read your own writing?
Often time is from taking bad notes,
Others it's because were too afraid to accept our own thoughts.
Medicine can heal sickness
But only thought can empty a clouded mind.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
I've walked the beaten path
Sinned in the ways of every religion
But the only salvation I'm looking for
Is in the smiles I'm able to place on your face
So when you read my text
Listen to the way I'm telling you I like you
Listen to the message in the complex smiles
The kissy faces
That seem to be endless
You can't call this puppy love
This is the way you were meant to be loved
So baby let me make you happy
I'm not asking for the physicality of a relationship
I'm asking to put this band on your finger
Look in the mirror
See my complete reflection
Because this mirror is your eyes
Baby let me make happy
There's nothing I'd rather do
Honestly you're on my mind
I've only talked to you on occasion
I don't don't want to send coded messages
In the texts that make you smile and want me
I want to tell you straight up
Baby I like you
I'm not innocent
I'm not expecting you to be
I'm just asking you to be mine
Let me make you happy the only way I know
Let me be the sculptor
Plaster smiles on your frowning face
Strip the clothes from your mannequin figure
Let me make you happy
In and out of the bed
I'm only asking for a chance
Baby let me make you happy
I promise you'll never be alone
Even if I'm seventeen hours away
My heart is in the pillow you hold tight
My cologne is in the sheets you wrap yourself in
You can even wear my clothes
Go insane and let me walk in
On you making out with a pillow dressed like me
I'll smile and I promise
I'll love you the way that pillow never could
Let me make you happy
The way the other guys failed to
When they ******* up the chance you blessed them with
I promise baby
I'll never hurt you
My shoes are in the closet
They're not going anywhere
My suitcases are unpacked and laying in the dump
Three states away
The distance you wanted in the first place
Between me and my second love
You know I had a tendency of packing up
Leaving in the middle of the night
When your slumbering hand wandered on my side of the bed
Looking for the warmth of my skin
But Baby I promise my walking days are over
My running shoes are too old
They don't fit anymore
Let me make you happy the way you deserve
I understand if you don't want to do it
I'm not going to cliche it up
I'm not going to beg
I'm just going to tell you
I like you
Ask you for only one thing in this relationship
Let me make you happy
It's not much but let me make it my sole purpose in life
I don't need a god or gods and goddesses
All I need is the heart in your chest
To be my altar
To be where I tithe my sins away
To give praise to the heart that saved me
Let me make you happy
I'm not a complete ****** like the rest of them
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Which algorithm is going to understand me
understand sentiment behind what I do
It is coded for catching the patterns
For them we are just there
to generate the data to process
What insights will they create
about me when I'm just the outlier
they will remove me to get cleaner results
Generalise the problem
that it won't cater to me
technology is not the slave
they make us dance to their tune
We change, as much as they advance
Develop worse habits
change our routines
from when we were in the more happier place
to a place which comes with waves of sadness.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
What?
well don't be shocked,
it's genetic coded,
drilling for dimples
my parents did it
to me,
down the food chain,
for a millennium,
Baby Boomers, Millennials,
Gen X, Gen Y, Gen Z
it will be done forever,
auto-naturally
place the pointer finger
gently upon each cheek,
commence so soft
digging, twisting for
the oil of human smiles,
the reward, astonishing!
a shocking discovery
made this morn!
*you can do it too
"going up the stairs,"
to Grandmas, Nana's,
if you catch them,
and with extra care spent,
soft so soft when
they are
just waking up,
when their inner kid
is sleepy showing*
drill a dimple,
drill, baby, drill,
if your baby/is
six or sixty,
at any age,
kissing an
unexpected smile,
most worthwhile!
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
A poem nebulously arrives
at the precincts of mind
like in every pregnancy
it changes a whole lot of things
A firefly with a drop of
oily yellow light so feeble ;
but one gets lost in the
happiness it brings
I haven't ever known
a happiness similar to this.
In the days of my childhood,
I used to sit in a room opening
to the vast green rice fields,
At the sunset, when light fads in to darkness,
the gloom that spreads around
makes one ask, 'what if the moon
wouldn't appear tonight?'
A drop of light appears from nowhere,
flies to a bamboo grove,
this I couldn't foresee,
it turns out to be a firefly, its light
pulsating like a coded message,
to more fireflies so shy and want
the pain of darkness to foster them,
I close my eyes and wait for the sound
of their wings flapping in my subconscious.
Now, they come in swarms, a spectacle
one can't explain, all I know is
that I was yearning for their presence.
They are guests for this celebration
of light, I crafted with my pain,
and love, the antidote, for all that angst.
A poem is born as a dome of effulgence
these fireflies create in pitch darkness
that meditates alone only on light .
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A ***** novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?
A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
6.5k
Oh cursed soul,
that you be,
something I dont even believe,
In, but in pain filled ignorance,
I lack the eloquency to describe,
Even a little bit accurately,
This hateful being,
This lie of a perception, I cannot wake from,
A matrix, a coded line, I find myself,
Stuck in,
The suffering of a thousand lives and worlds,
Reaching out to you, reading this,
Lying, lying, as if the words mean,
Anything, anything, No!
Yet then, I always realize circling back,
To the histories invented by past selves,
hence, influencing who I am now,
the dark corners I look forward to in the future,
The lack of resposibility, The blissful youth,
Mixed with the pain of wisdom,
And the teachings and overview,
Of going off a cliff, only to jump back on,
And run off again,
Yet, then, again I find myself looking,
In my heart at the gun, the gun of release,
Oh that I dare say,
all humans should seek.
Crazy, crazy, John,
You are crazy you say,
Aye, aye, as all we are,
Sanity is insane,
Reason is,
2+2=4, Because.
I am the because. I am the order.
I am the chaos, that puts that electron there,
And your synapses connecting there,
Oh I'm the breath you take,
Before that **** and ***
You faked,
Little one, little one,
I am much older now in lives
Than years, I consume throwing myself away,
The self, the soul, the non existence,
Oh it is existing and it wont leave me,
And all this because,
I saw her kissing that man,
On the cheek.
Alas, that is the bane of every God and Demon,
Since nephlium, To love a human,
A mortal, the code in the matrix,
The variables for the x,
That turns your reason and logic,
Into guess work and soulbreak,
I drone on,
Where is the end,
That is the point! Dr. Seuess,
Take your money back, I know the places I will go,
Oh I've seen it now for a while, and boy do I fear,
The blank page, the unwritten line,
The truth that I've been trying to hide,
From who?
I've lived long enough.
I would like to die.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Need to clear my head
On the cross-over of insanity
Words and emotions running rampant
Pulling in all possible directions
Scratching at the door
The main personality is under threat
Turmoil created, but clarity is needed
Paper my only solution
Mums ashes disturbs my beauty sleep
My aunt is withholding it from me
Or can’t face the truth
It was just a task to be taken care of
Her front is empathy
When I needed it the most
I saw evil with a smile
Claiming to miss and love her sister
I am her image and legacy thrown with garbage, away
Someday we all will have to give word for our actions
Grandma took a whole year to die
She fought dying to the bitter end
Indeed the end was overly bitter and painful
This happened because she had no peace
To die you need peace and forgiveness
Was a very controlling woman
This was her downfall in the end
The same will be the fate of the last daughters
She was not tough on them
Today they are spoiled women trampling the family children
Their children is paying the price
God works with generations
For me healing begins when I share these words
My family used mum when alive
In death they give her no second thought
I miss her dearly because I was dependent on her still
In the least, the rest can honour her memory
My dreams are coded messages
My maternal grandma didn’t like me much when she was alive
In death she visits me by dreams, angry ****** expression
The dream fills me with negative emotions
Why she visits I do not know
I am afraid to find out, but curiosity is my master
I do miss her, but I do not miss the person she became in her senior years
Mean, isolated and bitter
The matriarch I revered, allowed favouritism to bring divide in her family
This is my in heritage I have to build on
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
.
*asks the one in the $9 Craigslist chair,
legs crossed like a philosopher
mid-way through a YouTube binge
on dark matter
and dopamine fasting.*
He thinks it’s profound.
It’s not.
It’s a shrug in a trench coat.
A crisis dressed up in code.
An old fear wearing digital cologne.
If this is a simulation—
***what the **** are we simulating?***
Heartbreak?
Minimum wage despair?
The number of times I check my phone
hoping it’s her?
Is it
a stress test for gods,
a beta for consciousness,
a joke?
Because if someone coded this—
they should be fired.
Or worshipped.
Or sued.
Where’s the patch notes,
the exit key,
the server room in the sky?
Where’s the moment it glitches
and someone finally says,
“Oops, our bad—
you weren’t meant to feel
all of that.”
You talk about the veil of illusion
but you still cry in parking lots.
You still ghost your therapist.
You still love people
who don’t text back.
You bleed,
you ache,
you spiral—
whether you’re made of atoms
*or ******* pixels.*
Your god wears headphones.
Your sacred text is a Stack Overflow thread.
Your heaven is a loading screen.
Your hell is just
Monday.
You pray in 1080p
to a silent DevOps deity
who hasn’t pushed an update
since the Bronze Age.
This isn’t philosophy.
It’s cosplay for cowards.
It’s a way to sound deep
without touching dirt.
Without risking faith.
Without changing anything.
Because if it’s a sim,
you don’t have to care.
If it’s a sim,
you don’t have to try.
You can just sit there,
scrolling.
Wondering if the fire
is ray-traced.
But here, the only questions that matter:
Does it hurt?
Do you love?
Can you lose?
Because if the answer is yes—
you’re in it.
Whatever it is.
Simulation or not.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC
by: MissPine
Confidante — that's what I am seeking.
Over a thousand tears are still falling.
Longing for what they called love.
Only time could tell how it is tough.
Rollercoaster rides of painful stuff.
Come to me, Oh Clementine!
Omniscient I may be, but I am just a teen.
Dry my eyes as well as this heart of mine.
Empty my mind from thoughts once hide.
Dream about love is just like a tide.
Confident I am in this journey called life.
Rushed imaginations end not be by knife.
Unveiling on what I always been aiming.
Stop for seconds, guess I'm still dreaming.
Hope this be the last game I'm playing.
Who is that confidante I am looking?
The 'Color-coded Crush' who I'm loving.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
It was dark and day
the day I read the words came straight
from [redacted]'s brain placed upon
this coded page
Oh my delightful
bedstand book took the rope and pulled
from the poetry a noose
with which to cull
its zombie
body
infused
with life
only as
love peace
& pros
per
ity
[redacted],
imbue
me be
fore I
leave
O,
please
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
spring’s breath hums on your face
sits upon a fencepost, hawk-like and stoic
its infant rays nuzzle, organized and coded
its beauty, slightly bothersome
to the man who mistook god’s warmth as permanent
all planets in space operate between two foci
and ted hughes wrote “crow” as a bedtime story
for the lovers he abandoned
what I’m trying to say is this:
spring will leave earth
like a two-faced lover
but never forget the monday you shared with her
as she breathed winter’s hangover
down your holy throat
for that is something memorable
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
If distance were a metaphor,
its synonymous yet factual depiction would be itself.
Its shear complexity stretches over multitudes,
and from its belly flows rivers of emotions;
anger, frustration, regret sadness and not forgetting self realization.
Inadvertently it separates people and yet brings them closer.
Without doubt it's an enigma of life, call it Einsteins quantum theory of light.
Until one can comprehend the subliminal message deeply coded in the core of this phenomenon,
and without hesitance decipher its elaborate meaning,
one has no choice but to matriculate into it's class and take it's lesson.
Call it school of hard knocks 101.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
His kalenjin tribesmen planned for tribal wars to cleanse kikuyus and luhyias
From the their lands, planned out of tribal sadism,
He was fully aware, as he understood the kalenjin coded language of war
And preparation for war, war of the years 2007 and 2008,
He did not give any holy bishopric **** to save his non indigenous folks
The people to be killed and tribally cleansed were the members
Of his catholic church in the dioceses of Eldoret,
The ones to **** were his kalenjin tribesmen,
But bishop korir could not counsel nor forewarn,
He did not give out any peace focused advice
That a catholic should not **** a catholic
Because of politics or worldliness,
Instead he gave respect to his tribal sentimentality
He behaved as a kalenjin first then a catholic later,
A spiritual paradox of the century,
Only equated in the Biafra tribal sentimentality between igbos and yorubas
Redolent of European ****** or the American ku Klux ****
But after all the non kalenjin Catholics from his dioceses
Had been killed, burned up in the church, ***** up
Homoerotically perhaps in the madness of tribal scorn,
That they now became refugees in their own country; Kenya
And then solemnly condemned to the refugee camps,
Is when Bishop korir Cornelius came out of his tribal kernel
With vices of a kipskiss sadist , holy rosary in his hand,
Singing an out dated poem of Hail Mary the ******
Mother of Jesus Christ to them, the IDPS,
He then promoted a priest from his tribe,
The one kimengich up the hegemonic altar to become
The bishop of Lodwar from where they loot
The illiterate turkana catholic peasants their relief foods,
And even jobs, and clothes, only to give to those who are not needy,
To the kalenjin who are not even catholic nor marginalized, some even Moslem,
All these happens in the sweetness of tribal syndrome,
A social disease which the holy sacrament of the catholic faith
Have not and never will heal Bishop Cornelius korir.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
Somewhere deep in the skies of Montana
a lonely street corner flickers
casting coded light
upon the distant albino hillside
It was once a great lake
of snow and ice and melt and
unseen by life
It drained and died
and its beautiful lakebed sands
became the hillside
again
to tumble and fall
into valley and time
again
there we built an impermanent road
we pave and pave
maintain
with trucks and slabs of dirt and grain
roaming those Roman roads
again
Somewhere deep in that heartland
the strings that pumped the musculature
of a dying nation
slowly giving way to a violent attack
from within
oxidize and pool
into great tides
to one day see the coast
I am in California
but I see it clearly as a dream
where the great plains meet the mountain face
and the Cheyenne carved their heels into the dirt
for a bit
spirit
eroded into the winds
today the miners spit
at a coffee-town bar
into copper cans
licker than split
Owning the land that shakes
and shifts
redrawing god's lines
with a paper pad and a pen
for a bit
And the dresses the ladies wear shine
lacquered wood and the horses cry
and beside the interstate
the trucks steam and chuff
and their drivers gaze starry-eyed
onward, beyond into the night
beyond those flanking hillsides
to the flat ocean land sponged anew
that left the oil fields in Texas and the tar sands in
Athabasca
set ablaze in the fervor
of a death rattle
American heart
pumping to feed these hillsides
again
for tomorrow we begin.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC