I just keep Falling.
I just keep Dropping.

I am only a heavy weight,
About to have LIFE KNOCKED out of me.

And as the distance to the ground constantly changes

I cannot help but wonder
if I should be
Terrified
or
Satisfied.

With the way...
This story ends.

Tessa VII




I am curious, on your man, woman- advice friends. Tac-
tically impotence only wants to say, what if? The long line of
this hissing in my ear can drive me mad. And than I'm saying
'Look who's talking'. It's the diplomacy on treading carefully
on your feelings. What if I hurt you and lot's of apologies?

Your friends are holding me in contempt for loving the way
that you are. Or, that could be a state of the art opinion and
self hollowness, when liberated for too long. Horses don't eat
meat or Beef Wellington. And you are a fine equus, I know...
I am waiting for this morphology, muscles turning to butterflies.

Nine days ago we were in unfamiliar territories, still. A diamond
had fallen from off the forehead unto the floor, a stony wall
horizon. I am following the Ivy towards your thinly path through
the woods. It is more than a thought, or impulse. If you want
my advice, a moment's blindness could do us many wonders.






Tessa VIII




Where is the fountain of youth in our future, today, tomorrow,
thereafter? Interesting seeing or watching two adults trying
hard to find this childlike 'would you like to be my friend?' talk.
Men walk through rocks and mountains, and women are at the
tunnel's end waiting for collision. Questions are being asked,

whether we started off the wrong way. It wasn't in my app, or
yours and looming before us. You grassed me up, I am a British
criminal of the surreal land. Marshes and bush are on fire, I like
singing this song. Or change all this to care for each other, and
forget that we are pixies. I never liked Kilroy, my late

confession. ET went home, alone, and now is staying on the
planet of Extraterrestrial. As for your idyllic nature the fountain
of youth was love. A quiet place in the evenings perhaps, and
I will find you there. Halfway under the full moon and spider's
mating season. If death may be the fate I may find, playwright.






Tessa IX



I need a cigarette, chuckle at something trivial, or go to bed and
call for the whales. Why it end up here in this way is only
making sense if you are a living memory. What is the story of
your life, a matey question unanswered. You are trying to hide
from triviality, I get that impression from afar. Pain in my shoul-

der, just off the blade. Are we going somewhere this after-
noon? The cricket field is empty or mental asylum. How do
we pretend in a pretend world? Let's get M, the M- word,
or negation and forensics. I need a hug or group hug of you
and me. If you can't laugh now, I am not a comedian, S U C.

slapdash rush
collision of lips
that open like flowers
eyes acorn-brown
red lust flush
blooms from fingers to toes
tingle of fire
licks through veins
like dripping water
skin on skin flickers
and hot sleepy breaths
quirks and delights
together as one
potent potpourri
taste of oranges
and cinnamon
something entirely
new

awkward is a promiscuous word. it flirts unintentionally. it seduces mentally. but most of all it's so disruptionally absurd even the first-come-first-serve basis comes 15 feet behind the typical quota. but it really isn't that serious. it would be awkward plus if i wasn't active right now. does that sound appealing to anyone? well it better. i'm no vanguard when it comes to distribution of emotions. they'll be distributed equally, thank you, and don't worry about getting more 'cause they'll be pieced out safe and fair. lord jesus, we need some sorrow-getter-overs in here! i'm always telling those who ask me for advice to relinquish the suffering and let the good times roll. not that it'll save their hides, i snicker mimically and divert the attention to something inappropriately interesting, like a ***** bumper sticker or a animal corpse on the side of the road. and you are gonna turn into one if you don't stop that crying! man i need some fresh air and i'm not talking about the innocent kind. it's more of the obvious, over-cynical cyanide-soaked air that formaldehyde would blush over. there are two r's in sorrow because the s and the o and w need to be capsized into one rowboat. i never thought i would compromise intimacy with loudspeaker attention-grabbers and then the sailboat does a belly-flop and lands head first in the witches' cauldron. which is like Hamlet's, but a lot less systematic and bunches more pagan. it's synthetically miserable but enigmatically moral. dance of the morals is another program i like. it has to do with the regard of selfish hope and loose pragmatism. pagan! ****** i know it's pagan but it's pigheaded trash like that which gets stuck in the garbage disposal ever so often and we don't have no time to clean it out. i use a fish net that once occupied a corner near the stove which had the net chewed through by ***** rats that inhabit the lower quarters of the bathhaus. it's nothing significant really but more or less a principle in not making leftovers from the unknown trashpile near the barn. attention: entrance alert. "too bad for" who cares. i'm sick of this. "too bad for". that's all said? "let's chat a lot" what? i thought maureen was coming over at 7? who left the cat out again--the dog's gonna have a field day playing cops and robbers, and there are always reallive guns. and i'm stuck back at square/ground one/zero figuring out how i'm gonna get the next day's meal without having to cut off my head or make the microsoft paper clip icon appear with those embarrassing clips telling you how you should appear to your boss on your first interview. and find out that he's a man after all. and ultimately regret what you said every two minutes. wish i had contributed crescents more to the goodness, and not brush over like a stuckist's paintbrush. he's actually using blood instead of acrylics- that's when i get running. wish i hadn't have done that. wish i hadn't. we "hadn't" too much, you know? i wish we had to have "hadn't" before it hadn't have been created. still my emotions are sold and i've cast a mold far too ugly to be a stupid cupid. can we get on with the show, please? no thank i've had enough cranberry pie for right now, maybe buttercup the parrot can have the rest? the cat hates water. then why is he swimming in the dog dish? i'm not complaining, just hesitating to say how i feel when i want it. yeah, i know you're looking at me make a sucker outta myself on your camera. all those poses weren't hard to accomplish but you aggrandize the bad and disregard that i actually have good talent after all. crazy 8s. thought i'd never compromise. thought i'd never make a sport out of tantalizing the shopkeeper's parakeet. yeah, they're playing that game everyone calls a bore cuz it is one. why not roast a marshmallow then find a salamander caught between the chocolate and the *******. and we can't have them crackers anyways cuz there's got gluten in them. can we take a walk, i have something to tell you? i have to tell you about my personal life. i don't care if you're bored. darwin was never bored, fyi. i don't want to hear your juvenile complaints anymore. you're always telling me your problems but you never let me talk. but why would you care? and no way am i gonna share? not there. still. you're still not coming around cuz you're crying and i can't take it anymore. stop the tears, i already told you just take another pill and you'll relax. your life can stop in a heartbeat because some freak told you to stop ******* with the power outlet and make an attempt on making it right. how am i gonna make it right? seems good to me to get up and go and never return. seems right to let it all hang lose and think of excuses as a way to win some money. i'm not the principle breadwinner around here, but i'd bake enough bread to feed an army if i had to. a whole cohort of emotional bigots who don't care anything about their stupid, money-******* societies. it's leveled to the drain again, yeah i know you don't understand. i'm done asking. please? do it for me? don't you know i'm hurting myself because... i'm not listening. don't you want to know i'm cutting my flesh because... i have to water the garden. oh dear what was that? whew! almost another collision with a bee. whew--another close one. what about the spiders in the cabbage bed? what why didn't you tell me? yeah, the cabbage patch has produced more memories than heads, and no not those types of heads. a mashup of what i hate most and what i hate least scourged outta me in a whirl. she's going to take a walk. the radio's on and it's hot in here. those maudy days of summer, but i love every shred of them like i do a coat in the winter. the radio's playing my song: doomsday magnificat! i like leather and metal combinations that are sold in a 60s oz town. you can tie and whip me if you conscience can, but not now. it's another adage gone to the birds. oh no the shopkeeper's parrot is out again and i didn't do it! how come i'm blamed for things i don't do? get over it. another fact of life. another testimonial head my way. dodge! that was a flying saucer that almost razed your head. you wouldn't care though because enough has happened today to make your head spin even faster than it already is. and they're real-live which makes me keeping fumbling my too-short curls disintegrated by sheer chauvinism and belated princeness. that's alright. i know how you feel. i know how the world feels because i am the world. and the world is my canvas. and i may dictate what you are allowed and i may waver onto what laws of principalities are shooting up everywhere, but it's okay 'cause there's a lot more to shoot than good time. and those wacked people can form an alliance and take down the stronghold because in reality, you know that you are wacked yourself to say that. i'm sorry you did. the world will keep spinning, snipers will keep killing, conservatives will keep protesting, parents will keep levitating, children will keep withholding, the days will keep heating, the pool will be more refreshing, and yeah mrs. renttib is still coming over. the world is new. and i am young. but we will all stay safe and good in this empyrean. because and i created it. and i established the surveillance cameras, which are everywhere, but don't feel pressed. yes, i'll forever watch your every move, and even though you've done good, i'll still send you to hell. because you belong there. you may begin now. make your tread strong yet gentle. it's not my expense, the water is cooler out here,
                                                                ­                             anyways.

return to the past
it was recently been now
return to the past
was recently was today

return to the past
collision with gray leaves
return to the past
happening happening right now

12.12.18

It's hard to adjust,
I know.

The twists and turns
Collisions;
They're all abrupt
As everything is.

Nothing slows
Nobody dies
Just shifts
Deviates and changes
In fluctuations.

It's hard to adjust,
I know.

Have you ever tried to drive…

With your back to the steering wheel?

Do you think you would survive?

Or would “driving blind” get you killed?



With your knees awkwardly

Pointing to the backseat

Reaching for the brake and gas pedals

Using the heels of your feet



Twisted arms gripping

For the roar of the ignition

The start of a mission

That will surely end in collision



Trying to move forward

With the back window as your only view

Navigating northward

Stuck at every corner- Not knowing what to do



Not seeing

That you are hitting

Everyone and everything

Standing in your way

Not realizing the damage… until it’s done

And all of your passengers pray to be saved



Every sign missed

All of the lights ignored

Causing other drivers to swerve

To avoid the destruction you’re headed for



This is a crazy way to drive

It’s also a crazy way to live one’s life

Not able to see positivity

Only focusing on your pain and strife



Driving backwards through this world

Is a great way of dying fast

How can you push to a brighter future

If all you see is the darkness of the past?

the time that is moving round me now - 1
some are going ahead
some are going back

having my fingers wielded
on an old type-writer
i’m thinking what should i do

a pretty long time passed away
since the village alphabet
had bade me farewell

in my recent thinking
there is a severe harikiri

the song
that i have sung in a deep forest
in front of the wild flowers

now when i am sitting  
under the ceiling-fan
of the heaven

i can see that both
the lyric and the tune of the song
have vanished


the time that is moving round me now -2
this morning
i’ve woke up little earlier
to observe the dawn

the flags of my behaviour
are posted in the grass-land
around me

no one should take them
as the handkerchiefs of
a demon

a group of people is harvesting
the paddy of the spring-season

i too join them to remember
the water-game of the ducks

i’m speaking less
or keeping mum

but there remains so many topics
to be discussed

the battle of the ballots…
the global recession…
the climate-change…
the terrorism…
the joint-force…


the time that is moving round me now -3
i’ve made a thorough discussion
with myself

so many arguments which lead to
even so much fighting

i see that there has been not
much lamentation or brooding  
not much grief or sorrow
not much tension or anxiety
of my own

all the time
surrounding me only is a grey
non-attachment
and a joy sans any emotion

then i think
if the rose can forget its sorrow and distress
why should I remember them
with so much pain and pancreatic problems

the time that is moving round me now - 4
there is no ending of words

is there anything that may be called
the end-word

let the words make questions
let the words give replies
let the words shout
let them battle among themselves

i can’t understand
why is there so much endeavour
to take me into that chaos

a plant of small white flower
is enough to make a garden itself

even-then
an assembly of
the rose the jasmine the tuberose is made
to increase the rule of the garden

after picking flowers from those plants
my wife puts them to the feet of the god
to worship him

she has a drinking-glass a plate
a hand-fan a throne
for her god

all are like tiny-toys

among them
the throne
is very important

till today
in many of our houses
there is a throne

but it is neither for accession of men
nor for making themselves king

i’ve already said
the throne is for our god

that means for our lying on
there may or may not  be
even a broken cot

but for our family-god
to provide a throne
is a must

the time that is moving round me now -5
on that day
when once i had gone into the
myself-man

i saw
that the government and the opposition
both sides were gheraoing  one another

in the same pace
they were reciprocally
quarrelling threatening rebuffing abusing

thus there was running
a fine piece of democracy there

it gave me enough pleasure

then i again came out
of that myself-man

in the outer-world
i saw

bypassing the stones and the hard
the roots of the trees
going deep down in the dark
in search of soft soil

and their branches are taking bent
towards the sun-light

the time that is moving round me now -6
of late
my intelligence seems somehow
to become slippery

there is so much pollution
in the myself-ism

it seems
even in collision with my shadow
some dragon-flies are killed every day

why do my eyes see so little
why do my tongue speaks so harsh words

to whose custody has gone
those rain-drops

those lemon-blossoms

there is the glittering of dew-drops
on the cob-web

the evening-worship
is sinking into the barking of dogs

as if the wings of the parrots
become van-rickshaw

as if the moon-light were
gradually retreating
in the enlightened city-life

Just a look
And you stirred my lungs
Now you filled it with stars
Must be fate's caprice
may be Cupid's feats
Did you feel it too?

This trance
Explosion of suns
Like shoots of fireworks in my head
You took out my fears

In silence I swear I did hear
The clock as his arms sojourned
and how they felt like years
Might be Saturn's rings misaligned
Could this be a sign?

Tell me how can I recover
from your sad eyes, brown like amber
as they reveal your sorrows
Please allow me
to dig your heart so I can repair it
Is this not enough
to believe that gods set us up?

Take my hand we'll ask the gods' permission
or maybe a reason for this collision
Because if time is relative
When our eyes met
I felt we're infinite



-Cupid's Arrow, Margaret Austin Go

You won't remember this
but we played together as boys, you and I
in the woods of Scotland
on the streets of Damascus

Sticks for machine guns
crab apple hand grenades
direct hit, count to ten
then up again

Your mother was kind, I recall
would berate you for lacking my polished manners
while my mother, of course,
would hold you up
as a shining example to me.

And though it has been years
have we ever been apart?
The peace upon you now
has been upon us both all along
as we have traced this warm collision
through all our separate, numbered days

Count to ten, old friend.
Count to ten
and up again.

Patiently waiting for the perfect light.
Glassy lake, wind, clouds, perfection’s near
as the moment dwindles into night.

Captured moments prove that you’re alive, a height
of feeling between depths of time and fear
that living casts only imperfect light.

But the moment missed is like a face out of sight
that against all logic you hope will appear
from around a corner, framed by the night.

Technology offers consolation in its sleight
of hand:  Digitally correct the analog here
and now, counterfeit the perfect light.

Yet you want more than the remastered byte.
You want the flash between waiting and souvenir,
Self and spectacle fused, reality felt right.

And so you wait for what’s passing out of sight,
the collision between soon and too late, sheer
threads connecting to the perfect light
before the moment dwindles into night.

The orphan cried,
In such a state of disarray,
Dashed in front of rushing truck,
A swerve without avoidance,
Collision inevitable,
Breath taken without second choice,

A hurried melee of vehicles,
Swept the innocent one up,
Carried him away,
Rushed into room, in a emergency of desperation,
ECG stated asystole,

Heartbeat without rhythm,
Chances lost for child without sin,
No saving child,
As moments of grace began,
Blinded in a manic panic,
From above his bed the child spied,
His body as his last moment died!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
This is a follow up to spoils which I posted yesterday.

He was a good runner;
And one hell of a stunner;
Your stop-glass picture for a lightning vision;
And a start-pass winner, a stunting gold finisher;
A heart cold hunter, he was my knock-out hitter;
He was a K.O. Rider--
He was a collider: on one collect collision course;
Of course, the beginning was when it began:
Between the specific sheet of force
With a good measure...
Had me landing on all fours,
Reveling in it again;
To rev up was the plan.

What makes a drink so evil?
As holidays turn into dust
While payment fails a purser
One can feel
A collision pressing
As beings collided
Dismantle by ignorance
To run through an illuminating radiance
Without showing a sudden stop
Drooling tongue
With utterly words
As a voiceless child
Guilty
To damage
Cause by a drink
Unknown to the spirits
As one life is spared
By a bag of air
Who can drive a drink of evil?

1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

See that Smile
Like Diamond
Among the Dust of the Stars.

I don't know you
But your smile
reflex your Heart

It shines like
A Thousand Suns
In Collision.

It's Light, Gives Life
It's Ray, Gives Hope
It's Contagious, Gives Riches
It's Core, his Love
It's Word, Gives Creation
.
.
.
Time with it's Season Came
After the collision
She leaves
Thoughtless
Emotionless
Motionless
Tearless
Lightless
Bold­
Loveless
Livelessnessly Like a Tree
without a taproot
To Hold,
To Feed.

It's So cold
Why can't you
come back to Us.?.

All the things I am scared to say
pile in my brain;  begging to flood over
they don’t know their own names, but
crave to be heard.

your voice. its vibrato, true velvet
floating across every atom of my being
a truth spoken that only comes from your lips
a masterpiece no mere humans could create

my darling, do you sift through the clouds
scanning my eyes as I worship the light you bring?
do you hear me call your name as my dreams
project themselves toward where you are.

your eyes. their stare, a protective state
I have never known; dancing across my
every move. laughter finds itself within the
outlying colors of your world. Don’t you see…

don’t you see, our eyes match intensities to
create another creation. a world colliding
but not in a collision. A big bang, but in serenity.
a secret kept; only for us.

please, don’t allow me to write about the hands
that write me everyday. defining a path in the dark
a leader, led by truth and goodness
sought by many; found by me.

I fall into an eternity, wrapped into you —
you rise and fall; I reciprocate. We are
patterns; carefully placed alongside
juxtaposing backgrounds, only to become one.

I surrender, fully. I understand now. For you
my heart would fall from my chest, fulfilled
it leaps.
I will not chase it, it has found its freedom.

Freedom in the throwing up of hands.
A white flag positioned

The airport was at its usual daily peak
thousands wanting to fly away.
Frustrations mounting with each delay
but eventually this flight.
Departed late evening on runway 201
glittering in the dusky sun.

From the ground it looked a perfect take off
but it was not alone!
Besides the sleek aircraft was a disc like object
keeping pace as it rose!
Ground crew were afraid it could be a missile
at least for a short while.

The air force were alerted it stayed along side
passengers saw the disc.
Silver in colour no markings they could see
none of the crew had a clue.
Speeding ahead it turned on a collision course
towards them at G force!

The plane started to take emergency evasive action
to avoid a fatal impact!
In the control tower nothing showed up on radar
even though it could be seen!
After about twenty minutes it started to glow
then seemed to slow.

As witnesses watched silently it split into two
instantly into space it flew!
The plane crew decided to continue their flight
no air force jets caught the UFO that night!

The Foureyed Poet.

There is comfort with you, the softness of you, hair, eyes, smile, hands, counteract my hard edges. Neutralizing. My acidity becomes neutral as you trace the angels of the spine and hip bones. Our chemistry creating the ultimate balance. Locking eyes ignites chemicals below the stomach bubbling in my throat and chest. Soft lines of fingers, juxtaposed against my fumbling appendages. The quiet of your voice colliding with the raucousness of my own. The basic collision of differences creating the uncontrollable, but inevitable reaction. But within the difference lies the similarity, the melody of voices vocalizing literature. The magnetic pull compelling our bodies to become one. The warmth of flawed bodies tangled together in a twin bed. The resentfulness towards hatred and hypocrisy, the inclination towards love and understanding. The creation of something inexplicable, something unknown, unexpected, something that has redefined beauty.

In and out of doors but still so sure

Filling  dancefloors you’re cool you’re pure

Facing collision with a new disposition and trying to maintain

That sometimes there is sun but mostly there is rain

Time is a not a concept I hear him creeping up. I turn I look him in the eyes and ask, “what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up I’m merely here and follow everyone but I’ve never followed anyone that’s like a loaded gun”

Peace and love are no reprieve with a heart upon your sleeve

Pull apart every stitch in time and lets weave

Now I’m king but still no queen I see her in my dreams

When I’m asleep she’s awake or so it seems

Words you see the notes will follow

Anticipate tomorrow

Never lend never borrow it only leads to being *******.

Bus stop and ***** shop suspicion makes you wanna

Start a good religion that everyone will folla

Scratch that I know nothing but the importance of feeling

Let the plan hatch that’s stirring then escape to leave them reeling

Feel so good didn’t know I could but enough about me

Lets celebrate the fact our eyes can see

Sure this road I woke upon does pierce the horizon

I bet though when I get there anticlimax is the poison

The nowhere groove down which I move presents itself in fact

It's a necessary evil with which I’ve made my pact

Suddenly, so long, release!

The wasted days and lonely weeks

Chances change we come of age and crash through an oasis

Places people just don't know

Scared and scolded as we go

This is this we’re meant to go

Deep inside I just don’t know

Rain it falls as twilight calls last orders on this game of old

Back to chances, only fear, your chances live and die right here.

Rainbows    Sunshine    Ponies
Dark    Cold    Demons

Rain­bows  Sunshine  Ponies
Dark  Cold  Demons

RainbowsSunshine­Ponies
DarkColdDemons

Heaven
and
Hell.
Closing in on me.
DARKCOLDDEMONS


**Emptiness; A collision of opposites