You're as pretty as the sunset
saying I'm in love would be a pretty good bet
but if it's wrong, I'm in debt
to some one that I haven't even met
at least not yet,
but I will
and then I'll pay them with a thousand dollar bill
and hopefully get a thrill
because every day I work hard as a papermill just to get to the weekends
but all my relationships are deadends
and I don't want this to end like that again so I'm just sitting here watching Big Ben
and waiting
hoping that with me you're commiserating

I

Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
But although I give you credit, ’tis with such a heavy mind!

II

Here you come with your old music, and here’s all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants were the kings,
Where Saint Mark’s is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

III

Ay, because the sea’s the street there; and ’tis arched by… what you call
… Shylock’s bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival;
I was never out of England—it’s as if I saw it all!

IV

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
***** and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

V

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
O’er the breast’s superb abundance where a man might base his head?

VI

Well (and it was graceful of them) they’d break talk off and afford
—She, to bite her mask’s black velvet, he to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

VII

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished sigh on sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—”Must we die?”
Those commiserating sevenths—”Life might last! we can but try!”

VIII

“Were you happy?”—”Yes.”—”And are you still as happy?”—”Yes—and you?”
—”Then, more kisses!”—”Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?”
Hark—the dominant’s persistence till it must be answered to!

IX

So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
“Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!”

X

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.

XI

But when I sit down to reason,—think to take my stand nor swerve
While I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve,
In you come with your cold music, till I creep thro’ every nerve.

XII

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned—
“Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned!
The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.

XIII

“Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
Butterflies may dread extinction,—you’ll not die, it cannot be!

XIV

“As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom and drop,
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

XV

“Dust and ashes!” So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what’s become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.

This valley will save me
Two hands
Oil coated & tender

Fertile
Lush
Energizing queries
Twisted grass tuft
Open, quivering
Hope & purity

It’s our time
You said
Answered prayers
& symbols etched

Released whispers
Revelation of lies,
Truths overcome.

Here in the valley,
Lost in my labors
Commiserating with the Devil after his fall
Denying the mountains security

I found disorder
Muddied my spirit
Grabbed tight

It’s time you said
Leading me out
Dark tent and a roaring blaze
With you,
This valley saved me.

a distant dog barking
at three a.m.
because the night is big
and the chain is short

and sometimes
from another dark backyard
another murky alley, lit by bare bulb
from the end of another chain, tied to a different tree,

a commiserating howl.

Upon awakening I almost never,
jump right out of bed, as I once did.
Slowly I rise to sit awhile on the edge
of  my days desired intentions.
Stiffly I stand and tentatively step away
towards the bathroom to relieve my
most pressing bladder urges.

Those parts of me that do still work,
do now mostly hurt and that's for certain.
Like any other machine, my body's warranty
has long ago mostly expired.

When we old friends now gather,
rather than palavering about our kids,
our golf game, or our ******* Boss at work,
the collective commiserating talk always turns
to our individual deteriorating health matters.

How things once were and no longer are.
Our new hurts and concerns laid out in
vivid detail, what the latest tests revealed
and what the Doctor said or concluded.  
These shared aging complaints you see,
seem almost limitless and all consuming.

We become a little like a hapless clergyman,
preaching wishful consoling rhetoric to his choir.
Not one of us knows, or has the answers
to any of life's BIG questions and actually
never did.

Misery you see, does indeed love company,
talking and sharing seems to help I guess,
being the only real tonic offered or taken,
no prescription required or need be written.

there's an awful emptiness
in relatable content
when hundreds of people all
experience the same
loneliness and pain
but no one can do anything
about it, so instead they just
laugh, a fake laugh, and say
"yeah, I know how you feel!"
as if commiserating will somehow
ease the pain when someone dies
or something in your heart goes askew
but if every awful experience is common then the norm is misery
which is not a norm I'm willing to accept
or maybe relatable is an adjective
for anything relevant to the human experience
in which case, every moment, every feeling, every instance
is relatable and therefore dreadfully unoriginal
so-- I propose we change the meaning of the word itself
allow it to become more, a warning to break free
a protest to rise up against
the normative and to seek the original
to become inspired and to connect with others
in unique and meaningful ways
join me in reclaiming what is relatable and instead
seeking what is new

If I wait to finish my
chores,
to finish my food
all the tiny
notifiers to my superego,
my id
would wither
music, writing, commiserating,
and commiserating
eight-fold path that could
fit in my pocket

I can play
Make children with songs
that have been inside me
half a lifetime
when I picked up an axe
14 year old me
Shyer in most ways
but bolder
in interesting ways
I walked the path
humming 4 noble truths
in between theses

erratic days
I lived a myriad of lives
I fear it’s all
swirling to be the same
Circles within samsara
used to last for
months now I’m stuck for
years
and I no longer
wish to become
unconditioned

Before you know, you're in your thirties,
Recalling all the days that'd come and gone,
Immixed with nostalgia memories,
Tedious friendships that lasted,
Temporary ones that passed,
Although it's difficult to differentiate,
None I've had with real substance,
Yet here you are, always there...
Picking me up from my self desolation,
Reassuring that I have some value,
Insisting there's worth,
Commiserating my woes,
Everything that defines a friend.

The solicitous Self,
with and in each exchange
of conversation's
     volley of commiserating
                     commissary verbages
words of curbs and gutters,
owns not its guilt
knows not good will
             nor for those whom shatter
in our drowning hours, unstill...


The Self is begging
for your idolatry's bastions,
wants you to find it beautiful
and superior
     above any other

attention and ingestion
gorging and hoarding
     the tid-bit compliments
     the cloud nine glances
succulent smiles / flirtatious lick of lips

the audience pumping up
its hot air ego-balloon
to beach ball widths

     a deadly kind of perdition
     for you, character fool
                    careless and distracted
blase' as a toad on a stoop...

It is a ****

the amorous Self is
     harmless, the beginning seeds
and whimsy / at flowering
in your hands:
              fluff and puff intimations
child-like glee / pleasing / blowing
nonpluss dandelions
nonthreatening
       in ruminations  
       N' stuff...

but like any ****
when it spreads and takes hold
        the real estate of your time and soul
it chokes and feeds
off your serene prosperity
of peace of mind
of identity

a thief of your ideas
     makes your dreams its own

It suffocates all others
behaves with dismissive airs
      like you it becomes
                   you, who has watered
this pest and catered to its musings
      like a sudden sunrise it appears
out of the blue appealing
a dandelion, quaint & demure
                    yet alluring

The ******* that is the selfish
solicitous thorn
knows its own nature
     far too well
hides its hideous
kink so none can warn  
it is a war
      
with Self
the attention *****


Self being compelled
as all else
a parasite to its growth
a virus and its host

what she now only has to give
in return:

assuage
her malingered spell

she breeds in you
     a ghost of once you were
wastrel grime
wasted time
an empty shell

Abhorred.

Careful what the Self
is selling
the solicitudes
of obsessions  
Possession
Suffocation
                     not much else...


No succor for the Self.

So many mixed emotions and feelings of...guilt for not feeling worse about
being fired
Like it should be just a devastating mixture of an acid knife cutting through my
stomach, but it is more like, I am lighter like a Monarch butterfly, despite needing to
shed fifty pounds, and more hopeful and optimistic as I
walk around and finish out my tour of duty at this school
that really feels like I'm in a bombing raid with everyone miserable around me all the time
and no one really hopeful and just there and now I get to leave, or must leave
and it is so hard to leave a paycheck that had I not been forced
I might have stayed
And I was so miserable and no amount of wine from the valley would have made it palatable
and I don't mind moving on at all, was really looking forward to it rather as my mind wandered
up and down the miserable stretches of time and spent a good part of down time commiserating
with fellow sufferers of the place
And now I have high blood pressure, to compound it all, and I feel like maybe now
I can maybe, just maybe find something less toxic because this was certainly
not for me
So I do get scared, but am balanced on a knife's edge and I don't feel it,
so perhaps it isn't a knife's edge at all
perhaps I've fallen into a pit of feathers and can relax into them for awhile.

cannot find true rest,
all the tumult in this world,
writ both large and small,
saps my upraised arms
alternate
flexing angry fists eager to strike hard
my revived new **** enemies,
and gods inexcusable and conspicuous absence in
Barcelona, Finland and my own
Charlottesville,
and
to quiet comfort commiserating, and storing
all the pain of individual souls I've acquired willingly

and the sunset comes quiet,
trying to sooth by adding
a gentling cream of cooling breeze,
the squirrels eye me suspiciously,
sensing the amiss within,
and all perfect sailboats voyaging past,
yet none stopping at the dock
to offer condolences or solaces

my watch ticks louder

each tick,
a worrisome cursed reminder
this real life seems to be endless struggle
interrupted by small comforts of little voices and
promises that escape is inevitable

each tock,
a fresh notification
the week's approach will contain
another visit from
Hamlet's ghost,
warning of warring factions
battlefield clashing
in a chesterfield plain
between two of mine shoulder blades

constantly reminded how lucky I am,
makes me grow quiet and put pen to one side,
and try to balance accounts, using this time,
pencil and erasure

I need a break and some glue
I need reparations and a battle plan
or happily learn to surrender
and accept being a
dumb terminal,
a slave,
that doesn't ask for
peace of mind
and knock off this poet of the
no way

Friends, we can get a long in a harmony of jokes
But where are we when one of us chokes

Down on the quarry, where the music silences
And the beats in between our hearts become apparent and orient
And the acoustic birds begin to ring our ears
When the face of an angel, blinks and tears.

Scatter yonder my feelings bare, barely
Before the hint of a moment reaches it's highest point
Cause I find you more beautiful with mascara worn away
Then prettied up for some pesky bar date.

Sad songs chime joy when in rhythm with the feeling
But every song you've sung is so commiserating, when you threaten me with your leaving.

Cause you casted your line too many times
And you're just about out of string
I've been stringing you on with my ***** paws.

And as we embrace this street with our youth
I could tell you one thing to hear
But it might be a different feeling from year to year

And maybe when age takes it's tole
I'll tell you I've just been living in fear
I've just been living in fear, let me tell you
I've just been waiting for the right time to hear.

I sit here not nameless
not foreign not forgotten
but simply just swept aside.

I hate how it feels
soiled and rotten
I wish I didn't know how to hide.

I'm so good at fading
I blend so well with the night
commiserating, caught feelings in tide.

I wish a harsher tone would strike my tune
I wish I could reveal all my self worth to you

We sat outside the office and I knew this wasn't good and there was a solemn atmosphere around there,  all over, like everyone is looking at a dead woman walking but I'm only fired
and I know this is going to happen when his face appears, anxious, can't look at me but finally making eye contact with me, voluntarily, since the play.  The good play, and then the taking away from me of the whole job and now it's time to take it all away.
And the secretary is preparing a big notepad where she will pretend to write big notes but they mostly she is really there to absorb it all with those big eyes and then walk around the halls and tell everyone she knows because in the restaurant when we walked in, her assistant, yes she has one, gave me that look, of knowing, understanding pain and everyone knows now, and they were all quiet as we walked in, two live people and one dead one
and the only thing is I don't feel dead, actually more alive, but a little scared because it's not clear what comes next although I know what I want

and he glanced and told us to wait and closed the door and called my real boss, who actually knows me, like he wasn't sure if I'd actually showed up and I knew in that one look he gave that this was THE END
So then he went and opened the door and said we'd wait for my boss because it was time to chop off my head and say it's not a good fit and that is what is printed on every single piece of paper that goes out to people like me these days, people who are so disposable
and yet he says "not a good fit" like it really means something and is just the right words for he moment.  really.  '
then he tries to change the tone to one of being upbeat and telling me the wonders of resigning and how great it will make my life and I'm just sitting there thinking
this is the most ridiculous pretentious scene, and I look over at the secretary who is staring at me, looking for tears and drama so it will make a better story "and then she--and she--" and it was just like "oh my God I can't believe she  and he" but I just stare back at her and there are no tears.   And instinct tells me what this is about, although I don't know, but instinct tells me that I am a threat to she who took my job and it is just so much easier to send me on my way

and my boss who will do whatever his boss wants starts to tell me that I have a lot of good things about me and--
he is cut off by a glare from his boss
so he crosses his legs a little tighter and his arms tighter and shuts up

and I admit I think this is the right thing because I am miserable and this is not what you are supposed to say.  
but it is the truth
I am in a sick, unhappy situation and this is finally a way out
and the three men sitting around me look like they don't know what to say or do
and they are vaguely insulted
and there are many more like me but they don't get this option so freely so they
stay and spend hours a day commiserating
and I am free
at last

Filthy with an itching stink on the dog day subways of choking humidity
every pour on my body screams
but there is a comfortability in the commiserating faces of greasy passersby
we all deal with the heat
without warning the smell of a sulfur **** fills my nostrils to the brim
and i hear somebody cough

this is the beauty of language

a glance upward yields an advertisement with enlarged *******—deals on plastic surgery—the women bellow it eats a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich with coffee

it is my choice what to put on this page
my choice
the words and images
my choice
the moods and emotions

for there are, in fact, six people on this train with their noses in books
the one next to me is Game of Thrones

and the girl across uses the most advanced handheld piece of technology in history as a makeup mirror

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah
Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah
High art for Mel Bochner
an ad campaign for the HTC One
and representative nonsense for everyone else

as I sweat my headphone chord makes me acutely aware of a lump under my ear
as a homeless man sleeps without shoes on the bench opposite

is that a juxtaposition of images I see there?
or did i just make that up for dramatic affect?
that is your choice my friend
Just as it is mine
to use that patronizing tone
to create an air of highfalutin significance
despite the fact that I am just another dumb privileged straight white guy.
I feel like i should apologize.....
I just missed my stop
I do that fairly often

September 29th 2022 Philosophy

The spavined strumpets of aleatory nimonics stranded in the dimpled pelargic mythos of the nebelwerfers of scansorial elitism burroling the stokehold of pragmatic lurch useful for the progeny of powellisation interned by potichomania for balefires against the throbbing thremmatology of the strickle of jabirus vexed by stunsail argumentation of sumpter sidelong in oblique ginglymus to such a grave extent the thalwegs of contemplation daver in marauded orbit around ceraceous and cespitous thaumaturgy manacled by subservience in sequacious filagersion honing upon stereopsis for nomenclators of high squarson brigadoon fidelity to finessed wheals brackling away at tattermedalion squalor in squirmish facade of brockfaced brockens of wasserman to infiltrate against banjolins the pedigree of berceuse mendaciloquence that the branchiform sedigitation of all sesquiplicated sondage in the barnstorm of whelky during the subterfuge of wallfish cofferdams entrenched in boskets of the deepest regard of bathmism that we might fetch the canicular and cannular talents of susceptible bonhomie to retrace the elemental supralunar chrysopoetics of the transubstantiation of all stellions beyond provincial jansky and above fracklings of disrepute to array never a protervity of loimic stiction but always a sovenance of the highest fidelity to bellarmine briquets that can be sustained by mediagenic diffusion of volplanes of vulpecular vasotribes thereby careworn of future plight by preterition and chronobiology superfused for sporrans calculated for bonanza rather than retching with carpology. In the sustainable calculus of stanhopes and standpipes against the nivellated carnage of many a nivial hotspot grandiose with bruxomania rarely plodged by the subsultus of virgation nor flummoxed into glochidate barbs against the cephaligation of turmoil subduplicated by the gnomics of rebarbative betise flagrant upon caballine taunts of persiflage of percocted vexililogy curmudgeons of companionway spurtle upon cibophobias yearning for yeeps trouncing yaffs in a suitable mascon that trounces the pentapolis for its misfire of finicky stoichometry gradate in the traipse of ginglymus rotated succinctly by a minor machinule degradation of venostastis that the wens of wanchancy never vex or vitiate the providence of prattle of umbrageous stultification whelkied by the patriolatry of foreign observers of the brocade of balbriggan springhares reticulated by grimgribbers of jaunty jabberwocky levying murage with murengers against the trident spodium of overwrought negotiosity spinescent in capacity to deturpate never with a carnassial intent the tribuloid fictions vaccimulgent by reedbucks who learn from stockinette harbingers the calculus of specular redintegration and redhibition that fewer in number are those scollardical taunts of poststructuralism and many more rancorous attempts at chrematistic nurture above camouflets of the vees of vecordy singulting melancholy upon the canzone of cadrans mobilized by motile wafture into cavernous applause that we might witness the secundine generation waft rather than wamble through its throes of goatish goliardy deposed by gonfaloniers of stridor rather than brackle over truculent developments of the lurch of wainage and wantage burroling the constative prisoptometers of tritanopia leveraged by finifugal finesse of stricklers of sifflation that the saffron glow of refulgence is contingent upon the biotaxy and biocenosis of evolved human trust in the stirpiculture of many fascinated disciplines into a chaptalized chapbook of enlightenment above the murky morass of snallygasters of casemate. With an improvident regisseur domineering by the labile fears of neuropynology that understates the mainlined efforts of the nervure against the nesh nessberries of overindulgent popinjays straggling through the stench of sprag winzing in fumatoriums of maieutic latency bored by the tedium of the laveers of the propriety of neolagnium restive because of plumeopicean nidor frowning upon the badigeon of baedekers becoming centripetal to all harmonized gambados seeking the same terminus against the vexatious simultagnosia of the graft between crevices of paltripolitan wrox and the bailivated society we govern better by the rhombos of rhizogenic answers to papaverous problems of chaetophorous vengeance wagered by the groundlings of kyphosis in their idiosyncratic bascules of stentorian elocution that the taxidermy of selenodesic traipses through barnstorms of plurrennial wastelots of cachalots suborned only by the betise and bezique of portentous diestrus fledgling in its inadequacies of torment to roodge any subservience to carpology or any allegiance to the miscegenation of the political yaffingales of plemyrameters overcapacitated by misyoked fears meeting inclement rhigosis that the fortunes of cimelia rather than the boggarts of cimex might enchant future generations to supplant history with a calculated cecutiency that never avoids the boygs of boskets carping by cymaphens of the semaphores of all wheelhouses of wheaten inventions that we might witness the historicity never of sesquiplicated subduplicated biocenosis gorging on the gorgonization of internecine ignorance of varsal velocious cynegetics that the stranded victims of spathspey only in ceremony rather than in supernumerary contemplation that the vigorish vagantes and newels among the badigeons might thrive despite turmoil and the jugodi of broadcloth happenstance devolved upon popular cynography rather than annealed by the ballicatter of avenged samara and samarra that find requital in the wedeln modality rather than nodality of propriety in purpresture rather than crassified demassification of the slore of poltophagous crimogenic procrypsis simileter to all shortsighted gambits of a farsighted batrachian fidelity to nektons suspended among the stunsails of the wager of man to better himself. Because of the motile capacity of thaumaturgy of the wafting baedekers circulated with superfusion incidental to its warped dimensions against thalwegs of strigine configuration that boltropes of emacity swindle from the registry of the coffles of bailivated marivaudage scanscorial in its own moulin capable of entombing the cenote of even the most strident efforts of the nembutsu of gonfaloniers to issue cheer instead of malinger with precipitogenic intimidations of spinescent spiraculated pickelhaubes of porbeagle insights collated from sublime authority because the world awaits not a faineant corpse of morigeration upon the shend of sheol crepitating in heavenly judicature rather than the juggins of notoriety of crambos and crampons that cadge licentiousness that we might all marvel at synechdocial capacities against baryecoia weaponized by a modern bacillicide by blesboks whose candent semaphores of whittled stepneys of swank picaresque by degrees of leverage and largesse taxed by stenometers of pycnostyle elevated because of pyretology that the eventual harbinger of piscary reconnaissance is worth the awaited junctition of all sociogenesis captivated by the selfsame rapture of the chaptalized discovery of a greater biocenosis brockened to rejoice upon decisive conquest rather than backfire in mekometers of coquelicot carnage. The vees of veepstakes admonished by prevenience in vitrail that the fewer casualties of macropicide slangwhanging the brocade of the insular rhotacism of the cannular heist of springald necrologues deposed by cardophagous lies about necrophages so immunized in their stanjant stolinicity boltroped by annealed wheals of endeavor cavorted with portfires of yuzbashi above the petty pedestrian concerns of the spavineds of vauriens of varietism that they can jolt even the jolterheads and surprise with rudenture even the most poikilothermic negotiosities to truckle with a hint of truculence to spare the world from starvelings on the outskirts of spirketti that the scarfskin of the collective endeavors of the ventrad vanguard might resemble the coalition of forbearance for the broadest bronteum of ptarmic awakening ever enjoyed by the vigilance of men and the simity of women against the phallocrats twinged with meritodespotism. When we steeve our way past the mazut of balkanized mazopathia in mercedary wainage rarely taxed by the forefront of  considerate myopia we might celebrate the kalamkari spathspeys in their inordinate caution developed into a nympholepsy splendor of refulgent thrills demassified for the curglaff of generosity upon the crumpled brannigans of wizened applause upon the heyday of saturnalia that the whittawers of willowish repute might barnstorm yet again past the precipice of indecency naively wagered never by the sageships of conciliabule capacity to wheedle their way through their attempts at bacillicide regardant always of the caudles of the past commiseration of privileged cribbles of bathmism rather than repugnant spathodea of retorted pelargic barbarism congealed in oppositive valor to enchant only a regelation of nightjars vigilant in sciatheric darkness that the sondage of siffilated barnstorm might jar the very foundations of heaven and earth that the welkins of those whelking might find the couveuse of attempted blatternophones of past decorum the stridor of many taunted nightmares rather than the precipice of the most copulated acclaim ever registered in the foundries of men above the carcasses of subternatural plebeian mythos that stagnates the world rather than ameliorates it into congenial harmony of concordat against interregnum. The suretyship of so many strictions that the sprahl of sprachgefuhl intermittent with janitrices of stanjant jansky beblubbered by the maudlin sentiments of the many recklings ignorant of stockinette despite the nephroliths against nervifolious demise pregnant with absolution rather than replete with gullywashers of metaplasm in the exposure of ragmatical soteriology jaunty only to elective privilege rather than preserved by the conformed chapbooks of catechumen that our fears incumbent on catastrophism always brackle against the truculence of truckling masses of corpses of infirmity that gimcracks of the pentapolis exalt above the treasury of life itself inviolable. The caverniloquys of the jobbernowls of jolterhead infamy regardless of the purpresture of imperious strigrine secrecy embossed upon the pogroms of caudles rarely commiserating with any enchantment of wanchancy brockfaced in its geopolitical fanfire of the portfire of perendination that swashbuckles with the freebooter flarmeys of past coquelicot catalfalque notoriety always a kilmarge to the boondoggles of syndicalism arrayed in satnav ratomorphism that we might storge our present culture with the heyday of glamour intransigent to the chronobiology of preterition always glozing with glottogonic piecemeal dashpots against catastrophism even when done with metaplasm against metapolitics we can fight together with a unified brigade and sodality against the carping objectionable trends of a momentary amnesia so refulgent it overpowers every other inclination that the solfatara of weatherboards of wethers might convene upon the sumter of clochards becoming vagarish rather than prurience becoming simileter to a popular culture ****** of cisvestism upon the scarpetti of crambazzled crampons of senicide rather than the registries of seismotic impetus roundhousing through jobbled configurations of nimonic harbinger to etch themselves indelibly upon the sociogenesis of bellarmine among men and eutrapely among every other facet of attention never too calcimine with calvous calvers that the bolar of our existence depends on the synclastic momentum of the cynegetic valor rather than porlecking insecurities of babirusa of baboonery. The silkaline improvidence of the many boondoggles of lacking stolonicity or a casemate lockjaw jawhole internment of castrametation created by the pourparler of powellisation entombed in the liturgy that laments the past rather than accelerates the amelioration of the future might wilt because of wilding accidia rather than bonzoline acrasia because those people of nevosity that barnstorm against the nivial haunts of the lionized precipitogenic groundprox of naivety derived never from svedberg of swag of gromatic completion that alleviates all wambling grognards of desperation that we might fetch a new epoch superior to the one we have inherited by our callous poikilothermic poivrades of carnage and carnassial deprivations created by stagnant recession rather than optimized reflation because it behooves us all collectively to inseminate the future for the nitids of troilism rather than argue and pander to the bifids of blackmasters nidificating suboptimal steeves of the bobbinet to storge the inoculated beerocracy davering against the best interests of principality rather than the mainline of bayaderes of bargemasters locked into combat with stevedores from other dimensions of cordial conduct and contact that we no longer cower out of polyphiloprogenitive goals or teleonomic insufficiencies but that we brook and embraced age of praxeology above ragtaggers of retchination that the brassage of squamation can supervise into fluency rather than lurch into internecine schmeggegy that remains and always will be the cynosure of schwerpunkt in domestic manifestation of regal impetus above the detritus of defenestration. We should muster an assault against the plodges of kistvaens and the carnassial carnifician yeltings of wights of widgeons that the wicket of campanile shortsightedness might recoil upon its very foundations of ineptitude to become sempervirent in the sashays of surahs contemplated by the magnality of both mahouts and sansculottes to together forge ahead in commonplace articles of enchantment rather than the reliction of ideation in the swamp menaced by vinegaroons rather than elevated by picaroons who thrive even against snallygasters of importunate jawholes that crave a schoenabatic portfire to distract people from the rudenture of rubefaction in such a finicky way as to alleviate the coacervation of cespitous and cepivorous disdain. The faineant world orbiting around cynosures enjoying sinecures that the balbriggan springhares of reticulose pleonexia designed by veilleuses of brachet serectrium asterongue popularity designated with crass balizes of only bakelite answers of echopraxia to every dented quidlibertarian fascination with their quisquilous periergia floundering because the bathmism of elite pedigree imposes the steepest murage against avenged cachalots that their beziques of betise immolated by the discernment of the capable against the brazen incompetence of hortatory disdain that the thermolysis of sacrilege becomes a better portfire than protective jaundice designated by gamidolatry to perform intorted gambados to soothe the idiosyncratic jobbernowls whose incapacity to subduplicate societal quandaries and correctly weigh the subreption of jannock provides a paralytic inertia to fasten schadenfreude above the tympany of macarism because the catastrophism against the metaplasm correctly brazen rather than cordial only to inauthenticity always bristles at the perendination of evil skullduggery that it might eventually fade from the brocades of supercilious elitism that uses pundonors against mercedary enrichments. Many a time ago already elapsed by the portfire of skalds of jimswingers of sarangousty predicating their vehemence on axiomatic psyiurgic morkins the casualties of many a conflict witnessed by the depredation of morale even when sustained by the puckery of whipstaffs that the fewterers of modern taste deranged by their ginglymus constrained by their thalwegs that sejugate raltention from comprehension might find it incumbent to celebrate never a saiga that berates the many nightjars of saki but rather to entomb novelty because of the pickelhaubes of portbeagles flummoxed by their evaporating fortunes always avenge those who stand in the way of nivial and nivellated securiform and scalariform dementia that is the senicide of many a monocular cause witnessed by barbaric cyclops so intorted in the most pedestrian of antics that his incapacity to even see single borts from the boschveldt and singular leaps among the varsal capacity of proselytism that his ineptitude staggers the stenometers of the most dismal apprehension of his wagered capacity for any kind of stamina in any discipline. These poltophagous idiosyncrasies enjoyed by the oppositive acclaim of those pourparlers of castrametation designed by jabirus preventing stirpiculture of chrysopoetics for cachalots guarded by the blackguard of the ventrad camarilla rather than spayed by the cespitous vinegaroons of poikilothermic aims to plumeopicean ragtaggers entrapped by vapulation rather than informed of bonanza that we might starkly refrain from endorsing majoritarian lewdness as the new credo of a reborn republic constituted around the mahouts of idealism and the magnalities of those who posture in support of the noosphere rather than entangle themselves in the wase of imposture only because catalfalques angry of coquelicot politics might find the calcariferous disdain of pollarchy too much of an enormity to stomach with a stomacher. In the secundine revival of riveted artifacts of sometimes galeanthropic velleity that the skalds of scavons always maraud around to deprive of vehemence the maladroit malaise of the junctition of clitter and clinkstone because of a widespread malcontent that the sedigitated sidestep by every careful lurch on the bobbinet common to resourceless bodaches that we might witness the dying wish of the stellions to become the hamparthia of entire nations cribbling with propriety the bathmism centripetal to the public morale rather than the vacillation of internecine political balkanization in the barnstorm against the security of gonfaloniers to thrive without synsematic declension because of misappropriated vilipended ignorance widespread among those that clamber insistently and with insolence against the gravity and gravitas of the pundonors of cadastre rather than a sublime lackaday morose regret of saturnism waged by sideration in thick boschveldt to depose and derange many. Many tarry because of the umbrage of ultrageous litigation enthusiastically brought with coemption of the celebrated vanguard baldric retinue jolting the enthusiastic boltrope wegotists into the braxy of their shakuhachi of shantung bucentaurs and shenangos emboldened by the vicissitude of the collective remnants of the shambles of sottoportico to assemble with the borts in their possession the wilding zalkengur of absolution rather than the faltering groundprox of phugoid and mugient demands of bolar that laveer silently in the slithers of a puckery night scaffolded by the dashpots of insular providence against termagants of negaholic deprivations of lifestyle and pedigree because of the bradyseismic subsultus against the moya of carpology that is axiomatic in its retched mistetches of ceratoid configuration around the ballaster of schadenfreude enthusiastic in its moribund capacity to disembrangle the better soldiers from the recklings of morose enchantment with lugubrious toil flummoxing all propriety in regard for the sanctiloquence of the present never to result in a future martyrdom of saturnism that would assuredly wipe out the blemishes of portfire from the memory of a disheveled Earth into a shambolic configuration that would result in a nivial morigeration to nivellated conditions of egestuous sejugated cephaligation of nebelwerfers rather than primiparas always lachrymose in regret now pregnant with reactionary desires to coerce change rather than wamble in the ginglymus of sesquiplicated triage around petty boundaries of shakuhachi inviting balbriggan disgrace. In the trismus of crackjaw siderism ennobled by baldric syntalities elective of belletrist in their formative cadges of procatalepsis and jarvey of the intorted blunge of degenerative capacities for meharis combustible only in camouflets of prestige that skirpettis contain by the skinters of springhares of denouement carefully managing larithmics to optimize the mantissa never of a vagarish vagantes venostasis of mottled pternology megacerine because of meleagrine despots of sedigitated attempts to provoke casualties of corbels in the neorama of many sinecures of simultagnosia extorted endlessly by vaccimulgent reedbucks of sinister racemation that the phugoid eutrapely and bellarmine capacity to trounce the sudd that creates the rebarbative bosket of embattled retrenchment in survival ethos because of the macropicide and yirds of many a poikilothermic wretchock of morality to denounce as a denizen of unholy chaptalization that the chaomancies of chabouks between the pleiromorphy of convictions and the moulin of lickerish fascinations of beerocracy of beeskeps of yaraks a commonplace deturpation that finally the pomace of regalia might sustain the mainsail cardimelech and cardiognost capacity of piscary urbacity finicky of any desultory castrametation wagered by sinturong of piscifauna negligent of agapism that their fortuitist regard for humane sanctiloquence that already perished from the Earth might be revived by the vasotribes of the whipstaff of declared decorum vanquishing all tantrels of gambados of gamidolatry so pickelhaube in their dereliction of picaroons that vinegaroons capable like jerboas disguised in the thickets of the night will depose their serendipity and revoke their citizenship from the habitations of the woubits of hell rather than the brevets of widgeons of animadversion propining in every saccadic misyoke of endeavor to find a commonplace destination agreeable beyond the bifids of internecine thalwegs of sejugation rather than assimilation.

When it stops and all
is still
when the clocks cease
ticking
I'm sure it will
be time.

in the nature of evolution
we rise and we fall
each to its own hour
rallying to the call
of progress.

Occasionally
there's a hiatus
a wake up and wait for us
to catch up
and
we patch up the cracks in the
stars up above
lay down our lives for the ones
that we love
and deem it worthwhile that
we tarried awhile.


I have through the darkness
seen oceans of light
though the
pinpricks of night stabbed my eyes.

But these reminders
often behind us
are the patina of life

and on these billboards,
hoarded,
misers advertise
commiserating
telling lies

and all would seem stars
in my eyes
if I didn't see it
wasn't so.




If it be will
if it is so
and...

...and I shall still
miss it all.

You come to me
from miles away,
with tears and congestion
interrupting our
our cellphone connection.

You open the line
with your confession,
expecting me to consecrate
the mistakes you commemorate
as we spend hours commiserating
the vile man you should hate.

You cry that you are afraid
you will never be loved that way,
like the man who drugged and abused you,
the one who put you through hell.

You tell me that, that predator
loves more than anyone
whilst admitting all of
the horrible **** he has done.

You break my heart
into shattered splinters
of self-doubt and recrimination
wondering why you struggle to maintain
a relationship with a man
who causes you so much pain
while I just want to take care of you.

it was only fifth grade
when your friends told me
you only liked me because you felt sorry for me.
i don’t know why
but i still can’t meet anyone new.
i never grew up
and because of that
all i ever hear is the echoing of
your commiserating anthem
in the faces of new human beings.
my mind will be responsible for destroying me
and for some reason
your song is still stuck in my head.
it was only fifth grade
but still i felt love in your side hugs
and innocent eyes.
the love like a child with a lollipop.
i thought, “what a person”
and i thanked god for our after school conversations
about the horrid school lunches
and playground games.
i can still feel the shaking of my voice
like thunder
when i asked you if you really liked me.
they say there’s nothing like
a soft lip and a shaky heart,
but is that even if it rattles
like an earthquake?
i waited while you counted
one mississippi
two mississippi
three mississippi
four,
and still i was left
with wood chips between my toes.
it was only fifth grade
but ever since then
all i ever thought is that
people were just being nice to me.
the boy with velvet lips
who told me my heart was like cotton candy
was just being nice.
as well as the one
with honey glazed fingertips
that said he loved the gap between my teeth.
but these words were empty to me.
it was only fifth grade
but i can still remember
my voice breaking
and feeling shattered and bruised and dashed
and every other synonym
that you could possibly think of.
it was only fifth grade
and you were always nice to me
and i loved that about you.
but out of your pity
came a curse
that makes them all
just like you.

If you ever feel lost think of this:
Every time we look at the night sky,
We’re looking at as many moments in time as the number of celestial bodies we see;
And we’re witnessing a long history of the universe.
Some of these stars aren’t as bright anymore,
It’s been millennia since they sent out this particular beam that you’re sensing.
Now, if a moment in time is so lost in itself that it doesn’t even represent “a moment in time”,
But rather many many moments woven together,
Then how lost can you be?
We’re here now, at a point in the dimensions of space-time that cannot truly be defined.
While you’re feeling lost, the universe is losing itself too.
While you immerse yourself in the wonders of the universe,
The universe is commiserating with you.
It is just as lost as you are.
And we’re all as lost as the universe.
So, by extension, we’re all just as lost as you,
And nobody knows anything apart from this:
That this is a moment in time.
But you and I, we know more:
We know that this is a moment when together,
You and I are witnessing a million other moments along with this one. And losing ourselves in this moment is amazing.
Feeling lost suddenly seems like a good thing.
Because I’m lost with you, and the universe is with us.

Sin City with blinders,
Bird **** on the windshield

A herd of burly men in pastels and summer shorts
A row of parked rental Lamborghinis
Commiserating and taking selfies,
Loudly showing off,
Posting on social media or
Dating Apps
Snapchat snapshots
Hotshots in Sincity with the bling ca-ching!
It's a ****** rental, for christ-sakes!
Where's Dateline's to catch a predator,
What good is a thousand words when the picture is telling lies?
What happened ? In Vegas,
Bright lights' bite, vice, and ****, looks like magic.
Sin city running with blinders.
Birdshit on the windshield.
A dry desert thirsts for rain.
(Empty swag bags....)
****'s all the same.

A secret collapsed behind ribs,
Tucked back into the furthest recesses
Sitting, contemplating
Commiserating herself
Her thoughts are finches that encircle her mind
Chirping, chirping
Making her blind

When you're lost in thought
It's hard to see
The world around you, and all of
it's possibility
When you're scared to hurt
You're scared to live
Living in a container
Of premeditated caution

What would it be like
To live a shackles free life?
To taste joy again,
To feel the child you suppressed within
Get to experience life again
Through grateful eyes,
A hungry heart
and a mischievous mind....

There is no need to wallow in regret,
We all have times when we're stagnant
But break down the dam to your heart,
Let the waters flow free!
You were meant for so much more
Than mediocrity.

Colorblind, you see in mournful grey
You speak of all you rue,
Commiserating, I try to say
For you I’d paint the skies blue.

You think yourself invisible
But you are heard, you are seen
Know your fears are divisible
Try and let the grass be green

Quiet your incessant mind
Erase everything they said
Think of all your ties that bind
And don’t let your blood run so red

It is quite an event!
Gerry Atric is old enough to know that Joshua Tree isn’t the right guy for Marine Layer. Anyway, she is more interested in Donny Brook, who had just broken up with Dee Ported, for obvious reasons. There they are, carousing on the Sunset Strip: Perry Winkle, Penny Farthing, Miss Understanding and Poppy ****, when who walks in --- Sara N Dippity, with ***** Nilly and Sal Amander, one on each arm!
Now Sara used to be the significant other of Mort Ify, before him, Pete Moss, before him, Charlie Horse and before him, Al Luminum! Go figure. That leaves Tess Osterone who cannot though she tries, attract any of these fine fellows, so she nurses a drink with Terri Ble, and wails about her latest disappointment with Con Descending.
Trying to calm the situation is Herb Tea, but even he ends up having cross words with **** Tatorial, who finally splits with Paddy Wagon in tow and heads over to see Tia Juana, and if they have time, Nan Tucket.
Why General Jive and Warren Peace are huddled has yet to be explained. Oblivious to all of us Mac Aroon and Junior Mints, shared tasty morsels and a libation with Amber Beer.
Preppy dressed Cord Uroy hangs with the stylsh Art Ist, each trying to make a move on Joy D. Vivre, but they are stopped by Moe Mentum , who had the inside track up until Scott Free, Gus To and Juan Derful surround the crowd, each trying to make some time with her.
Consider Lilli Put conversing with Al Falfa, while Rich People and Cord Cutter trying to listen in, but are thwarted by Mari Gold who interfered with that desire as she was shouting epithets at Con Undrum, who doesn’t know what to do. Miss Issippi cruises in and with Molly Fi, who tries to calm the situation. Watching from the corner is Bob Cat, wary of Miss Creant, who is eying him, all while she is being scoped out by Val I Date.
If life is sometimes a desert, Mo Have personifies it; he has his own problems trying to get out of the way of Uri Nalysis, who is just plain trouble. Jonathan Club is his usual convivial self, making conversation with Trey Chrotomy, who keeps clearing his throat. I was amazed to see Leo **** getting dressed down by Dinah Mite, supported in her criticism by Dee Mise.
Let us turn to the artistic arrivals: Marshall Amp and Art Professor, both adding some zest to the gathering, enabled in part by the always attractive Dee Colletage. Bill O’Lading is a bore until he jumps into the drink with Jac Uzzi, accompanied by Nat Ural, as they view the valley below and drink champagne with Elle Vation. Bobbi Pin pops everyone’s balloon by getting wasted and along with Cara Van is asked to leave. But this paled in comparison to Al Abaster attacking Ana Conda for hitting on her significant other, Tom A. Hawk.
Everyone stays away from Hal Itosis except Sue Venir and Mel Lifluos who avoids discussing the obvious. Commiserating and having a bad time are Marg Inal and June Gloom, but then they’re always that way when they get together.
Moving up in the world is Val Et, with her new recruit, Ann Appolis, decked out in a matching outfit with Lily White. Terry Dactl flew in to convince Dee Nial she had a true friend in Mother Nature, but that she should get a second opinion from Al Egory, any to hear what Brandy Alexander had to say as long as she was not slurring her words.
Everybody loves Gus To, he’s so nice to everyone, even the plain Lyn Olium and the depressing Miss Ann Thrope. We aren’t sure what to make of Sal Amander, who seemed a bit slimy, especially coupled with Beau Dacious. What were they up to? Dan Ube engaged Earnest Money to find out. He reported they were going to fleece Dan Druff and Butch Haircut, who should not invest in their hair-brained scheme.
Al Abama buttered up Cy Pres, hoping for some charity, while Minnie Scule and Tara Bite made an unlikely duo. “Respect” said Jen Uflect, that’s what everyone deserves, as she curtsied at the arrival of Caesar Salad. “Ha, ha, ha,” Heidi ** merrily exclaimed, joined by the mysterious I Stanbul. All he did was complain about the political situation.
Mary Me cannot get enough of Al Falfa, though she would have done better with the always engaging Mo Zart. Too bad he is always with Tom Foolery and Cass Anova, both with questionable motives. I know for a fact that Beau Dacious has crashed this party, pretending to have an invite from Des Ire. Outside, mystified by the diverse assemblage stands Papa Razzi, camera in hand. Hal Leluha tries to talk his way in, but gets nowhere is he is not on the list, says party planner Claire Ify. Mel Ifluous, on the other hand, though not an invitee, does get past the velvet rope, which I surmise is because he is with that wealthy Main Liner, Phil Adelphia.
Back inside the party I encounter Lazy Susan having a drink with Bud Weiser.  Here’s an unusual assortment: Guy Dance, Major Minor, Hazel Nuts and Scott Free. His choice of clothing questionable, Lee Derhosen paints a pretty picture about his life to Al Fresco, who is dismissive. Maybe that is because Mo Hawk puts him down, but he gets some protection from Val Id. Dee Tatched, never a joiner, talks business with Perry Mutual, who is threatened by his nemesis, Vito Power. Jungle Jim back from his travels, has a new mate, Lazy Susan, she having moved on from Leo ****.
How Riff Raff got an invite is shocking and I hope he will depart soon with Lee Ving, Bob N Weave, and Con Descenion. Louis Ville slugs it out, batting away the negative but truculent comments of Claire Ification. Tim Buktu acts like he is in another country, causing Mort Ified to hang his head, all made worse by the mutterings of Carrie On.
Mentor Ing tries to advise Con Flagration to cool it and is helped by
Dolly Grip and Frank Lee Speaking. Stu Pendus addresses each issue raised by Bill O’ Particulars, but he cannot allay the suspicions of Artie Choke, finally saying he must be in a vegetative state if he cannot understand the implications of what he proposes. Bo Tox just stood there, trying to look good.
The last to leave is Senor Ity. Phil Harmonic and June Bug drive him home where he lives with Dana Point and Sherman Oaks.

I Keep Writing

I keep writing.
Keep communicating,
Keep commiserating,
Not berating
The who rule - are even cruel;
Mind a channel and canal
From higher drives than the banal.

No saintly motives certainly,
No angel, me.
Avoiding self-conceit, the counterfeit,
Just letting writing’s drive win out.
To float the boat of human spirit.
Concerned with benefiting it,
Its underflow.
And how do I, the author know?
Because when put aside, read afterward,
There is no pride, no sense of good.
Just there, a theme from sitting where
A page is sometimes sage
And kind, the writing shined to some perfection.

So, professing fun and love,
Carved from talents from above,
Conditioned like a kind of Pavlov,
I keep writing
To a public never seen
From a hidden, obscure wellspring,
Writing vows but  to the ‘now’
And no self-gloating holier-than-thou.

I Keep Writing 9.26.2018 The Processes: Creative; Thinking Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin