No no no, this isn’t one of those commendable confessional rants of redounded reality.
We all know where that goes and what it leads to.
This rhetoric comprises solely of the faulty intuitive comprehension and the ******* behaviour people have while under the influence of the poor man’s ****.
That could be mistaken for a typo.

Xeno-meph, would be what aliens are called if they did this too.
Extended warranty of your sinus cavity is a must.
And a mouth guard so you don’t churn away at the capricious calcium that are your teeth.
Smoke and dance till lungs and legs collapse.
Talk like you’re the spokesperson for an oil company that’s pillaging life and land.
Change your personality in a minute and become the ****** you always wanted to be.
That smart talking, **** wagging, ***** licking, *** *******, back stabbing, self serving, worthless ******* is now you, but it doesn’t feel like that to you.
Rational *******, your only reprieve.
Keep doing the same things over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again hoping the outcome will change.
But you’re cool.
You’ve done this before, it’s solvable.
A break. That’s all there’s to it.
The itch in your nose has stopped. Your jaw doesn’t hurt.
You don’t feel like ****, but you know somehow that something is amiss.
Things are not what they seem. Sense doesn’t make itself.
The dark is your sanctum. Fast is your peace.
That’s not a typo.

The world cannot slow down for you.
You have to speed up. Another gram, another line, another lie.
Control is what you say it is.
Handles are what your stomach has.
Fast forward a few months and you don’t have a handle on anything.
You don’t feel down, you feel fine. Nothing’s wrong
But just another fall, and you’re straight out of line.
Justify! Justify! Justify!
Listen, keep listening… Talk! keep talking!
Everything makes sense. Everything is a sense.
The difference is that I’m faster, quicker, sharper.
I’m handicapped.
Leverage is my mind, broken and blind.
I wish that was a typo.

To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.

EAT YOUR WATER

"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.

WEIGHT WATCHERS

If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.

MOOD AND MIND

People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.

MUSCLE POWER

We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.

TOP SUMMER HYDRATORS

Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

inside me are organs
inside my cells are organelles
inside me are organelles
they are mine
they are me

they are composed of atoms
they are composed of protons, neutrons, electrons
protons are mine
they are me
neutrons are mine
they are me
electrons are mine
they too are me
electrons and mitochondria and kidneys
are me
I am me

bone comprises skeleton
marrow comprises bone
bone and skeleton are me
marrow too is me
I feel this in my self
I feel this in my bones
bone feels this in my marrow
bone and I share marrow

I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing  like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things  consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room

I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched  out
after  *******  someone as  a fat ***  undiscerning lout
or cracking  some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff

children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little  for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-**** impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I  care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare

Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of  ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff  your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel  out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get  beaten,  black and blue

As reviewed by NY Times best selling author
Ellen Tanner Marsh


Any Christian surveying the current state of modern poetry could easily become discouraged, given that much of that poetry can only be categorized as nihilistic. At worst, such poems seemingly promote despair and violence-against society, the church, or even against oneself. At best, they consist of self-centered whining and overdramatic emotionalism, completely devoid of spiritual muscle and ethical backbone.

New author Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, in his fine debut collection Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory, takes a fresh stride in the opposite direction, in a poetic compilation that should delight anyone who enjoys reading Christian literature as well as poetry. The book comprises over 100 poems of various lengths, although they generally do not exceed one page. In a slight concession to modern poetic style, some of the stanzas are unrhymed, yet all of them speak to Christian themes, such as faith and its testing, seeking a higher road, the state of grace, error and sin, biblical people and events, and personal redemption through God's word.

A common thread that runs throughout the majority of the poems is that individuals- regardless of any mistakes they may have made in the past-can still turn to Christ as their Savior and begin the slow, sometimes painful, but always positive process of redeeming themselves, in developing a new life filled with abundance and spiritual serenity. By reaching for this new and uplifting collection of Christian poems, readers can indeed begin reaching towards God's glory.


For more information, please visit this link:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/



About Ellen Tanner Marsh

Ellen Tanner Marsh was born in Cologne, Germany, in 1956. At the age of three, her family came to the United States for a two-year stay which has since lengthened to thirty-five.Ellen grew up in New Jersey and moved to Charleston, SC, with her family when she was sixteen. She graduated from Clemson University with a Bachelor's degree in Animal Science. While debating whether or not to apply to veterinary school, she published her first historical romance novel, Reap the Savage Wind. When Reap became a New York Times' bestseller, there was no question of continuing with her studies, and Ellen began writing full time. Two further New York Times' bestsellers have followed: Wrap Me in Splendour, and its enormously popular sequel, Sable.With a total of eleven published novels, Ellen has garnered numerous awards, including a Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as appearing on the B. Dalton, Walden, Publishers Weekly, and other bestseller lists. She has over four million books in print and her work has been translated into four languages. They are extremely popular in her native Germany, where several have been included in special edition.Ellen still resides in Charleston, SC. She is married to her high school sweetheart and has two young sons.

"The question should not be in what ways writing and utterance trope each other, but how both are involved with number. Without relating the technology of writing to number (as opposed to sound or drawing), it is impossible to discuss it meaningfully as an aspect of versecraft."

          Courage to write and courage to not write. Read
          The great poets and highly accomplished letters
          Of leaders. Yet the war and the book have lives
          Of their own. Vacuum house, analyze mankind.
          His idea of himself. Ideas subsumed by
          Better ones unite people in melting pots.
          I watch from my little bowl of nuts. Watch
          The one red squirrel and the many gray.
          Watch the nuthatch pair, platoon of chickadees.
          Here is what I say: When we can go
          From planet to planet on nothing but air,
          Leaving behind a drop of water,
          No burger bags blowin’ in the sun,
          I’ll love my sons, and my dogs will be happy.

"What is needed is a way to pry apart the polar, mimetic fiction that undergirds discussions (even sympathetic ones) of writing and versification, and see how we can relate writing to measure. Roy Harris’ investigations into the origin of writing make this connection possible."

          Electronic millennium. A long silence
          Wouldn’t hurt. Not that the national debate
          Should cease, it should proceed, passionate
          And furious. Those who have studied the matter
          And have something to say should write cogent
          Opinion pieces on the totalitarian
          Tendencies of minaret Islamists,
          The terminal contradiction of advancing
          Democracy with the unitary military.
          George Washington would not have approved
          And even Lincoln vacillated between
          The practicalities of preserving union
          And the ideal of freeing slaves. The president
          Carries his burden of matter, the physics
          Of existence cannot change our aloneness
          Or the butterfly’s importance, the very
          Last insects at the screens of August.
          It is life we face and death we meet.

"He argues that the origin of writing did not lie in the drawing of figures, or attempts to imitate speech, but in the recording of number. According to Harris, the oldest ‘writing’ that we have, like that on the 11, 000-year-old Ishango bone, is in ‘lines.’ The surface is scored with rows of short, parallel strokes, which probably served a numerical function. We still use such scoring systems today on occasion."

          OK, different strokes. But reading North’s poems
          And his predecessors’ in which noun and verb
          Are so far separated by modifiers,
          Post-positioned prepositions, diversions
          Into ditches, gardens, heavens, I don’t know
          What to do laugh or put the book down and eat
          Several cookies. In other words, anything goes,
          There truth resides. 1/3 life in suburbs,
          1/3 on the subway, and the last third
          On the mountain. A fourth hallucinating
          In heaven. That’s how it goes. You get what you believe.
          Bones in mud. It’s always possible I suppose
          That for nine months analogous or symmetrical
          With gestation our souls wander call it limbo,
          Doing the limbo and harassing the living
          With unanswerable questions, finally accepting
          Free molecular rent in a cubic meter
          Of interstellar space, a rose hip.
         
"Harris speculates about counting by scoring:"
'What is relevant for our present purposes is the fact that counting is associated in many cultures with primitive forms of recording which have a graphically isomorphic basis... The iconic origin of such recording systems is hardly open to doubt: the notch or stroke corresponds to the human finger...'

          Partridgeberry, mugwort, mats of raspberry,
          Cranberry, bearberry, autumn eleagnus,
          Autumn Nocturne, Autumn Leaves, the changes
          To the tunes and the scientific names.
          When it doesn’t matter what you do
          You’re probably doing something new.
          That’s a woodpecker. That’s a moth. I’m bounded
          By my surroundings, I feel at home.
          Could be Schenectady. Could be Troy.
          One of many small cities in which to
          Await my anonymity. Be specific.
          Not asphalt but impermeable surface.
          Not trees but mature stems. Quercus rubrus—
          Quality veneer. Into such a garden
          Have a victor and a fool penetrated.

'In short, the rows of strokes are graphically isomorphic with just that subpart of the recorder’s oral language which comprises the corresponding words used for counting. It makes no difference whether we ‘read’ the sign pictorially as standing for so many fingers held up, or scriptorially as standing for a certain numeral.'

          In a crowded world every action results
          In an equal and overwrought reaction.
          Yet, all the energy recycles
          And there is not one thermal unit more or less
          When all is said and won. Even when the tribes
          Were isolated behind mountain ranges
          And rushing rivers, they sought each other out
          For trading and for taking. Humanity
          Is lonely. Humor is the only remedy
          And going to your daily discipline
          The only way past Monday. Join the torrential
          Flow of words, emotion, wit and erudition.
          It is embarrassing to see a good writer
          Work himself into a lather, having
          Something to say. A system of beliefs
          To illustrate, characters dressed accordingly.
          Gardens and wilderness in which to wander.
          A cave with a view. The plumbing problem never
          Resolves. But we will do what we can and
          Some things we shouldn't because that is human.

"Along with other evidence, this leads him to argue that the invention of writing–or the division of writing and drawing into separate functions–occurred when the graphic representation of number shifted from the token-iterative system that appears on the Ishango bone, to type-slotting."

          Electricity is occult enough for me.
          Excessive classifying could be fascist!
          Yet how else can one organize people
          Into contexts. By their associations.
          Family, work, habits, each assigned
          A day of the week, moon of the month.
          Poets rhyme, jazz musicians count time.
          There is more than one way to make war. By
          Declaration, by punishing offenses
          Against the law of nations, by granting letters
          Of mark and reprisal, by making rules
          Concerning captures on land and water, by
          Suppressing insurrections and repelling invasions,
          Erecting forts, magazines, arsenals,
          Dock yards and other needful buildings. Today
          I face the blank page between the finished pages.

"Harris gives the following example of what he means:"
'The progression from recording sixty sheep by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by sixty strokes to recording the same information by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by a second sign indicating ‘sixty’ is a progression which has already crossed the boundary between pictorial and scriptorial signs.'

          When my grandmother considered it favorable
          That I would be a writer, she had in mind
          Clear commentary from which many people
          Would derive meaning. No such luck. My writings
          Are like the flicking tail of that flycatcher,
          And I am the flycatcher, weighing but an ounce.
          My grandfather’s rough-hewn peasant chairs
          Are well known by my sons though they never knew him
          And the chairs were not hewn, just owned by him.
          One is in a corner of the room and two
          Are scrimmaged around a computer screen.
          Computers post-date him and cars post-date
          His father and so on. If the grid collapses,
          The crops fail and the roads close, some will be forced
          Across boundaries among boulders, naming snakes
          And stars according to memory.
          They will be hungry, mortal and strong.

'A token-iterative sign-system is in effect equivalent to a verbal sublanguage which is restricted to messages of the form ‘sheep, sheep, sheep, sheep...’, or ‘sheep, another, another, another...’, whereas an emblem-slotting system is equivalent to a sublanguage which can handle messages of the form ‘sheep, sixty’.Token-iterative lists are, in principle, lists as long as the number of individual items recorded. With a slot list, on the other hand, we get no information simply by counting the number of marks it contains.'
"When this change occurred it opened ‘a gap between the pictorial and scriptorial function of the emblematic sign’, which had been previously inseparable in the counting represented by rows of slashes."

          No book I know tells if blue cohosh
          Caulophyllum thalictroides—a barberry—
          Is edible. Other barberries are
          But that blue berry looks risky to me.
          And May-apple—Podophyllum—other
          Than the fruit itself which is definitely
          Sweet. So I read, not sure of myself.
          There is a patience with which to wait out anger,
          And a patience with which to endure ignorance.
          The job is everything. It is freedom
          And purpose and religion. It is acceptance
          And shelter and sustenance. Last night
          We were watching Tweet’s show: groveling before
          The rich pharisee’s judgements. I said no
          Amount of money could make me grovel
          Before that guy. His toupe’s gayer than his lisp.
          But who am I? You think bullets won’t ****?
          I’m the guy they put before a wall and shoot
          Then eat lunch. But that feeling passed quickly.

"This semiological gap, made writing possible because it meant that signs could be manipulated to ‘slot’, or identify, anything whatsoever. The open-ended quality of the scriptorial sign was a necessary precondition for the development of writing systems."

          Lately I’ve been copying wholesale
          From the great poems, lines and ideas not my own
          Or owned by all? It’s ok, I can be ignored
          Or appreciated in a future city,
          By a future shore. The honest man can
          Only recognize what he loves and point to it.
          That Borges poem called In Praise of Darkness.
          Emerson and snow. A meditation
          That bumps serenely, with acceptance,
          Between things and thoughts. It is said one should
          Know for whom, to whom one is writing.
          These are letters to those who love letter writing.

"As Harris points out, no writing system is accurately phonetic. Even the alphabet only highlights certain phenomena in the speech stream. The reason for this is that alphabetic writing did not begin as a simpler or more accurate way to record speech than other writing systems, but as an easier way to write."

          A possible cancer had taken me
          To the edge of my endurance. Pokeweed,
          Poisonous, became attractive. Red stems
          And juicy black berries. I had packed warm clothes
          And pain killers. Why the warm clothes if this
          Was to be my last walk? To die in comfort
          Without a fly’s buzz. Overlooking a ravine,
          Sea of mountains, dawn. But it proved a false alarm.
          Now Sunday will be a holy day of plant
          Identification. Nothing better
          Than lying in leaf litter, skin drying
          To a taut drum. Ravens stay away!
          Until cougar’s had his fill! Instead
          I showed the boys pokeweed growing among blackberries
          And taught them the differences and uses.

"Through a radical reduction in the number of signs, the alphabet simplified the scriptorial system in and of itself. The evolution of writing therefore may look like this: simple forms of counting preceded the complications of pictorial representation, which in turn led to simplification of the writing system in cultures that adopted the alphabet."

          I was running uphill, parallel to
          The Taconics extending northward into
          Vermont (I find Vermonters in their jalopies
          Annoying but admire them for planning
          To arrest the president for war crimes) when
          I happened upon a flock of cedar waxwings—
          Said to be a gentle and politic bird—
          Sharing—very orderly—dried frozen grapes
          On the vine. (Rose hips, buckthorn, ash, pokeweed.)
          I tried one, too, the two seeds in my mouth
          Keeping me company down the mountain.
          I see no downside whatsoever
          To compensating for global warming,
          Constructing the green energy economy.
          New inventions may facilitate
          Our transportation to other planets.
          Yesterday a young man, Barack Obama,
          Won Iowa. I’m hopeful he will
          Articulate an international vision,
          A world order in which each neighborhood’s
          Good as another. I have no particular
          Love for writers; they’re a dime a dozen.
          But so are chickadees and I love them!

"Discussing the power of inscriptions of number, Harris points out:"
'Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice at all is. For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched. Yet somehow they exist, and their existence can be confirmed in quite everyday terms by all kinds of humdrum procedures which allow mere mortals to agree beyond any shadow of a doubt as to ‘how many’ eggs there are in a basket or ‘how many’ loaves of bread on the table.'

          True, nature would be a stern, unforgiving
          Mistress too, and man is but her right hand
          Acting on her command. How cold! How hot!
          The individual doing what he loves or not.
          Trees and cities. Herons, hawks. What we fail
          To govern in ourselves, nature will.
          We caught the killer and his gorillas,
          Now let’s go home, let the “innocent” choose
          Up sides. A good thing was done but the tyrant
          Should’ve been undone through global governance.
          Writing is divination using rhymes
          And estimations. Words like mammals
          Come near your sleeping head. Last night I emerged
          From the hum of our refrigerator
          Under a hazy, phaseless moon. The peepers
          Were an exact expression of my happiness.

"Or, one might add, for how many stanzas there are in a poem, or lines in a stanza, or stresses, feet, or syllables in a line, or occurrences of particular syntactical or grammatical patterns, and so on. As every serious student of versification has always understood, versification is about counting language."

          5:30-6 write poetry,
          6-7 ****, shave and shower, stretch
          Then get dressed, 7-7:30
          Clean house, 7:30-8 drive to work
          8-6 work (except Monday and Friday
          Work 8-4, basketball 4-6)
          6-7 drive home, shop, help make dinner
          7-8 eat dinner, read paper,
          Watch McNeil-Lehrer News Hour,
          8-9 play trumpet, study plants, type poems
          9-10 watch TV Mon: Murphy, Cybil,
          Tues: Frazier, Grace, Wed: Roseanne, Ellen,
          Thurs: Seinfeld, Friends, Fri: go out to dinner,
          10-11 read, except Tues watch
          NYPD Blue, Fri: Friday Night Lights,
          11 sleep. I could send this to the networks,
          Get a gizmo in my box. I hope my
          Schedule won't be interrupted for war.
          My dentist asked had I seen this morning’s
          Press conference, didn’t it just scare the ****
          Out of you. I said your bill is what scares
          The **** out of me. But here I am, writing
          And the sphere’s still turning. Or should I say
          Burning. As long as you write one poem per day
          You’ve left a little litter in the world.

"The reason to write verse is less to score the voice than to imbue words with the magical quality of counting. That is why meter, or measure, is at the heart of debates over all verse forms, including free verse."

          Vigorous wind, voracious ocean,
          Many merciless hard frosts, hurricanes.
          The bed of a human, its smell and warmth
          36 teeth, 46 chromosomes, 2 feet, a loose dime,
          61 summers, some soot, some sand,
          Thunderstorms. I wake up to a lightning strike
          And my dream incinerates. When they say
          Life is but a dream, that’s what they mean.
          The writer working hard, telling the story
          Of what happened yesterday or yesteryear,
          A man’s born to a country not his choosing,
          Let labor flow like capital, of mere being!
          Pomegranate juice, broccoli, arugula,
          Brussel sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower,
          Collard greens, kale, radishes, turnips,
          Garlic, leeks, scallions, onions, 2 lbs
          Swordfish, tomatoes (8 medium),
          3 cups almonds, carrots, a sweet potato,
          Winter squash, cantaloupe, mangoes, watermelon.
          2 daily writing exercises,
          50 words on any subject: complaint, headache.
          The imagination applies a
          Countervailing pressure to reality.
          Writing badly is the best revenge.

"Number is one of the creative grounds of poetry, and the idea that writing grew out of counting is the missing link in studies of the graphic in versification. It is almost uncanny that lines of verse look exactly like the most primitive ways of counting–parallel scorings that can be numbered."

          What you do to one side of the equation
          You gotta do to the other. Isolate
          The variable. Combine like terms. Metaphors
          And analogs are reduced to least common
          Denominators. Multiply through (parentheses).
          Write a new equation after each operation.
          Inscribe neatly. Check your work. Imagine
          That if you’re wrong, the astronauts burn.
          Change the signs which will avoid going
          The wrong way down the number line. Zero
          Is the middle of your universe.
          There it is, calm, comfortable as an egg
          On a spoon. That is, before possibilities
          Become probabilities. This is just
          Another equation manipulated
          With opposable digits. For at the ends
          Of your guns is the earliest calculator
          A magical machine which converts
          Numbers to words and words to numbers,
          Measures the mists, frequency and wavelength,
          Of the material penumbra.

"Verses are countable in exactly the way that token-iterative digits are countable, from either end of the sequence. Each one indicates only its singularity, not a number. Every poem in lines effaces, or predates, the distinction between writing and drawing in the same way as the lines on the Ishango bone."

I saw a sign that said,
I spent all my money on scotch, women and guitars. The rest  I just wasted
My life will probably be the same way
Except knowing my luck I'll **** around and have the strings misplaced

Men never really grow up our toys just get more expensive
As a guy I can attest to this
I went from being content with action figures Legos and my N64
To guitars cars and rollerblading on the Riverwalk under the bridges

It's funny how that happens
How materialism changes how we see the world
But pursuing all the finer things
Wanting champagne wishes and caviar dreams
Makes you forget the madness that truly comprises the earth

People always complain about political correctness
Unless it's something important to them
Then they expect you to use empathetic indirectness
As to not hurt the feelings of men

I'm a homosexual talking to a stranger
They don't detect this
They say ****** and unleash my anger
They don't expect this
They were expecting me to be socially correct
To their bigoted views
They can't handle it when their hatred reflects
And they're given their due

I can't ask for a simple date
Or mention anything about God
I can't ask for their ****** state
That would imply that they're flawed
Yet they say I'm easily offended
But their argument is upended
When there are many topics I must avoid
Or hedge around
Otherwise they will get easily annoyed
And wear a frown

People say Donald Trump is politically incorrect
But that's not true
He's a hateful *******
People confuse that with political incorrectness
But if about half the people who vote are pieces of ****
Can that really be said to be incorrect?
The idea of the president being politically incorrect is absurd
By virtue of being elected his politics are being endorsed
And endorsement is what comprises political correctness
He may know nothing of governance or diplomacy
But he was correct when it came to politics

I live in a country where I can say pretty much whatever I want
And then everyone else can react however they want
To be angry at someone's reaction is its own political correctness
They're just mad it's not their own specific politics being adhered to

So when people mention political correctness I laugh
It's a defensively reflexive path
When they live an unexamined life
But then complain about their plight
They think they're hated because they're white
They think they're hated because they're right
I dislike them because they have low empathy
So I don't want to be near that
Because their hatred starts to enter me
When they call me a queer ***
Then they expect me to love it
But instead I tell them to shove it
They tell me I'm being politically correct
Maybe it's their own lives they should inspect

The loudest sounds most kids hear on a school day
are lockers slamming, or maybe the late bell tone
I hear all of those, but the loudest sounds by far
are those created by the lacrosse team
when they beat the **** out of me
every day,
after 8th hour, at the intersection of nerd street and **** avenue

The attacks were formulaic, more complex than Pythagoras
but simpler than Newton’s Binomial Theorem;
Two would tackle me, one would pin me down,
and the rest would kick me around as if it were soccer tryouts
and I was nothing more than a ball
and regardless of whether you derived or integrated this equation
you always got the same solution
me ******, and them ****** happy

I would go home bawling; so would they
but instead of tears they dropped floaters
And I had a rep as the kid with a concussion before the season even began

I was born five pounds tops, with no biceps whatsoever
and as I grew my arms didn’t follow
making me as clear a target as a corpsman in World War 2
To my doc’s urging I drank milk religiously
but that didn’t do **** when I tangled with Darren Shields and his Air Jordans on 4th and eternity
Instead of my ankles however, he broke my ribs; 6 of em’
Told me he’d **** me if I ratted
So I told the mother I fell off my skateboard
Because I didn’t want a rematch with Muhammad Ollie

I considered hitting the off switch on my life
at least three times a week
but I didn’t know how to tie a noose,
didn’t know where my dad’s shotgun was
and I wasn’t ballsy enough to try a steak knife
Which is ironic because if I was brave enough for that
none of this may have happened
I’ll even admit I liked to daydream about building
and bringing a bomb to school by backpack
getting revenge by leaving a crater
where my class was at

And though the bible said suicide was cowardly
I was too cowardly for suicide
So I reasoned that if I got into college out of state
it would be worth a couple more years
of broken bones, ***** dousings, and concussions
So I did nothing


Fast forward eight years
I gained two feet in height
Armanis replace my Reeboks
a multinational corporation, my 4.0’s
I’ve made the covers of Fortune and GQ,
my speed-dial list comprises of more celebrities than actual friends
my annual salary consists of two significant numbers
followed by double-digit zeroes

When I’m not working overtime I spend my days
pulling beautiful women and enjoying the pleasures
that God gave us
Every time I yank my shirt off, each girl gives me the
same wide-eyed expression and unspoken question
regarding the cruel scars all over my body,
to the point where I resort to answering every time with,
“I played lacrosse in high school.”

And I have never forgotten about high school
But Darren Shields has, and fate has him working several floors down
He HAS forgotten
He has forgotten me, my face, my voice when I pleaded for mercy
But I have not forgotten him
Nor have I forgotten my hatred
Nor my fear

I could hurt him
I could fire him with contempt
or disgrace him publicly
or to the very least, remind him of the good old days
and make him feel like the **** he was
But I don’t; I won’t

He must wonder why I struggle
to look him in the eye
or shudder when he cheerfully claps me
on the shoulder every morning  
As I am still haunted by them old days

And despite how I now spend my life in a huge office
surrounded by wealth, women,
and mostly absolute silence
I can still hear the sounds of lockers slamming,
of late bell tones
But loudest of all, I hear the sound of my body breaking
Thanks to Darren Shields on 4th and eternity

Addict.
Fly free unwanted conqueror-

I detest you
And your haunting illusion.

Midnight visage-
Encapsulated in wanton peaks
Of redemption.
You who scorched my fields
And ignited my fears,
Laying waste in a furious
Dervish of extrapolated ecstasy.

It might have been over
But in what I was sure
Was my final moment
Your grip became slack,
my conscious lying sputtering
in the destitute mud
That comprises bewilderment ,

And you showed me mercy-
Such bravery in the face of havoc.
And now you gladly accept me,
Embrace me in cold arms,
Wantonly smiling at the distance-
almost, almost imperceptive

But my knowledge trumps mere sense,
With the certainty of a madman.

I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything,
be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos
I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses;
to paint my reality with a brush of joy.
But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic
If I decline it while inclining towards a book
Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly
If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me
with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide
If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me
and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness
I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way
Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision
I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent
where it diminishes.
Meningitis, shut up, you *******,
Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least,
But do I really need someone to have mercy on me?
I guess no, I can build my own world where
Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying,
Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find
Ova is not dependent on a ****** *****,
it is a complete YOU.

We clocked in
(Punched in the older guys said)
And sat in a circle of orange plastic chairs
Hubbed by a thin morose
Befuddlement of a team lead

“An hour, just what is an hour?” he asked to begin the weekly meeting
I wanted to say, “A unit of temporal measurement that comprises -- or is that composes? -- sixty minutes,”
But held back
Knowing the obviousness of the query had to be a set-up

The befuddlement sighed in frustration
An understudy to my English III instructor
(the one who gave me an F- on the Emily Dickinson test)
Then said, “Okay, just what can be done in an hour?”

Then the youngest kid who always kept quiet
But who had enough scars -- had to toss in a lurid touch didn’t I --
To imply that he might have more experience than the oldest said,
“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, then just what is that contraption on the other side of the bay?”

“An assembly line.”

“And what does it do?”

“It makes a 30centaurpower indivertible that runs on Gila monster spit.”

He nodded.

He considered.

“Okay, then, let’s punch out and come back tomorrow. Maybe then we’ll really have something to do.”

(And - oh yeah -- putting on my hat as a frustrated teleplay writer:
Those scars showed that he could handle himself.)

While in the midst of playing solitaire
(with losing outcome foreordained
after a couple moves), I became gripped
with combinations predicated on thirteen
ranks each of four French suits subsumed:
Clubs (♣), Diamonds (◊), Hearts (♥) And Spades (♠).

I  totalled a sum of fifty two variations.

If one of four possible draws for king available,
(which could be either Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts,
and Spades), that would automatically determine
every subsequent card diminishing in rank
topped off with an Ace.

Please feel welcome to challenge my presumption
within a dark alley late at night.

The above calculation logical since a standard deck
(not surprisingly) comprises 52 cards
(4 suits of 13).

Each suit (Clubs ♣, Diamonds ◊, Hearts ♥, Or Spades ♠)
contains an Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
Jack, Queen, And King.

There are no duplicates.

No Google search yielded results
asper this nagging question, but unexpectedly
whet an immediate appetite describing
the history of plain old vanilla playing cards.

Said legacy encompassing the four suits
i.e. collectively represent four elements
(wind, fire, water, and earth),
the seasons, and cardinal directions.

They represent struggle of opposing forces
for victory in life. Each suit on a deck of cards
represents four major pillars of economy
during middle ages: Heart represented
Church, Spades represented  military,
clubs represented agriculture, and
Diamonds represented merchant class.

King of hearts is the only king minus a mustache.

Face cards (Jacks, Queens, And Kings) so called
"face cards" because the cards
have pictures of their names.

One-eyed Royals (the Jack of spades
and Jack of Hearts often called "one-eyed Jacks"),
and King of Diamonds drawn in profile;
therefore, these cards
commonly referred to as "one-eyed".

The King of Spades ♠ ranks
as one of three immovable Fixed Cards
in the Cards of Life and resides
in the Crown Line of both Master Scripts
(Spirit and Life).

Said card, in situ, the most powerful card
in the deck.

A Jack or Knave is a playing card,
which in traditional French and English decks,
pictures a man in traditional or historic
aristocratic dress generally associated
with Europe of the 16th or 17th century.

The usual rank of a Jack, within its suit,
plays as if it were an 11
(that is, between the 10 and the Queen).

Charming, resourceful, personable and easy-going
best defines Jack of Spades.

Blessed with a creative mind,
this one-eyed Jack of the deck manifests
jais nais sais quois salient scrutiny
jest via virtue of lightness of his being.

The four card suits that we know today —
Hearts, Diamonds, Spades, and Clubs
(rooted in French design) circa 15th century,
but the idea of card suits is much older.

The written history of card playing
began during 10th-century Asia,
from either China or India,
as a gambling game.

That idea found its way to ancient Muslim world
before 14th century.

The oldest known deck of Muslim playing cards,
like the playing cards of today,
had four suits: Coins, Cups, Swords, and Polo Sticks.

These decks of cards then showed up
in southern Europe, but because polo sticks
were unfamiliar to Europeans, that suit
eventually changed to Scepters, Batons,
or Cudgels (a type of club).
In France, Parisian cardmakers
settled on Spades, Hearts, Clubs, and Diamonds
as the four suits.  
    
The first adaptations of German card suits
constituted Leaves, Hearts, and Hawk Bells
(Acorns rounded out German suit).

Considering cards strictly made
for French upper class, tis little surprise
cardmakers chose expensive
Diamonds over common Acorns.

The French advanced card making utilizing
flat, single-color silhouettes for suits.

These images created with simple stencils,
made manufacture easy, quick, and inexpensive.

Innovative new, cheaper cards
flooded the market in the 15th century,
became popular in England,
and then traveled to America.    

Contrary to contemporary belief four suits
meant to represent four seasons inaccurate.

Equally questionable 52 cards linkedin
to 52 weeks of the year.

Many numerological and religious
explanations asper composition  
analogous to deck of cards postulated,
but these explanations purportedly created
ex post facto, perhaps to give deck-holders
a solid argument, that role deck of cards
maintained existed other than for gambling.

Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Summer is a-comin’!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots,
The billy-goat poots ...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

***

Keywords/Tags: Middle English, medieval, reading, rota, round, partsong, summer, cuckoo, sing, cuckold, seed, meadow, woods, ewe, lamb, cows, bullock, goat, billy-goat, poot, ****, pass gas, never stop

These notes were taken from the poem's Wikipedia page ...

"Sumer Is Icumen In" (also called the Summer Canon and the Cuckoo Song) is a medieval English round or rota of the mid-13th century. The title translates approximately to "Summer Has Come In" or "Summer Has Arrived". The song is composed in the Wessex dialect of Middle English. Although the composer's identity is unknown today, it may have been W. de Wycombe. The manuscript in which it is preserved was copied between 1261 and 1264. This rota is the oldest known musical composition featuring six-part polyphony. It is sometimes called the Reading Rota because the earliest known copy of the composition, a manuscript written in mensural notation, was found at Reading Abbey; it was probably not drafted there, however (Millett 2004). The British Library now retains this manuscript (Millett 2003a). A rota is a type of round, which in turn is a kind of partsong. To perform the round, one singer begins the song, and a second starts singing the beginning again just as the first got to the point marked with the red cross in the first figure below. The length between the start and the cross corresponds to the modern notion of a bar, and the main verse comprises six phrases spread over twelve such bars. In addition, there are two lines marked "Pes", two bars each, that are meant to be sung together repeatedly underneath the main verse. These instructions are included (in Latin) in the manuscript itself:

"Hanc rota cantare possum quatuor socii. A paucio/ribus autem quam a tribus uel saltem duobus non debet/ dici preter eos qui dicunt pedem. Canitur autem sic. Tacen/tibus ceteris unus inchoat *** hiis qui tenent pedem. Et *** uenerit/ ad primam notam post crucem, inchoat alius, et sic de ceteris./ Singuli de uero repausent ad pausacionis scriptas et/non alibi, spacio unius longe note."

(Four companions can sing this round. But it should not be sung by fewer than three, or at the very least, two in addition to those who sing the pes. This is how it is sung. While all the others are silent, one person begins at the same time as those who sing the ground. And when he comes to the first note after the cross [which marks the end of the first two bars], another singer is to begin, and thus for the others. Each shall observe the written rests for the space of one long note [triplet], but not elsewhere.)

The lyric may have been composed by W. de Wycombe, also identified as W de Wyc, Willelmus de Winchecumbe, Willelmo de Winchecumbe or William of Winchcomb. He appears to have been a secular scribe and precentor employed for about four years at the priory of Leominster in Herefordshire during the 1270s. He is also thought to have been a sub-deacon of the cathedral priory as listed in the Worcester Annals or possibly a monk at St Andrew's in Worcester. But it is not know if he composed the song, or merely preserved it by copying it.

Today is better than last night for now the delicate cords held within my throat do not refuse air its  passage through them for anything more than the oxygen it carries even though all I was wanting to do was scream.

Today is better than last night for now my sight is clear - free of the tears which could not fall due to the dam I built too high and too well who's retribution was to refract my guiding lights into nonsensical shapes which could offer no comfort.
                                                        ­  
Today is better than last night for now the sharp daggers of keratin are not biting at my skin frantically trying to purify me of this rotting flesh which coats my bones,  and my mind is past   not being able to wrap its tendrils about the idea of people possibly loving this wretched creature I have become... Or perhaps it did wrap around that fragile concept but instead of absorbing it those vines of the rose garden of my mind stayed true to form and grew thorns to pierce and tear at the idea like my nails once did to this alabaster canvas while holding as tightly as doubt sometimes holds my lungs keeping me from breathing,  but this concept is more breakable then my lungs... And so it was crushed into stardust.  The same stardust that comprises or bodies because every element of our bodies is created within our guiding lights we wish upon. And I see that sparkle of stardust every day in each of your eyes. I see it in everyone's eyes.. except my own... And  it makes me wonder if maybe dad was right and some people are just made of a different type of dust.  A dust comprised from the ashes of hell itself which will forever smolder but never more catch aflame... The ashes filed with the agonies of those souls which lost themselves in the madness and feel into the eternal night.

This poem,
,
excuse me,                                                ehem

i
doesn'­t care if you read it to the end
or if you don't like syntax,                                                          ­              the grammar,
or
the                                         capitol letters
line spelling

breaks (orspacing)

                                                    ­               but perhaps you prefer that it be less...
                                                         ­                                               understandable
   ­                                     Compromising,
      that it comprises the  
                                                                  ENTIRETY
                                            ­                              of
                          nature­                                nursing                          ­      nurture
[aligned to the Left]
  That way you walk away feeling like it was something worth your time!
Respectable (as pronounced in the Spanish language).
                                                      ­                                                                 ­                        And yet,

                                                           ­                                                                 ­                   there is a

                                                              ­                                                                 ­                certain re

                                                             ­                                                                 ­                 -gularity

                                                      ­                                                                 ­                        to time...

like           the           tick           of           the           clock---------------------------------------------
              ­                                                                 ­                    >>thatmadeyoucringe<<
congratulations-
                           nobody cared, or ever will--
                                                                ­         it's the bread and butter---
                                                       ­                                                              Apathy

In the middle of the Milky Way,
darkness overwhelms.
A dark Star grows so powerful
no light escapes its realm .
Gas, in ribbons, flows towards it
in undulating streams.
then vanishes eternally-
at least that’s how it seems.
There, in that sleep of death,
where no dream would intrude.
The matter that comprises Earth
would make one sugar cube.

Perhaps one day, some eons hence,
the dark star will explode
and give this universe new birth
when all the stars grow cold.

So now she stands a beauty,
Average in stature
Yet extraordinary in strength

To find
Within the pores of the fragile bones
Of a sweet youth
The armour, the wisdom,
The experience, the might,
The hurt, the resilience
Of a Spartan soldier

She stands to support
The line she comprises
And will fall down with valor
With a sword towards the sky

Hazel is the eye
Through which she used to
Squint to find
An answer to the unkind
Cards shuffled and dealt
Out to her one at time

Toy with me some more
Mess with my mind
Shake the ground on which I stand
And watch my eyes go blind

Tear the petals one by one,
Ruin the beauty that once stood

Drive me, drive me back,
Watch me, watch me cry,
I knew the rose would blacken
I am taking back what’s mine

For two whole years
An empty vase
Sat impassive,
Barren of dreams
And stripped of passion

Naked was my body,
Open were the wounds,
Fresh was the ****,
Slowly healing were tattoos

Depicting a devastating tale of a mother,
A mother who couldn’t find reason,
Simply struggled for the why
Of a life she had constructed over decades
Through a brutal, shattered mind

Watch me laugh
And flash my face up to the light
Of a sweltering day,
Beads of sweat dot my nose
I worry not, just wipe them away

Yet the tears are what
I can’t seem to simply rid myself of
The air is cold,
They freeze and thaw
Mamma listen, I’m in love

I’m perched on the edge
Of something finite,
One wrong move and I can’t defy
The lines traced on the way down,
No ropes or swinging vines

I contemplated moving though,
Maybe I could find you

But I remain standing in this very spot,
I couldn’t jump
Because this spot is all knew

I take the all of what this is
For everything it’s worth
Because I know the answers
To what now means

I don’t know where you are
I’d very much be pleased to venture

But leave now and I know
I’d be mistaken

I’ve got a lot to do,
I may not know it all
But the assignment must be complete
Before I take the fall

For now I live
For now I cry
For now I breathe
And fear and die

For now I sleep
With pictures of you
And I always awake with them too

For now the cerulean dreams
Are posted upon walls,
Like graffiti faded in a day
And I still sit and wonder
Why you got away.

Why I Like her?
her image resembles
one of my close associates or
one of my relatives or friends or
was like my dream heroine…

Why I Propose her?
coz she matches
the matching come out of my projection
the projection came out of my Inner woman
it comprises of part of dream woman and mostly of my mom

why I Fear her?
when I was close with her
her reality doesn't match my projection
the same is the case for her
we understood our reality mismatch  our projection

Why I Divorce or continuing my life ?
When projection not met
absence of  children's means this is the stage we depart in
the name of Divorce
If we have children, they become a thread or ******* to continue..
Now, our reality become real and slowly we alter our projections
the alteration continue to happens, till the child take our place
and gradually we loose our identities

Why I Revenge?
When the children grows and move out
Our projection slowly looses our alteration
and the thread become weak
this stage, strong heart look for Affair
again affair was not the solution. finally, live in despair

Why I continue?
weak heart continue with the same partner
Now we feel its too late to regain our self
and experience  'a kind of Death'
Both bring our true reality and revenge like
small fight, small torture, small separation
was done more carefully by holding the thread
that goes on till death

This way of living called as "life"
by our forefathers, I too believe
as a hypocrite…

O life
That force that draws dependent
On nothing yet on everything
The good and evil, confused and enlightened
It moves through us as light shining through the clouds
That darkens our outlook
The stars vanish as the sky's light fades
No longer can we reach further, jump higher
The bay's light snuffed by nature
No color, no green, but grey
As muted as the circumstance of silence
Where one's own thoughts are not quieted, but amplified
The inverse of the typical pattern
Where as the noise outside increases, the thoughts within become clouded
Thoughts like stars, once visible now invisible
Absorbed by the grey
Overtaken by the grey
Gone
Replaced with the noise from outside
A small town replaced by chain stores
A young mind replaced by no mind
A people replaced by a nation
Stars and stripes, vivid and billowing
Real yet ethereal
The stripes' colors run across the fabric of the flag
Confined only by the end of the fabric
by this binary reality
Without this confine they would run forever
Like a stream
Like a stream of consciousness
a visualization of the confines that bind us
The shackles we fight
The irons we drag, day in and day out
Our symbols, our world are governed by laws
And we struggle to break them
To understand them
To exist is an act of civil obedience
to prosper as an act of disobedience
We develop
we create
we imagine
we inspire
we think
we critique
we wonder
We live in limbo
Questioning our very purpose
As we feel the driving force within us
Push us to disobey the laws that govern us
To prosper or to fall
To pass or to fail
Eden was a place of perfection
designed to nurture us
to allow us to prosper through adherence to rules
But we cannot prosper without disobedience
It is what compels us to live and learn
It is what comprises the very essence of us
We could not live there
But we cannot live here
We are nomads of existence
Travelers on an endless journey
We find ways to amuse ourselves
Inventing distractions and novelties
Most bittersweet
They are tokens of our achievement
Designed to take the place of indicators of progress
for an endless journey has no mid-way point
No end
Just a beginning
I called to life:
What shall I do?
What shall I be?
I am a cynic
I exclaimed with true heart and soul
That this advancement
These tokens
are meaningless
That they are not the panacea to our problems
They are the parasite that ails us
I urged
I begged
I cried
I felt that ideas were dead
No chivalry towards the mind

I have changed

Our journey has no end, only beginning
There are no good days
No bad days
In the grander scope there is nothing
But in that same way
there is everything
With every token we craft to celebrate our achievements
We huddle together, a group of beings alone in an endless timeline
Moving forth ceaselessly
But together
With one another
Defending against threats
Celebrating against boredom

O life
That force that remains dependent yet independent
Interdependent
Moving through us, connecting us
Bringing us together
Forming our humanity
The only thing we have and the best thing we have
A path embellished by us
Luster none surpassed

No despair may conquer us
No reality may threaten us
Life is the lantern in the dark
that beckons us.

O, life.
You exist for all but are visible to only some
You leave us pondering, wondering, yet living as one.

Fly free unwanted conqueror
I detest you
And your haunting illusion
Midnight visage
Encapsulated in wanton peaks
of redemption
You who scorched my fields
and ignited my fears
Laying waste in a furious
dervish of extrapolated ecstasy

It might have been over
But in what I was sure
was my final moment
Your grip became slack,
my conscious lying spluttering
in the destitute mud
that comprises bewilderment ,
and you showed me mercy
Such bravery in the face of chaos!
And now you gladly accept me
Embrace me in cold arms
Wantonly smiling at the distance
almost, almost imperceptive
But my knowledge trumps mere sense
With the certainty of a madman

Uncontrolled thoughts
Restricted acts
Relatives, family and society
Comprises my identity
who is real me?
I still don’t know
for finding it, need a long way to go
but would I go alone?
Or take those relatives, family and society with me
If I went in a group
would I ever be able to find who is the real me?

Claustrophobic
Cockroaches in corners
Concrete slabs
Clutching, cloaking, choking

Confined and
Constrained of a
Counterfeit life, I was the perfect
Charlatan of my encompassing separation.

Compelled into Self, oh yet
Cumbersome conditioning
Cultivating awareness within
Concentrated compression. I,

Cave!
Capitulation. Cannot withstand these
Currents of clouded
Compensation.

Comfortable in this
Chaos, as I've finally
Concluded: It comprises all of me.
Completely void

Contently
Containing nothing,
Clear from attached perceptions
Captivating Silence.

Come through me
Crawl into my
Caverns
Crash unto my shore

Caressing sensuality
       Continuously
Cascading        down, down, down
Composing my entirety.

Invested was what seemed like infinity
There I was peering at such iconic symbolism
Indefinite filaments of unprecedented passion ascend
I battle to suppress said ardor though perpetually it heightens
Each time her face shall in the sanctuary that comprises my reveries
Sacrificed I am to perish within her ****, inviting aroma
That illustrates my voracious carnality

Since its inception, Aarong has been determined to bring about effective changes in the lives of artisans and underprivileged rural women, by facilitating and advertising their handicraft. Today, it has become the foundation of independent cooperative groups and family-based artisans. Now, it is known as a contemporary life outlet, among people not only in Bangladesh, but all over the world.

This wedding season, you can adorn yourself with one of Aarong’s festive looks. On November 17, Aarong launched their latest product line – the Wedding Collection.

Aarong has introduced a series of looks and styles to try out this wedding season for brides, the bridal entourage and the wedding attendees. What’s more, they are promoting Jamdani, Muslin and Katan sarees as the choice of outfits to wear for the bride and her close ones.

The line is introducing bridal wear in some uncommon hues, moving away from the routine “red” to peach, pink, purple, blue, green and beige. These unconventional colours can also look grand on the big day, and this is the idea that the creators of Aarong are attempting to establish.

Jamdani saris will be incorporated with remarkable embroidered and printed blouses, helping ladies look regal on their special day. The wedding entourage also has a lot to look forward to. This special compilation includes Katan and Jamdani sarees, paired with embroidered blouses, ideal for any reception soiree. Katan sarees can be worn in bright or bold colours and contrasted with multi-layered pearl jewellery and complementing blouses. Furthermore, the collection also includes Jamdani saris in light shades such as light pink, peach and white, and these can be paired with frilled petticoats or dupattas.

Along with gold, the creators encourage the brides to try out silver jewellery with complementing stones, layered pearl neckpieces and hair ornaments. Hence, the looks are a mix of modern and traditional, and are not only advised for the bride, but also for the close relatives or wedding attendees.

This collection also comprises of saris, appropriate for the bridesmaids, the cousins, the sisters, and even the parents of the to-be-weds. Aarong has prepared similar ‘matching’ attires for the bride and the groom, that are perfect for particular occasions like Holud, Mehendi, Aiburo Bhaat, and so on. For the bridegroom, as well as his family and friends, there is also an exclusive range, that includes Sherwanis and Panjabis. Aarong also provides a variety of gift options such as ceramic dinner set, cushion and bed covers, as well as women’s accessories, such as bags and purses.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

Invested was what seemed like infinity
There I was peering at such iconic symbolism
Indefinite filaments of unprecedented passion ascend
I battle to suppress said ardor though perpetually it heightens
Each time her face shall in the sanctuary that comprises my reveries
Sacrificed I am to perish within her ****, inviting aroma
That illustrates my voracious carnality

Part One: Wolves and Chokes

Children are such wolves.
A day is a fledgling lamb
That can be crowded, cloistered
And clawed.
I used to speak to you and
Run with you.
You in your red coat

And I with my white throat.
Suspect nothing.
No tooth was fear to me
For a pack does not stack
Its white edges against itself.
Yet still I must have itched
A miracle of irritation
That cannot be ignored.
In the night, my mouth
Is drawn wide.
Like a fetus, I am transparent
And cringing in black situ.
Then a bite, and then a bite.
Then you see what is inside.

A one I love the best of all
Is loath to see me live.
The bitter taste of childhood vow
Comprises all I give.

I’ve broken you, you say.
With a box of fools I never sought,
Always galumphing back to me.

You broke me first, I think.
What posturing, straighten that halo
That chokes me rightfully.

Of course there is no way
To seek out your paradise.
Not if sinners cannot speak.

Part Two: Sebastien

Your hysteria is a fine rope.
My tree stands ready at the dawn,
A line of men and my
Brick wall that chips and splits
When bodies fall.

Even the sun is watching.
No one swats the stinging gaze
Away and no one dares offend.
But I stand.
I shall try to be as salt.

Salt stands even as dust.
Salt sneers at wounds.
Salt loves only the earth.
And the earth will love me soon,
Championing me as her lover
Which is an irony too ghastly to feel.

Rain in the still air, in the sun.
Silence that grinds a heel onto wrists
That steals from me.
A second, then a heartstring.
Thousand and thousands.
Eyes and minutes.

A billion is still only a tenth.
Release.
It is the boundlessness of the sky
And a chorus stabs their shovels,
Stabs the vein with silver mirth.

god touches me.
I am touched by gods.
I am born
And slain by daylight’s pink
Hands.

Every iron finger
Every one a steely tongue
Every cut a golden affair
And the spurns too hot to hold.
I fall and fold and dim.

My hour is burnt
And still your eyes, your teeth
Go with me
To forge both of my decades with
A gilt life of ecstasy I never
Touched but saw.

I saw it in the face of god.
And heard it as a note
That echoed through the days I lived,
And every word I wrote.

Horton’s Bend
Dave Davis-2013
Treat the earth well,
It was not given to you by your parents.
It was loaned to you by your children.”
Native American Proverb

Chapter 1
During the early part of the 16th century, the Spanish began their expeditions into the New World in their quest for riches in the form of gold and silver. It was a time of great competition between explorers attempting to be the first to expand the Spanish Empire. Famously Ponce de Leon discovered La Florida in 1533 which allowed geographers and map makers to better outline the coast which de Leon hugged during his travels. His perception that it was an island misled geographers for a number of years. Historic documents do describe a quest for a body of water which was known for a restoration of vigor but the Fountain of Youth was not a focus of de Leon’s. Upon learning of La Florida, further expeditions were made ready. Hernando de Soto’s exploration, which began in the vicinity of present day Tampa Florida in 1539, was a four year journey which provided more information about the strange new continent.
Other expeditions filtered their way into the southeastern United States. Expeditions such Tristan de Luna de Arellano traveled into the interior southeast from 1559 to 1561 including the chiefdom of Coosa in Northwest Georgia and Juan Pardo who led two expeditions into the present day Carolinas are also chronicled.

What a strange world it must have been having stepping into what they must have considered an undeveloped and tangled landscape having been at sea for months prior to their arrival. These new comers were warriors riding into a land of what they considered savages ruled by mighty chiefs. The chiefdoms were purposely distanced apart in order to ensure a semi peaceful relationship with nearby chiefdoms. Each principal chief or cacique lived in areas surrounded by earthen mounds and fortified walls with hand dug moats. These rulers were presented with gifts of corn, exotic materials from foreign lands, and other tributes by their subjects. During the past seventy five years, archaeologists have reconstructed the past life ways of these people through their excavations of village sites and burials. Coupled with the work of dedicated historians, we now have a better understanding of how these native peoples lived and died. We will never fully understand their world.
Theirs was a hermetic world which was provided all that was needed. Respectful of the land and its gift of life giving resources, the native peoples were dependant on the land which figured prominently into their spiritual being. Their needs were meager as they did not desire wealth or the need to satisfy a gluttonous royalty. The principal chief’s rulings were simple and they obeyed without question. He and the other leaders asked only what the earth would provide. Their only loyalty was to the ethereal gods and to the cacique who communicated the will of the Creator. In times of famine or strife, theirs was a community that continued to be self sustained as it had always been from birth to death. They must have considered that dark times had arrived with the new strangers. These interlopers were not here to commune but rather to bring greed and lust to their land.

Native American groups surely were frightened by the sight of an entourage of the bearded new comers. Dressed in quilted shirts with bright colored sashes with tall hip boots, their appearance had to be most curious to the natives. The presence of never before seen animals such as the horses bearing the soldiers were cause enough for the Indians to scatter from their villages. The horsemen wore the heaviest armor consisting of chain mail or if preferred a breastplate of sorts. Their weapons were a long lance in conjunction with a small shield. The foot soldiers wore peaked steel helmets along with quilted shirts armored with small steel plates and were equipped with sharpened steel weapons such as short double edged swords, halberds, and crossbows. Matchlock guns were also a weapon employed by the Spanish explorers. They were close combat weapons which would have to suffice since heavy artillery could not be used in the thick and tangled environment.
The Spanish found the New World to be a land of hardships when they depleted their supplies of foodstuffs between chiefdoms. This land proved not to be a place of abundant riches but rather difficult terrain for pedestrian journey. In order to supplement the Spanish took the stored food supplies that Indians had readied for winter. As Old World warriors, they had no hesitancy to threaten or harm when supplies were needed. Word of their arrival brought both fear and awe to native groups who were duped by the rich lies and gifts of the metal objects that was so foreign to them.
While the devastation of Spanish contact impacted native lives, it should not over shadow the rich history of these people. Prior to contact, they were thought to be involved in the construction of a society emerging from the chiefdom level. Their capability to understand astronomical constants, their ability to sustain an agricultural culture, and the art produced attest to a vibrant society that was merely unfortunate to be caught up in a dynamic European expansion that was inevitable.  
Their story is more than that of European contact as they dealt with pestilence, political instability, drought, and dwindling resources in large communal sites. It comprises a much larger picture from a story long forgotten in a language that will forever remain unknown. History is filled with the tragedies of conquest but this story does not end with the Spanish invasion of peaceful natives. It does not end at all because their spirit was stronger than any intrusion by the strangers. While much suffering has occurred from this contact, there was one group who managed to avoid conflict and quietly retain their heritage. Unfortunately time has left a ragged history with gaps that are not fully understood by those who seek wisdom from the past. No matter. Their intentions regarding history were never as strong as their passion for the land.

On an unknown date during the 16th Century in Northwest Georgia, a group of Spanish invaders made contact with a group of Native Americans who believe in the sacred ground they call home.



Chapter 2
Ronnie King sat on the tailgate of his 4x4 pickup and drained the last of an ice cold Budweiser that had been waiting on him all day. Ronnie kept a cooler full of cold ones for quitting time although he usually just drank the one beer before leaving for home. Working as a foreman on a timber crew, he was soaked in sweat and enjoyed just taking a moment to reflect on a day’s work. He always felt like a man who could tote a chainsaw for eight hours and deal with the elements was a man by God. The sun would be setting soon and he would talk to a few of the boys before they headed to the house. It also gave him time to unwind a little bit and to pick off the ticks that seemed to always be attracted to him. He sure hadn’t forgotten that bout of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever that had contracted a few years back. He remembered well how dizzy he was that hot afternoon. Some of the boys had chuckled but nobody scoffed at his 107 degree temperature when he was checked into the hospital. Anyways this was the best part of the day and he always got to thinking about his life.

Ronnie loved his job and wondered how others could ever work inside all day. Hell, even if he was paid more he couldn’t really see the benefits of extra cash compared to working out in the woods. More than once he had paid attention to deer signs and had bagged some bucks that were the envy of his fellow workers. It was just a great deal to be outside. Sure he ached pretty good by the end of the week and knew arthritis was in his future but it gave him a great opportunity to do what he really loved: look for Indian sites. Ronnie had been just a boy when he found his first arrowhead down on the floodplain of the Coosa River which ran through his grandfather’s farm. That thrill was one that never got old for the young man. Those who are observant and willing to risk the mud never knew what they would find after a good thunderstorm on a freshly plowed field. As Ronnie grew to be a teenager he already had a collection of artifacts that the local museum drooled over. Other kids that were Ronnie’s age were busy playing football or were involved in some school activity. Ronnie was different and had little interest in neither scholastic nor collegiate pastimes. Once he finished his chores at home,  he headed for the river.

When Ronnie graduated from high school he got a full time job working at Patterson’s Logging. At 18, Ronnie was a tall man with a full beard and was often mistaken for someone much older. He never was a big talker or one to boast. Many at school thought him slow but that was where he fooled them and the teachers too. No reason to give your all since they would expect more anyway. Besides what would he do with trigonometry? He loved the outdoors and spent quiet evenings along the river banks staring at the ground in search of the history that he loved. Teachers didn’t spend much time on how Indians lived during the time that the mounds were being built. He enjoyed books at the library much better than any of the school books. In particular, he loved the book Sun Circles and Human Hands which had wonderful pictures of burials dug up during the WPA days. He did take the time to learn how the Works Progress Administration had been created in the 40’s and created jobs to work on the large dam projects that brought on some of the earliest organized archaeological projects in the United States. At night he would look at Sun Circles and gaze at the pictures of the excavated burials and all the exotic grave goods that had been buried with the interred over 500 years before. The well made pottery vessels had always been one of his favorite artifacts but he had never found a whole ***. Having spent time with different books loaned from the library, Ronnie know the difference between pottery sherds dating to the earlier Woodland Period and those that dated to the later Mound builders or what the archaeologists called the Mississippian Period. He also enjoyed the ornaments and jewelry found in the burials. The designs in the shape of woodpeckers, rattlesnakes, and strange squatting men with eagle claws were carved into shell gorgets that were found around the necks of the nobles of the village. He realized that not all graves contained abundant artifacts as some simply were just a prone or flexed body that must have been a common person. Ronnie knew that there had to be some schools here in the south where you could learn to be a paid archaeologist but who had money to go to college? Besides, they might want him to give up what he found. What right did a museum have to something he had found? No, that didn’t seem right at all.
Patterson’s Logging worked all over a tri-county area and allowed Ronnie access to private property that he could never get permission to walk over. There were a dozen men who worked for Patterson not including Patterson’s boy, Ricky, who had helped Ronnie get hired. Ricky and Ronnie used to do a little cat fishing on weekends. Kicked back with a six pack on a boat ramp, the boys used to fight off the bugs attracted to the lantern glowing bright in the middle of the night. They talked about girls they’d like to get a hold of and wishing they had money for a nice pickup. Ricky’s daddy made pretty good money but most of it was ******* in chainsaws and equipment for keeping the logs steadily flowing to the saw mill. Ronnie never told Ricky but he was **** grateful to be working on a crew at Patterson’s.

A couple of the men who worked for logging outfit were from Cedartown which was located south of Rome. They didn’t speak to anybody very often and pretty much kept to themselves. Ronnie didn’t know them but had heard them called Jarvis and Ladge. The crews had finished logging a section near Armuchee Creek where some county workers had been using bulldozers to prep the area for a bridge project. It was time for lunch so everybody got out their lunchboxes and sack lunches. Jarvis and Ladge ate quickly and headed out to the disturbed area to walk it over. Ronnie had already figured on going out there too but they had beat him to it. He just went ahead and watched them looking for a few minutes. Finally Ronnie headed out and walked around a little distance from them. They glared at him at first but didn’t make a ******* contest out of this patch of dirt. Having walked around staring at the fresh soil for a good ten minutes the three were somewhat close to each other so they stopped and everybody wanted to inspect what the others had found.
Ladge had found a few good sized flint chips and a broken tip of a point. Jarvis looked at him and said “Buddy you ain’t found **** look at this piece of pottery!” He held up a large thick rim sherd which had pinched marks all around the curved rim. “Nice one Jarvis” whistled Ladge. “That’s a Mississippian sherd, Jarvis” offered Ronnie. The others stared at him until Ladge said “Boy this ain’t Mississippi! You in Georgia.” Ronnie didn’t want to be a smart *** to the older men so he said “I been reading in some books on ancient Indians and the pictures showed pottery that looked just like that one that was near 500 years old.” “Huh” Jarvis mumbled “Well what do you think about this bird point?” It was a small triangular point no bigger than a thumbnail made of black flint. Ronnie hesitated a moment and told them “That’s a nice one but you know they didn’t hunt birds with those don’t you?” The men just shrugged and Jarvis said “That’s what I always heard them called……that the Indians used a blow gun and blew them through it”. Ronnie was a little more confident but with a little caution said “That point was used on a bow and arrow…..you know how most points you find have a stem on the bottom end?” Both men nodded with interest. “Well those were used on spears but this type was used on a bow….bout the same time as that sherd you found”

Ronnie thought he might be scoffed at but both men just shrugged and one mumbled “Well I’ll be ******”. Ronnie then realized that Jarvis and Ladge’s interest was just in one upping each other and it was something to do besides talking to the other loggers. “I’d like to look at one of them books you been reading…..I got something I found and want to know more about it.” Ronnie’s interest was peaked and asked “What does it look like?” Jarvis tilted his head a little while looking over at Ladge and said “Just bring that book of yourn’s when you can.” Ronnie took the hint and all three realized it was time to start on the next parcel of the project.
As the work week continued, the three usually sat together and formed a group of their own talking about artifacts away from the others. Ronnie brought one book in but it was from some work over in Alabama and didn’t have what Jarvis was looking for. One Friday after work, Ronnie was about to head home when Jarvis and Ladge asked him to take a ride down to Cedartown and look at their collection. The two had a little cabin out off of Chubb Road with a rusted 49 Ford sitting out front. A metal trash barrel smoldered in the front yard. Ronnie walked in the cabin and had to choke back holding his nose as it reeked of sourness. These two ol’ boys were true bachelors who were not ones to throw out clothes until they fell apart. It was just sometimes they didn’t feel like picking up anything from a pile that had lain in a corner for a couple of weeks. Jarvis walked to a chest of drawers and opened it and asked Ronnie to come take a look. Ronnie looked in the drawer and saw a collection of artifacts typically found in the area. The material ranged from large Savannah River points dating back some 5,000 years to more of what the boys had termed “bird points”. Ronnie picked up a partial *** with check marked stamping and smiled. “This is a nice one….I’ve seen fragments like this on the Oostanaula.” He added “It’s from what is they call the Woodland Period”. Ladge smiled a big toothless smile and proudly proclaimed he had f

They say in order to survive
a man made of sterner things
organs blood tissues marrow  
Sadness hollow darkness sorrow
bones that break
and hands that shake
am I not meant survive?
Sterner stuff is not what comprises
I cannot take all of life's surprises