Clashing lights from the shadows;
Thundering in constant motion
Red swarms overtaking the blue nights,
A grand disturbance -
Raging through the cosmos
Shifting the course of this endless strife
(Wake up now,
We have misconstrued our fate)
Spiraling forth, into nebulous unknown
The force flows from within;
Embrace the cause -
To restore a balance lost aeons ago

Gears turning towards a lie
Deceived by peace
Crucial moments for the light;
Two tides collide

Detrimental,
Sacrifices,
Interstellar transmutation
Exiled till, the return of the progeny
Remnants of the order
Confined to, the corners of the galaxy
Strengthened, by the chosen one

Fallen hero;
Exalts into gradeur
Shining greater than the stars
Universal luminescence
Macrocosmic ~
As Above So Below

Frequencies resonating,
Constructing wretched Elysium
Eternal cataclysm,
Decimation

A massive surge of power;
Lost, following the stars of scripture
Kingdoms falling one by one ~
NOVUS ORDO

Symmetry unfolds
Visions pass
Fallacies expose
Divine excursion

Escape the stasis
Elevate, frame of mind
Amidst resistance;
Ignite lucidity
Harmony engulfs,
This fractured existence

I think of her often, for thoughts are all I have—not a single memory. She died before I was the age of two.

From what little that I heard, there was little reason to view her in a good light, but now I can see something admirable about her.  After all, this woman endured so much, and the odds seemed stacked against her. Incredibly, between the ages of eleven and sixteen—at least five times—this poor Lithuanian girl crossed the Atlantic in attempts to get into America. Twice, she was turned away. Some may not have had high regard for her, including her own son—my father—but I can see a heroic nature, a survivor, through and through. Just a toddler when she died, I missed out in knowing her. Throughout the years, I really had only gathered bits and pieces of information while trying to know better about her. It has been like constructing puzzle in which the pieces fit here and there, but the gaps are too big to cover.

This woman that I write about is my paternal grandmother. Out of all my grandparents, her story is the one that stands apart, an amazing, heart wrenching and most thought provoking portrait. Evoking emotions of anger, sadness and sympathy, I find it a rich tale of a poor woman.

This has been in the works for quite a while now—in my head, that is. I pictured what I wanted to say, the words playing out in my mind.  What a story it is, too, a tremendous one of sorrow and struggle, of need for love and acceptance, of perseverance and strength of the human spirit. Yet things get complicated when they come from my mind to the page, as I try translating my vision down into words. Before long, like a snake, hesitation surely comes slithering through, as it quickly snuck its way within, fueling my fear, a fear of disapproval and rejection by two people who are now dead and have been for some time—my father and my grandmother.  

And while writing, I imagine what my audience thinks—critics in my head abounding before I even finish. Well, I am the first to stand in line for that.  It’s kind of scary relating such things. I am not sure I am doing the story any justice.  I’m not sure I’ve captured the essence of it well.    

And who would want to read this anyway? Is it too long and of no significance to anybody but myself? I have my doubts. Celebrities do this all the time, and people just eat that stuff up.  I think we all just want to relate to what others have to say about themselves. But it does bare you—your thoughts, your secrets, your soul, —and it feels a bit unnerving, to say the least.  

So, naturally, I still drag my feet. If she were here right in front of me right now, what would my grandmother think? Would she throw the papers in an old fashioned stove—in the fire—as she angrily did to my father’s flowers?  I can only imagine my father as a child—in an impoverished scene that I only have sketchy knowledge of—with his young heart being crushed and shamed, his sign of affection and desire to please his mother, drastically rejected. In return for his small token of love, my father’s mother was furious that her boy spent a few coins on something perceived as useless, a waste of good money. Away like trash, they went. Like the flower story, would my father be ashamed and angry that I revealed some family history for others to read, stuff that he would rather have kept quiet?

This is why I am mentioning no names. Nothing is sugar coated—it is what it is—often not very pretty. Yet this is not intended as an exposé or a smudge on any family members. A slam on my father and grandmother is surely not my intent—far from it.  Rather, it is my offering of affection. It is my little bouquet of flowers to a history that includes me as a part of it.

Like those flowers of long ago, I’ve so wanted to scrap this story in the garbage. Often seeming like a knotted mass of yarn, I have had to work and work to get a smooth flow.  Like a sculptor, I wanted a fine piece of clay to emerge into form, but the chunks, lumps and bumps just frustrate me to no end.

It’s complicated to relate it all. It is revelation about my father’s origins which hold no real pride for him.  There was much pain and shame associated with his mother’s mental illness, his distant father, his broken home and lack of a solid, safe family structure, his constant poverty and fight for survival—the list goes on and on  As I unravel this tale, I continue to fight with the many tangles. As I try to find the face, I feel that my sculpted story is left wanting. So I continue to chip away.

Dishonoring? Embarrassing? I hope it this tale is not.  I envision an admirable purpose instead of the pain and the shame, redeeming the pride that was lost. My father’s origins are mine, too, and they help me to know myself better, and my father—to build that better, more complete puzzle of my grandmother.

Much of what I heard was unflattering terms. From a young age, I knew she was mentally ill. But what did that mean anyway?  Well, to my father she was crazy and nuts, not a good mother. No, she wasn’t mother of the year. Clearly, she had a temper and was known to instigate fights—with her husband, with one of her sisters. When my young father was physically disciplined it was by her, and it was probably quite harsh. If I didn’t like her, it was due to all that I heard. And when I had problems with my father, who had a bad temper, too, I probably felt that the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree.  

But in spite of all the remarks, I grew to have great sympathy for my grandmother. It makes me wonder how mistreated she was as a child.  My father deemed her as neglectful, not in tune to her children’s needs. It is obvious to me that she was in lack, herself.

So what was she really like? I very much wanted to understand her, to be able to relate with her. I don’t know—perhaps, it is because I root for the underdog.  Often, I felt like one, too. And Lithuania is the perfect underdog, under the thumb of Russian rule until much recently.  Perhaps, it was because my dad’s dislike for where he came from made me all that more interested to discover what his roots were all about.  

History often repeats itself—what has shaped my father had a strong influence on me. Like my father, I grew angry and bitter from the upbringing I had. Getting a similar brunt of problematic parenting made for a tough go of things.  I could have easy said, “Who gives a ****?” I could have been thoroughly disgusted about my dad’s old baggage that I had to handle—all the wreckage of rage and shame that became dumped into the next generation.  I evolved from a more sensitive, inquisitive child to one who battled between the feelings of hate and love, painfully clawing my way out of the emotional garbage and with the terrible stench of it.  

Thankfully, the war is over. I am enjoying the peace.  
  
With insight, I grew to understand my father, to accept what he was—capable of good and bad. I can relate quite well in that sense, for I made plenty of mistakes that I wish that I could do differently, ones that hurt others as well as me.  I could not deny that, in my dad, there was a wounded man who could not really figure that out—not until he was much older. I saw a man who was remorseful, and humbled by his costly mistakes. I was able to heal from some of my wounds with that forgiving perspective, though it was not easy and did not come overnight.

Unlike my dad, I’m surely a talker and I ask questions, perhaps my father’s worst nightmare in that sense——he had to have at least one child who always wanted to know things about him and who he came from. That means both sides of my family. Perhaps, I was born that way, with a tremendous sense of wonder. Curiosity always got me, and I am much too hungry to remain clueless about my more secretive father.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s bad. It involves risk which can lead to a boatload of hurt. Where do we come from? What were your parents like? What were your grandparents like? When where they born? When did they die? Do you have any pictures?  Can you go any further than them?  Sometimes, the answers aren’t what you want to hear.  

It’s nice to belong to something, to somebody. It isn’t always possible or realistic to relate to one’s family, I wanted to belong. Not just to my mom’s side did I want to identify—I wanted to fully belong—to both sides.

My mom and dad both had common backgrounds, both coming from poverty and chaos. The fallout from my mother’s unstable father created a similar unease within her childhood home. Yet her family actually seemed like it existed. I knew all of my mother’s seven younger sisters and five younger brothers, as well as all nineteen cousins. We used to visit mom’s parents in Detroit fairly often. My best knowledge of life in this unfamiliar, yet close by, city—my native city—arose through this connection. I heard stories of grandmother’s German immigrant parents and learned of my grandfather’s Polish and Prussian roots, part of his family’s rise from poverty to wealth—to poverty once more.

Born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, my father’s parents were much older than my mom’s. Impoverished Lithuanian immigrants, my dad’s parents surely wanted to be Americans. My grandmother really had to fight to even be on American soil, and my grandfather sought out citizenship and became naturalized. I have likely seen them both, but had no relationship at all. I heard that my dad’s mom came over our house for Thanksgiving dinner—a rare visit—and she died not long after.

My grandfather died the following year, when I was closer to three. Possibly having a primitive, early memory of this man, I am told my dad had him over the house once.  I have a vague recollection of sneaking into the living room, when I was supposed to be in bed, and got a smack on my behind from my dad, crying in protest as I walked past an older man starring at me. But I’ll never know for sure if that is even a real memory.

Since my grandfather was a supporter of the Communist party—a big taboo in those days with the McCarthy era and the Cold War—my dad was mortified and afraid to mention it.  I doubt I’ll ever know much about this grandfather. My father found only one photo of him in his wallet while trying to claim belongings from his flat after the man died. My father eventually gave it to me, and I was shocked by one of the most bizarre photos I ever had seen. In it, my dad’s father was photographed with a woman that my father cannot identify, but the likeness between her and me is so uncanny. I look more like this woman than I do my own mother, but I cannot say if she is even related. My dad knew almost nothing about his father’s family except that he came from a big one back in Lithuania.

Family must have been like foreign word to my father. I can see why. Since boyhood, my dad lived apart from his dad, and they became more strangers than father and son. My dad even admitted that he hardly understood his own father because of his thick, Lithuanian accent. My dad’s background still remains more like shadows in the dim light.  I don’t clearly remember my father’s older brother— out of the two that he had—because I only saw him three or four times. Since my father cut ties with his younger brother, I hadn’t laid eyes on him. Not even a picture was available. When my estranged uncle called on the phone to try to talk to my dad, I would speak to him, instead. One to be sympathetic, I never got why my dad wouldn’t bother with his brother, though the call usually involved asking for money. I was pretty much told that he was a no-good ***, plenty to keep me fairly leery of him. His first wife kicked my uncle out.  Most of his six sons—just as unknown as their father was to me—wanted nothing to do with him. No doubt, the guy was an odd and deeply tormented man, yet we both wanted to meet one day. If I remember one thing he said, that was it, and I agreed. This did seem unlikely, for I didn’t want to stir up the hornet’s nest, not creating more friction than there was.

Years later, that wish came true. One day my dad did get a picture of his brother from the older brother. Much later on—several months after my dad died—I was able to meet this troubled man when he was dying in the hospital and had tubes down his throat. unable to speak to me any more.  

My mom was my source in finding out about my grandmother, but she knew little.  She admits she didn’t know what to say to her mother-in-law, being young and not very savvy when it came to making conversation. What she remembered about my grandmother was that she was very quiet and often stared out from the position of an obscure woman in a room full of people. My mom thought her “spooky”. My mom recalls that my dad said that she smoked down her cigarettes the nub, burning and blackening the tips of her fingers.  She even might have started a small fire in her sister’s waste basket with a burning cigarette.

There is one thing that sticks out that my mother recalls that is sweet. What my grandmother asked my mother shows her humanity: “Do you love my son? “ It shows a woman who has genuine feelings, has desires, and caring. I could see the love that she had for my father when I heard that she brought his boots to school in bad weather, and he was embarrassed by the look of her—rolled down socks and an old fur coat.  I doubt, though, he ever heard the words of “I love you”, as my father did not say these things to his children.

Near the end of his life, when my father was getting dementia, I knew the time was short for us to talk and now was the moment to ask questions. “I know so little about your childhood”, I told him. He said there was nothing worth mentioning, and when I probed him a bit, he told me, “We were the lowest of the low”. It saddens me that the pain was still very much there.

What my parents couldn’t or didn’t tell me, I learned from a few other relatives. I called up my dad’s cousin—who lives in Las Vegas—with plenty of apprehension, never having met her, and not knowing if she’d want to talk with me. Slowly, I sensed her grow from suspicious of my intent to warming up to me a bit. She said she liked my father, but “he could have been nicer to his mother”. This cousin told me that he avoided her a lot, and she felt my grandmother was aware. My dad’s younger brother did, too, I am told. My mom related to me that once when my grandmother would knock on their door back in their flat in Detroit, in their early years of marriage, my dad told her not answer the door to prevent her visit.

If it wasn’t for this cousin’s mother, my grandmother’s sister, as well as two of her daughters, the poor woman would have been quite lonely—though I’m sure loneliness defined her. I am glad they took an extra interest in my grandmother. They would take her out for coffee or have her over.  This sister “felt sorry for her”, the Las Vegas cousin told me.  I’m glad, but she “felt sorry for her? I hope it was more than that.

Considering all what she went through, I am wondering what went through my grandmother’s head. Did this woman ever feel loved? If she did, it must have been like a glass of water in a desert.

Another of my dad’s cousins, from another sister of my grandmother’s, helped me out. Her family stories filled in some gaps, but what she couldn’t tell me records did. The records seemed to prove the stories correct, as some family stories can be more fiction than fact.

I did my own research, as well as get records from others, and finally hired a genealogist. I verified that my grandmother was born in 1892 in a village in Lithuania, not ever knowing the exact date. Loss began early in her life, as her father died of small pox when she was four months old. He was twenty six, and he wasn’t even married a year. Records show this bit of oral history to be almost spot-on.  My parents made a single visit to my grandmother’s youngest sister, and this great aunt told me that my grandmother lost her father at six months old. My dad never knew his real grandfather died, thinking his youngest aunt had a different father. He was surprised to find out that his mother was the one set apart from the others.

So my great grandmother was left a widow with a baby to care for all on her own. This would have been bad for both, so this gr

Outside an average sort of house
Upon a quiet street
There stood a man of honest heart
All grim and weather beat
His face awash with bafflement
A letter in his mits  
With Lots of Love from God himself
And golden twirly bits

He'd read it over breakfast
Then read it on the loo
Considered re-addressing it
For number forty two
Within the silver envelope
In angel script, embossed
Were plans to build a massive boat
Materials and cost

It seemed, he'd have to build  it
As the letter looked legit
So off he sped, to B&Q;
To show the holy writ
The manager was confident
The price was mighty bold
Delivery on Saturday
For every item sold

So late, on Friday evening
He popped out for a walk
Upon his road, he drew a boat
In vivid yellow chalk
When morning dawned, a knocking
And some paperwork to mark
For a thousand tonnes of timber
For construction of an ark

He set out with his hammer
And he smote the nail and tack
By afternoon, the road was blocked
With traffic tailing back
A keel was just discernible
Beginning to take form
By evening, the media
Was whipping up a storm

Up marched a bold reporter
From the Three Times Weekly Herald
He said "So you'd be Noah then?"
"Not me" said he "I'm Gerald"
"I got this 'Oly telegram
And God has chosen me
I fill a boat with wildlife
And sail the salty sea"

By night he was a laughing stock
On YouTube and the news
But a sturdy man, was Gerald
And most vehement in his views
When asked to show the letter
He graciously refused
"Just have a little faith" he said
"We'll soon see who's amused"

The church were being skeptical
And held the press at bay
The Council sent him letters
At a rate of four a day
The hull was soon completed
And he laboured on inside
Constructing some amenities
To house them on the tide

A swimming pool for waterfowl
A wall of rodent wheels
With bowls for every kind of fish
And a big one for the seals
A filing box for butterflies
To stow them all away
A pigeon hole for pigeons
For the bees , a large bouquet

A puzzle for the monkeys
A wardrobe for the moths
A lion for the antelope
A jacuzzi for the sloths
A fully fitted nursery
For when the ewes had lambed
The wasps would have a picnic
And the beavers could be dammed

Through night and day he toiled
He relieved himself in shifts
In time, he built a sauna
And a pair of turbolifts
The council grew impatient
And the neighbours were in fits
They begged him to remove his boat
Entire or in bits

Then promptly, after dinner
As he sat upon the deck
There called a suited doctor  
With a badge around his neck
There followed many questions
With a host of funny looks
While outside went from 'fine and warm'
To 'just the thing for ducks'

That night, began the deluge
So Gerald found his crew
He robbed each local pet shop
And attacked the nearest zoo
Collected every animal
And fastened them in tight
The waters coursed along his street
As dawn replaced the night

'Twas then a thought occurred to him
A kind of mental swerve  
His road was more a crescent
So his ark was on a curve
But just then the currents took him
He sailed off along the bend
For six weeks, going round and round
To land at home, The End

**

Ego Eccentric, Collective hysteria
A mind of madness,Compassionately cruel
Do or die
Black or white
Comprised carefully of duality
We are presented a human life
The thinker thinks but will never know
Think as much as you can
As much as you'd like
Ahh a thinker,
For he is one far and few between
He cringes at the tabloids
Glamorized ****** flashes
upon the big screens
Fear mothered slave state
Is where he sighs home
A pattern to repeat
An average man's prison
One of which
He's carefully constructed himself
Barring his own windows
Processing his own food
And his own paperwork
Jail keeper sounds
The morning alarm
"Wake your body!"
Mind stays in slumber
"It's time to make money"
Yet no real wealth
Another day on repeat
Constructing his "self"
Identifying carefully
With devised roles.
The play begins
"Curtain call!"
"Places everyone!"
The lights dim
Going back to pretending again
-KaitValentine

it doesn't have to be
perfect.

you're cutting demos
not diamonds.

i'm creating paragraphs
not parachutes.

she's drawing pictures
not pistols.

he's constructing bookshelves
not buildings.

we're making differences
not disasters.

we don't have to be
perfect
to be
poets.

Hades escaping the first leaves of virginity
The realm of Io scattering molten silica
In degrees
Water drops from God’s shoulder burst and buried
Her eyes at my scar;  she stops the bleeding
Sucrose sun whetting the crest of a bee
The dutiful molecules of my shirt sleeves
Zaccheus in a sycamore tree
Her words on a southerly trajectory
Crawfish in my grandmother’s stream
The Battle of Moon Sound beaching infantry
A northern gannet nesting her babies
The decibels of smoldering wood beams
Flesh constructing hairs in the breeze
Molecules muddy as I try to breathe
Ghosts approaching the Andromeda galaxy
Stars floating to the top of the stream
I      N      F      I      N      I      T      Y

The day of your life
and the night of your day,
which one is more important
and relevant to you.
Both have their place in the
scheme of things.
The two worlds are busy
working and building,
constructing in conjunction
with the divine to create
a masterpiece of wonder.
It's really not in your place
to control any of them
but to work with both.
They move subtly to construct,
sometimes with aggression to
change and balance all things,
with or without you.
Actually you have no choice or
control in their decisions.
Man becomes helpless and
hopeless when they begin to
exact their power of supremacy.
You can only command nature
by obeying her principles.
Both are needful and are
blended together working
in synergy to bring to us
a desired end.
Man is placed on earth to enjoy,
but not to interrupt and interfere
with the divine.
A master plan is already within
the blueprint of the architectural
design for a magnificent
and excellent living.
Yield to it and have peace.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

writing things:
constructing entities
not objects, subjects
those entities interact
they act upon the reader
hey this is me, this is me in you
is there a me in you?
they ask
and they may say no
they may wonder and ponder
and we are so over structuralism, hence
they do not look at what you've written
or what you wanted to write
they look at the entity
and for a moment, the two converse
as far as semantics go,
you are irrelevant now
i am irrelevant now
curious things
constructing entities
not objects. very subjective subjects.
this is me, they say,
i am about love
i see everything through these lenses
i am these lenses
i am about pain
see through my lenses
read me enough times,
enough between the lines,
and you'll see the whole world
reflected, colored, distorted or true
but it is not my world
no no no
this is a conversation
you may even debate
you may even be hypnotized
there are no writers
here is the text
and there are you
talking
this is a very talkative text
i am a very talkative text
the reader may object
but i strongly believe what i believe
i am what i am
but for you, i am what you see in me
a terrible experimental poem
or a decent experimental poem
or a meta-brag from a talentless hipster
but, really, i wouldn't know
i' m here for the conversation

You go for more or settle for less
Run after them or go at your own pace
You can climb higher and higher
You can always get what you want
None should tell you that you can't
If you can proceed, you shouldn't retire
You can soar higher than the sky
You can poke your limits in the eye
Ahead lies a wonderful reward
Go for it, focus on moving forward
You can change your little story
By constructing yourself greater glory
Navigate the icy unchattered waters
You can go beyond the definate borders
Nothing about their words matters
You can disapprove your doubters
You can hit the spot, if you truly aim
You can change the rules of the game

you can ******* a man with accusations of insanity and destroy him instantly, or over a few years... but that only shows the collective approach is insane and, including the man in question the prefix added to the collective: self-destructive... it's no good implying a man faked a coherent use of language, when the western model attached paranoiac iconoclasm of certain pronoun and noun usage - one man had more coherence in language than a million reduced to Emoticons - but no one minded that affair - they simply accepted it - it was once making the populace literate then the unmaking of literacy with technological advances - as ever the lax aristocracy - we don't philosophise in western society, we simply imply logistics of psychology - a Chinese model for the eradication of the unit of indestructibility - a soul, but what happens in China is a success story, the number in question are too man, our experiment is a failure in this eradication of the unit of indestructibility is a failure, excess individuation processes with too few example of coherence and grey matter - the family model is primarily the one source we have no coherent grey matter populace - with its failure no person will strive to wear the mask of father, grandfather, uncle... there's no investment in society of a family, western hands said: freedom to clone, freedoms for L.G.B.T. communities to flourish - surrogacy prostitution... care homes and tattoos of ***** bed-wetting on the skin - individuation's aggressiveness and objectivity's passiveness reduced to a criticism of a book rather than a project of collective cohesion... Communism came across the greatest antisemitism known to man - capitalistic zenith of the holocaust - now slang in populist propaganda - V for Vendetta realism i approach - i don't think i want to go to a pub these days, whether with Scot, Irishman or Anglo - i don't think watching rats scuttle is much fun over a pint of beer... schizophrenia of the collective, from theorem and other additives you can see the reverse chirality - some way or another you become involved - globalisation did that, you want to be un-involved and yet you become involved - you want the village life but are forced into an abstract urbanity - you have the urban life but are discouraged from an abstract village-life although in deepest desire, you wish for it... the day when two speakers of the same tongue undermine each other's speech - by way of constructing the perfect Ypres' replicas of entrenching validations to stand opposite each other on the basis of argument per se, and so the argument comes... how then contend between masochism on one side and sadism on the other, when the former traps himself in a panic room and does it to himself, and the latter is kept repeating a knock-knock joke with no answer?*

England has become a place where
i don't want to socialise -
i wouldn't want to be in a pub
full of Irish or English -
i've become marginalised as a user
of the tongue - i'm a user
but hardly the attaché - the "where you from"
question is always asked, i'm here,
but where from seems to matter more -
it's not fun anymore - London is
slightly confused at it all,
they said the European Union experiment
is a failure akin to the Communist Plot -
but of course both were pre-readied failures,
the former was tackled by puppetry of the
American president, the latter by the Pope -
both were ****** - the populist assertion
of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar -
if history is hardly a hindsight, it certainly
is a way of sleepwalking -
the failure from places not formerly conquered -
the anger of north africa and the elsewhere
encompassing the Mediterranean -
invigorating a force of conquerors by the once conquered
by goose-pimple buttocks of the Romans not
heading north on the continent (islands are insulators
of the cold) - hence the once former conquered
trying to scold and try out their post-colonial
authority - white v. white won't work -
Scandinavians and the Baltic States weren't
ready for ***** Gaul or ***** Britannia setting
orders - the Roman didn't go that far -
the failure was imminent from a single dream -
history is nothing about hindsight -
the hindsight default is nothing but the wrong
of the waking hour for many a man,
to take a dream as a vector for forward only sent
as backward - never make history from the interpretation
of a resting body - from a dream -
to make history from a dream is to give more men
unrest in the waking hour - to make history from
dreams is to make history without hindsight
but with sleepwalking, and few men are given
the anti-psyche drugs for a sober approach,
they say: but i didn't drink... but their intoxication
came from dreams... a drunk man will stumble and fall,
but a man intoxicated by dreams will make more
horrors outside the realm of cinema than is already
there with an eager audience - indeed, a cinema with
an un-eager audience - residues of symbolism,
the quote: for king and country and such baffling e.g. plural.
Ukraine was almost ready to join... you could say
Russia and Britain pulled the project apart...
i just don't think you'll like this aggravated German
with the expulsion of Jews from Poland -
the Visegrad Group - partly because this is the undercurrent -
so when will the channel tunnel become a plot-line
for Guy Fawkes? it's already rearranging itself -
a new chapter - a new nothing - it never worked in
the first place because there was no respect for the diversity,
we shared a single phonetic encoding, sure, some of us
used diacritical stresses, one particular didn't -
but it was anti-representing the diversity, this was
supposed to be an European Union -
not the Post-Colonial-Pseudo-African Union -
the great colonial states ruined it, that's why the greatest
of them has left - the European Union should have
excluded Britain, France and the Iberian peninsula -
it was intended as the revival of the Holy Roman Empire,
but including post-colonial states invoked the realisation
of their colonial past, thereby necessitating an integration
of their past colonial subjects into Europe -
Britain left because they heard the news... Turkey is going
to join... well... never mind Rotherham, eh?

A polemic:
— noun
a controversial argument, as one against some opinion, doctrine, etc.; a person who argues in opposition to another; controversialist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


our principals have principles.
principles as long and as shallow as a
tv sound bite.

give me ten careful good persons who have the courage to say,
I am unsure.

men and women who can acknowledge that
doubt never changes never ends.

who do not lie with sweet surety
for the cameras to salve their self-knowledge of
prideful lies, yet ashamed of their piece prizes.

when you cannot pay back that student loan,
email them asking for the ten bucks back
you once sent them.

liking the sound of their voice filled
with hackney trite, and give us tripe,
not once but over and over again,
with greater ease of the groove,
then oops, a single apology,
now that they have taken away your choices.

doctors who do not plagiarize
with reckless abandon,
whose credentials are self-certified

mislead so ease.

Bill gets $700,000 to make a speech.
He charges only $500,000 for old friends.
Poor Hillary, she gets a trifling $200,000

Ask Maureen of the New York Times
tells the truth between the
news that is filtered then called
fit to print.

But when they say,
see me and believe,
then send
me ten bucks, once more into the breech,
go and register to vote instead.

we have sacrificed our ability of hard reflection
on an altar of mushy easy cheap construction,
accepting polemics as political philosophy.

we chose this.
we yearn for crumbs of certainty
in these uncertain times.

how we long for a man who can say
unhesitatingly:
let us try this
and if not perfect,
edit and change,
even start over again.

doubt never changes never ends.
seek out these men.
s  elect them.

Tell me something you know
with utter confidence that
men have constructed
that cannot be improved.

when I gaze upon the poems
of my early days,
see the typos
and the hackneyed,
I amend, even delete.

doubt never changes never ends.

outside the fortress walls
behind that you hide,
your enemies are
constructing new technologies
capable of going under over through
the old concrete
of yesterday's stale minds, worse,
molding the lazy ones.

Those who are certain
never confess that
their actions can have
evil consequences,
until you put them in the docket.

then they say,
I did not know.
they knew.

they say
I was only following orders of the
principals.

The worst is yet to come.
The tv is on and the soundbite lies
unceasing.

Those who get played,
are the ones who did not play,
but watched tv.

Can you feel the waves?
Can you feel the tide?
It’s about to all come crashing down
You’re about to drown

The stars can help guide you home
We’ll mark them two by two
Constructing a memorizing pattern
Like our synchronizing breaths

Bring down the sails
We’ll leave not a trail for the others
Moving forward
There will be no chance of fail

Colliding with the shore
We’ll be no more
A shipwreck of emotions
Spilling out of our open wounds

I’m losing control of what’s real to me
This pace is just to fast
Can we please slow down?
These jagged rocks are piercing through me

Black clouds lingering slightly above
Push comes to shove when you’re motionless on the ground
I’ve never felt so alive
But in this moment I sense peace at mind

Bring down the sails
We’ll leave not a trail for the others
Moving forward
They’re will be no chance of fail

Colliding with the shore
We’ll be no more
A shipwreck of emotions
Spilling out of our open wounds

We’re wrecked, we’re wrecked
Stay alive, stay alive

some would call it a profanity - from the islands of northern Europe i liked the Scots the most, in my first year at Edinburgh Scottish weather played a joke, i don't remember a single gloomy day - i do remember not sleeping one night, and trekking up Arthur's Seat to watch the sunrise, then climbing down, buying Kellogg's cornflakes and full-fat milk and eating them - that magic moment just between daytime fully sets in - it's so fresh, a reality proof, just before the mundane job applicants get up, you get a sense of what's truly taken for granted in society - it only lasts for a few minutes - before the commuters' nagging sets in, and everything fresh (awaiting the new dawn) becomes custard thick - sticky, sickly honey glue pungent... anyway... i'm making a grand profanity at the moment: tier 1 - whiskey and ice, tier oblivion - whiskey and coca cola... but what i'm drinking is like a virus immune to antibiotics, no amount of citrus barley caramel can mask the smoked salmon with a tinge of variously fruity accents can mask it... Glen Moray, single malt, an Elgin Classic - it is a profanity, i agree - i should drink whiskey like mulled wine - but i'm in a hurry for a mindset, and i'm not bothered that much about passing down aesthetics - my palette says otherwise. yeah, my love for Scotland came from climbing up a ladder in the English hierarchy at school - everyone wanted to be taught by Mr. Thomas Boonce - aged 15 went into B1 (or however they noted the selection process) - aged 16 on top of my game, A1 class - a blazing comet trail of ambition, shared the same desk with my enemy shoulder-to-shoulder, the one who promised me a south american plant would give me grand hallucinations, ****** the mother of my ******* son and wa-lah! elephant trunk pulled from a top hat playing jazz - that Jesus bit about loving your enemies? esp. if they're your childhood friends and are **** crazy? you don't love them, your heart turns to stone and it says skipping on lake: what a shame... so much potential in him wasted on jealousy, the way he trusted a woman that is now on some sort of psychiatric medication... i can't love enemies, what i can do is feel sorry for a waste of human potential... (knock on chest)... yep, this ol' ticker is solid stone... and sooner or later it will be added to a mountain i'm constructing in my mind.

thank god for rabbinical literature -
i could pour days over these pages - i literally open a book,
a compilation of entries -
why hasn't anyone noticed the genius of written Hebraic?
i know in the middle east is a wasp nest of harking and
memorable achoo - or quasi (~, literary denotation,
thereabouts, so so, kinda, well, approximate too,
hand gesture in that symbol, good-in-bad-bad-in-good) -
just now i was admiring the fact that Hebraic hides vowels -
truly, they hide them, ingenious buggers -
all the vowels in Hebraic are hidden -
in translation to Latin the Hebrews treat vowels
like post-Latin users of the original S.P.Q.R. alphabet
use diacritical marks - and newspaper Hebraic doesn't
include them in print, only: i suppose in poetry and
rabbinical writings are they exposed -
which stems largely from what is cordoned off -
or rather the fruits of the work of encapsulation -
Latin is slightly biased, no letter is truly encapsulated,
shut-off from another - aye, be, cee, dee, ee, ef, hay'tch (
a distinction), em, en, ***... zed (an exception), ex, you
get the idea - there are no nouns in the post-Latin
alphabet as such - which is why in science Greek letters
were used as constants - these consonant constants
encapsulated not only the phonetic content of a symbol,
but also allowed for an encapsulation of some higher
purpose - e.g. α (angular acceleration) -
β (sound intensity) - γ (gamma rays) - δ (heat in chemistry,
the perfect error, the Laplace operator, etc.) -
ε (set theory, the limit ordinal of the sequence -
    html disapproval to be written as: ω (tier squared ω,
    and one above the squared tier ω, ω root ω double root ω -
    variant alias of this? Hebraic notation of u .
                                                               ­                   .
                                                               ­                      .
     *shurek) - Θ (Debye notation) - θ (potential temp. in
thermal dynamics) - ι (orbital inclination in celestial mechanics) -
κ (curvature) - Λ (lattice) - λ (decay constant in radioactivity) -
μ (micron, SI prefix, one millionth) - ν (a neutrino) -
ξ (a random variable) - π (too obvious, πr squared) -
ρ (correlation coefficient in statistics) - Σ (summation operator) -
σ (area density) - τ (torque) - φ (the golden ratio, 1.618...) -
ψ (the cat in a box, wave function, quantum mechanics) -
ω (the infinite ordinal);
                                         it's precisely because the Greeks to
encapsulate their phonetic symbols that so much stability
was brought up - look how poverty stricken the Latin variations
are - these are not merely letters, they are actually nouns!
you can recite the whole Greek alphabet a bit like going
to a party and being introduced to people: Jim, Charlie,
George, Rosemarie... obviously there are exceptions for
this observation to be bullet-proof (i.e. μ, ν, ξ, π etc.)
but did the scientists mind not using them? no! they kept to
this interpretation that symbols of sound need to be encapsulated -
held together, stable, each symbol needs to be a balancing act -
an ~equal amount of consonants and vowels need to be
invoked when writing either a or α, b or β, g or γ -
there needs to be an invocation of names to these symbols -
not mere ah be c e ef gee... English for its laziness in omitting
diacritical marks did the unspeakable when digital paper came
about - it turned itself into a quasi encryption tongue,
acronym fuelled and in all honestly - self-conscious of its faults
yet basking in them! but the real genius in encoding signs truly
belongs to the Hebraic school...

you find them so coerced by naked pictures,
that their outer resembles no inner -
you find them bound to an idea that the inner can
somehow compensate - but it can't -
the outer as the inner reveals nothing,
no love, merely a **** - the winged-Hussars die
in Ukrainian fertile land, and with the music,
you can only think of the drudgery of walking
through knee-high mud - you can just picture
the Cossack moustaches wedged behind the ears
like earrings - i too would have eaten my tongue that way
had it been permitted - without permission
i spoke of a stake tartar and my tongue into one -
then the mantra came - kametz, tzeré, chirek, kametz,
tzeré, kametz, kametz, tzeré, tzeré, cholem, kametz, kametz,
- i will not be treated like some dumb farmer!
      your Yurt empire is fledgling into the sunset!
  and my heart is enshrined into a bitter toil! it will love
as it pleases! not with you saying what there's to love!
tzeré, shurek, kametz, kametz, tzeré, kametz, cholem, tzeré,
chirek, kametz. what a mantra!
a, e, i, a, e, a, a, e, e, o, a, a, e, u, a, a, e, a, o, e, i, a -
patterns strangre than in a poetic rhyming scheme -
respective incisions into still-life motives of movement -
i.e. if a vowel be my hand, a consonant be a chair i sit on:
kametz of aleph (א), tzeré of bet (ב), chirek of gimel (ג),
kametz of dalet (ד), tzeré of heh (ה), kametz of vav (ו).
kametz of zayin (ז), tzeré of chet (ח), tzeré of tet (ט),
cholem of yod (י), kametz of kaf (ק), kametz of lamed (ל),
tzeré of mem (מ), shurek of nun (נ), kametz of samekh (ס),
kametz of ayin (ע), tzeré of peh (פ), kametz of tzadi (צ),
cholem of kof (ק), tzeré of resh (ר), chirek of shin (ש)... and
finaly the kametz of tav (ת)* - we really like our matchstick
men, don't we? in terms of ancients tongues,
we like our curvatures in modern tongues of Greek
and Latin, don't we?
instilled the names of vowels! kametz (a
                                                 tzeré (e
            chirek (i
                                          cholem (o
                 shurek (u
                                                           pentagon thus far,
    revealed vowels with diacritic interpretation
           kametz, as soured: חָ - tau, vowel as diacritical mark
elsewhere -
                       tzeré - or umlaut below the letter - alternatively:
           וָ qàmetz                   וֵ tzeré
וִ ḥìreq                              וֹ ḥólem                   וּ shùreq
     (c, k, q - make it quick, à, 1st),
                (é - prolong it, to catch a breath, or the first
                      tetragrammaton H),
that's the genius of the encoding though... the omission of
vowels, or vowels as diacritical marks - one shurek (u .
                                                               ­                                   .
                            ­                                                                 ­        .)
among 10 kametz and 7 tzeré - gematria at its purest -
one shurek, 2 chireks and 2 cholems -
a form of encoding deviating from obscure onomatopoeia
and the void and meaninglessness, toward
a sound ushering a word for word, and actions parallel -
but this encapsulation of breath taken and
breath released, as in writing, the speaker does not
suddenly breathe again - but is kept within limit,
a consonant starting point, the zenith of breath or soul
and a return to one body, v A v (e.g.).
but imagines being able to avoid noun insertions -
then Hebrew is very much as modern English -
when modern English ought to utilise diacritical marks
on either vowel or consonant, it does not -
it doesn't have a single sound encoding worthy of a name -
there's no omega, there is only oh -
Hebrews treat their vowels as diacritical marks -
their language is one massive crossword -
how do they even read HBRC? who the hell taught them
when to insert the vowels from following the roots
as stated HBRC toward the tree that's HEBRAIC?
this is ******* bewildering - i don't know how they do it!
what's agonising is their notion that patterns in letters
having numerical values is somehow meaningful,
as if something horrid can be averted - to me 1 + 1 = 2
is enough - i don't need alef / αλεφ / αλεθ (א) + bet / βετ (ב) =
anything but gimel / γιμελ (ג) -
this is the ****-pile of having so many prophets in your society
and not enough philosophers - the Casandra Standard -
Greeks had the philosophers, the Hebrews had their
prophets, both in excess - in the end the cult of prophecy
in Hebraic society turned into a Casandra Standard
borrowed from Greek myth - while Greek philosophers...
i don't actually know what happened to them -
i think most of them became dentists after Aristotle suggested
women had fewer teeth than men.

or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah
this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.

I wish I may, I wish I  might. I wish to have this wish tonight.

I wish it could, I wish it would. I pray it so, to be true.

A wish is a wish. I wish you so.

Yet a fantasy the wish of the minds yearning heart.

Constructing dreams, some of touch. Affectionate passionate ecstasy.

A wish I wish this for me. So in a wishful fantasy I reach for thee.

Only for thee to pull a way, giving to another. This truth I found

My eyes awake, to see my place in reality.

A dream a fantasy's illusion. I wish I may I might have God take away my foolish heart tonight.

Keep me bold, keep me stern this heart a heart I wish would yearn never no more.

Keep it right, keep it real this love I have 'Dear Lovely' is pure. Yup, ever more my friend!

I watch the world from a mari-go-round twirling in circles twiddling my thumbs
Falling from the piercing thunders in the sky full of lust and deception
Silence was the enemy
My ADHD can't deny the boredom of the same old routine hindering my existence
Am I worthless?
The shallow waters awaken my dream of rainforests and other pleasant things
And reality is in the forecast with partly cloudy skies
If only it were night forever than I could be most anything
My imagination takes me further then any aircraft ever could
So I dare the challenge of the never-ending; if forever could bare the soul
I would be proof of history when I do conquer the world
Defeat is not an option
If superman existed, he would win and so can I and so can you
I do know dreams come true
There are Oscars and gold medals and soldiers overcoming death
There are angels and saints saving us from ourselves
There are wars and heroes and bad guys as well
The devil does exist but God sees them as angels who fell
I believe there is glory and freedom and peace
It mustn't just be in my head full of dreams
I will show you there is evidence if the good in the world
When your vulnerable and naive there is  more than meets the eye
There are things out there you are meant to triumph if you put your best foot first
And the circles in your creating will align and amount to you, in the perfect sense of harmony in a cold and grey and cynical universe
There is yellow, there is blue there is gold but we are red
But the colors you attract to are not affirmation
You are priceless, immeasurable and incomparable even so
A savage in the heat of battle, simmering to boil
You're a warrior with the rest of them, with a stunning biography
You are destined to create glory sublime in the phenomenon of impulse and heart
Constructing immaculate stories to fill the pages of a book
We are gifts from above,
This can't all be in my head

you can’t just assume that
i’m gonna swallow these words whole
without trying to digest them
well guess what?
i might have a tough stomach
but when you’re not looking, i turn my head
and i spit your words out
my silent rebellion
trying to tell you, without saying it out loud
that i don’t wanna take this anymore
these sour pills dissolve in my system
and i am left feeling *****
as if your assumptions are seeping into my veins
and becoming a part of me
and who you think i am
is not who i want to be
so as a result
i’ve got a pocket full of these heavy pills
sticky with resentment
as i discreetly pull them from my mouth
and dispose of the evidence, trying
not to tell you that this is not how my mind works
and i go home and write about it instead
hoping that one day you’ll type my name into space
and find my words, arranged in a shape
that desperately tries to explain
why i feel this way
because i could never say this out loud
i could never even print it down, concrete
and pass it forward
to all the people i’m speaking to, writing to
now
i can only hope that you’ll get there on your own
because i feel so weighed down
by these things you say, as you explain to me
that you understand, you get it now
and you present to me my feelings
in a small box, and i open it
and i want to tell you
that you are so, so wrong
you’ve coloured inside the lines
and locked me in
and each time you describe me
to somebody else
each time you warn them
of what you think are my weaknesses
each time you tell them
what makes me strong, what helps me live
you push me further into this corner
of self-doubt, wondering
is this really who i am?
is what you see what everyone thinks of me?
because i am more impressionable
than you imagine, strong in ways you think i can’t be
but weak in ways you’d never believe
and these words leave imprints upon my soul
sinking into my heart like sharp footprints
falling through the cracks of my mind
and now i am occupied
with them, with the idea
that maybe i’ve been wrong about myself
all along
maybe i don’t know who i am
and the rest of you
familiar strangers
are the ones who have painted me, turned me
from my upside-down cocoon
and planted me down into this frozen ground
and i know, the voice in the back of my mind
tells me, no, you know yourself
and they are only taking
the outside parts of you
and constructing a sham, a replica
somebody they think they can dissect
but the problem is
this voice is at its strongest
when everyone is asleep
when the words are done their creeping
and have settled like dust around me
at midnight, at one, at two
and all through the night
i can finally know myself
and point out the fact
that you’re wrong
and i don’t have to go along
with your assumptions, **** your judgement
**** your advice, i’m going at it alone
and my mistakes are my badges
my success is my shield
and i will deflect your forged knowledge
back onto you, force it before your eyes
so you can finally admit
that you do not know me
and you never will
and that’s fine, i just want you to know
that my feelings are mine
and your words are yours
find something else to give me
give me your hand, give me your heart
i don’t even care
but because of you
i stay up, late at night
fingers crossed that you’re thinking of me
enough to search for my name
and find this long rant
in poetry form
and realize
just how wrong you are
and this is not beautiful, this
broken piece of badly worded ****
but i am not beautiful either
this is me on the inside
and now you know, do you get it?
just how wrong you are
and i will not throw these words in your face
i will not wrap these lines around your neck
and i will not leave you with nothing
but a guilty weight
i’ll still be here when you’re awake
i just want the assumptions to stop
the picture i paint and show
is mine alone, not even the frame
is yours to choose
and i ask
can you just let me be
the person i want you to see?
these assumptions are bringing me down
but of course, i’ll always have my language
and i’ll do this, time and time again
release this frustration into rough poetry
and then begin my next day, after a night awake and dreaming
and let you continue
to pick me apart, never quite reaching
the centre, and yet i’ll take it anyways
because that’s what you expect me to do
and i will let you remain unsurprised
fingers crossed all the while
hands in my pockets, juggling those pills
this is me on the inside
but you don’t need to know that, do you?

You broke down the door to my heart
Came crashing in like a burglar
Coming to steal everything i had
Even what i offered
You left me abandoned
Nothing left in my heart
But broken glass
From the windows you shattered
Pieces that will never be replaced
You broke down the door to my heart
Left hanging by its hinges
Each string that held my heart in place
Now hangs like a puppet
Dancing as you pull the strings
Constructing the dance moves

I have a fascination with
all things love,
Daydreams constructing expectations
and a daily need for a thing which
I have yet to experience,
It's an obsession which has
evolved into a fear ~
Fear of a broken heart,
of a lonely life,
of distracted dreams.

~ Funny my ability to
overthink.

Blue walls and crystal clear tears
the blue boy picked up his pace in fear
through red and yellow and green
and all the colors he could never be

He sat at the corner on a bench up in the hill
and sobbed and screamed and sighed
wishing he could be
all the things that weren't him

"Oh Cosmos! So big and wild,
why did you make me
the world's most blue and lonely guy?"
he cried to the sky in this dark and empty night

Blue walls and crystal clear tears
his eyes flamed red for the first time in years
he started constructing crazy little schemes
this small blue boy and his big red dreams

"What's wrong with you?" he asked through a chuckle, and then it hit me. I knew exactly what was wrong with me. I was passionate about things, and never about people. I had loved people, but always platonically, or platonic and gilded with a crush or wrapped in lust that I always brushed off with innuendos and flippancy. I had never loved another person the way I loved twisting my brain around a calculus problem or constructing a flame chart. I had thought of people in a romantic sense more than I had evaluated people for science bowl, but lust and love had never consumed me as the issue of organizing practice and evaluation and cuts within the handspan of a month. I always fell in love with things, and never with people, and that's why already, not even 16 yet, I've reconciled myself to die alone.

Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I briefly look at the crucifixion of Christ - an event central to the core beliefs of Christianity. This poem was composed in February 2007, in anticipation of that year's celebration of Resurrection Sunday (Easter).

If I were relegated to a single television channel, it would be the "History Channel". It's amazing to witness the variety of programming on this one station; I love the many shows presented, especially "The Building of an Empire" series. Learning about the struggles of mankind, whether against people, weather or circumstance, is truly fascinating to me. Seeing ideas and concepts from the Egyptian and Roman empires really touch my spirit, having causally learned about them throughout "The Word" in various Bible pasages. To see the re-eanactments of cultures, coupled with their accomplishments and reasonings, creates "paradigm shifts" in my thinking and increases my ability to learn and retain new information.

At a young age, I taught myself to recognize lessons from others' experiences, which can be categorized as: good, bad or neutral. We all know that life can be hard; however, times during the Roman civilization was outright brutal. The Persians were the first group of people to practice crucifixion, a torture methodology improved upon by the Romans, after learning about it from the Carthaginians. Part of the Roman culture was the ideal of efficiency. Although they are notorious for their bloodsport, as witnessed by the cruelty displayed in the games of the Coliseum, the Romans were in the business of building an empire. However, in order to support their culture, they needed and wanted productive citizens. After all, productive citizens can be taxed and the money is then used for constructing the infrastructures required to support society (in general). So the Roman government used the cruelest method of torture available for one simple reason - to stop and prevent crime against its citizenry.

In the Word, we are instructed that the ways of Jehovah 'are higher than our ways'. With God's ability to transcend time and His wisdom surpassing the knowledge of our own revelations, we will always be behind Him in our understanding of this World. Meanwhile the preaching of The Cross is considered to be foolishness by those who reject the gift of Salvation. However, given the current explosion of earthly knowledge, it's interesting to look back at history with understanding recently achieved. [Please note: I'm not going into the gory details of crucifixion; others have provided more qualified details on this subject. Nor will I focus on who killed Him. So, it's "safe" to continue reading...]

One of the facts regarding the human body, is that we each (on average) contain eight pints of blood. The number eight has a spiritual significance, in that it represents the concept of "new beginnings", as first seen in Noah's ark. [Eight people were present - Noah, three sons and their four wives.] Also modern studies about crucifixion have shown that part of the stress the body endures is that the heart literally "breaks apart". So from my spiritual perspective, the death of Christ on the Cross is truly representative of a holy sacrifice, whereby the shedding of His innocent blood fully implies that a "new beginning" between God and Man has been initiated. In effect, Christ was the Earth's first blood donor when he was crucified - for He was wounded for the World's transgressions. His dying from a broken heart re-enforces the idea of God's continuing Love towards us, for Christ willingly and freely accepted His role to die on our behalf - in the worst possible way (known to mankind at that time). Concentrating on these concepts allowed me to create this effective poem, while I envisioned the irony of this one event (from heaven's perspective).

dress up in satin
or ermine and lace
paint your toenails
mask your face

I'd know you anywhere
under any disguise,
I know the way that
your body tells
lies to me
and yet
flies to me
for security

dress me in impressions of you
that's what you do
and I don't mind.

O, mosaic of my oft marveled at Mosie
You fade away as swift as the windstorm enters
Mosaic, I've built you up in my mind's cubbies
And you permeate through my brain's centers

Every experience boiled itself into me
Constructing a picture of you that I could see
Which I could consult when I reached difficulty
Or whose answer I could envision in monotony

O, Mosaic, you quickly go, as hurt intrudes
The pain pervades all points of space
It destroys you and ceaselessly protrudes

Gone are the days when I'd see your face and caress it
Gone are the prayers we'd hold up our relationship and bless it
And now gone is your magnificent mosaic
Even though it pains me just to say it

O, Healing, come faster than your predecessor
May you permeate the place we made and become its successor
And, God, can You be real and continue to bless her?

As your mosaic fades away
Dreams of tomorrow thus can't stay

As your mosaic breathes its last breath
Let us exhale that last sigh
The one we always talked about before our death

This time, drifting further and farther apart
This time, holding our aching and breaking hearts

Be kind & let your life be mine.
Now & forever in this time.
True love a commitment will bind.
Ask me out for a date.
I am not hungry I already ate.
Is it our destiny in our fate?
Finding you as my soul mate.
In a world so vast & great.
Is like finding the brightest star in the galaxy.
When you find them you can relax within thee.
I made my wish.
For my lips for you to kiss.
When I can't see you guess who I miss.
Please take my hand.
Be my man.
Use a magic wand.
Counting grains of sand.
Continents across the land.
Accomplish a miracle.
Witness what you recall.
The universe will give you all.

"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 into one people.
          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 children, my dogs and 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 while
          Away 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. Fax your results. We’ll be working late.

"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."

how abstract are the problems of whiteness?
socialist meeting
whiteness is socialism gone wrong
in itself
look it up
its secret agreements that are no secret anymore
the contracts of whiteness
modified
in America
whiteness is a conspiracy on humanity
whiteness is a conspiracy theory
to be white is to conspire
to deny that it itself is capitalism
socially constructing a world that cannot
reflect the fact that it is conspiring
against others
in every associated breath
conspiring and justifying by thinking others
are conspiring against it
it was the first agitator
the first conspiracy in America was whiteness
slavery would not be possible
if whiteness did not conspire
to ****
to teach killing
to educate conspiracy
to teach
how to call **** something else
enforce
a system to justify its theory
a system to justify it is a theory
but thats all it ever was
a bad theory
and while whiteness has been conspiring
the others have been human beings
trying to teach whiteness the way out
that is what understanding black history is
the black experience
is the way for whiteness to regain its humanity
to stop this dangerous conspiracy theory
that studies every other field of study
and society keeps begging
exposing where focus needs to be
stop conspiring whiteness
please
and stop calling it capitalism

Severing our heads slowly,
with a plastic knife.
It's kind of ironic,
we live a plastic life.

Nuclear radiant chicken,
from a microwave.
Radiation on the rise,
no one will be saved.

We have only,
selective memories,
which cause us to forget,
all we've done wrong,
and all the war we've caused,
and all the crimes we commit.

We are our own enemies,
constructing our final fall.
We are our own enemies,
crippling ourselves till we can't even crawl.

Centuries of work,
sent down the drain.
For those who **** for fun,
there is no pain.

Society crumbles,
under our own fist.
We are the lost,
awaiting our last kiss.

We have only,
selective memories,
which cause us to forget,
all we've done wrong,
and all the war we've caused,
and all the crimes we commit.

We are our own enemies,
constructing our final fall.
We are our own enemies,
crippling ourselves till we can't even crawl.

I am the thunder that shakes your world
The terror lusting in your eyes
Simple gesture of impending pleasures
Intamently scratching out your eyes
Your meanness puts me off
But attractions turns me on
I hate to say, I’d like you
If your cloths weren’t on
Constructing my own tower
To keep you far away
But my hips sway in just that way
And broad shoulders lean in closer
What a titillating game…
I promise not to play
To bad you’re such a jack ***
You only know how to grab ***
I’m a gental honest lover
With passion under covers
I bet you have never known
That silky golden tone
Of soft lips whispering
I love you
Too bad you’re such a jack ***