Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love

Aligned to unite
With others who lost their way
It’s a mess we perceived
To those in dismay
These lines create dreams 
For the broken
For the ones never spoken-
Of Love & Courage

Conjuring up notions of time
Structuring of desires preludes
To pursue what’s lost 
To preach and beseech truth
Faith denotes eternally
Surviving pain and deceit
What speaks only bleeds
To fabricate amity

Not fazed by power
But to denote greed
Greed of Love & Passion
Exhaling Hate & Deception
To succor the pillar of fate
To exist in this factual state

Your heart's a fragile thing. 
Everyone’s heart is. 
Don’t ever contaminate hatred
Contaminate love instead.

.i'm pretty sure that someone like Mozart, composed, in total silence, didn't hum out a tune, given that he had to micromanage symphony, or rather, the latter stage of polyphony - synchronization of all subsequent parts... whereby music was more optical in its genesis than people might like to believe... of course auditory in its exodus from the godhead, but... i'm pretty sure the composition process for classical music, would never amount to the sort of fun impromptu of jazz... must be a black privilege sort of, "thing" to have found jazz lying around...

how did the beatniks even believe that
a cross-generational mongrel of an art
form, fusing poetry with jazz could ever work?
robert pinsky still has the dream -
but it's a bit like:
      you think you can smoke marijuana
and listen to blues?
              not drink a drop of the devil liquor
and take blues seriously?
       just like sonny clark would have
said: 'if you don't shoot it,
     you don't smoke it'...
         given that... this is not stoner rock
type of wasp hive droning, humming,
heavily repeated rhythm...
              nothing wacky like
thievery corporation doing a live
rendition of the forgotten people
                                             live on KEXP...
what's that phrase?
    i feel monged -
   i.e. so ****** that you don't know
if it's a brain or a jelly,
         a stomach or krāng...
an 8th of an ounce could last me a week...
never mind...
   but how could they even suppose
that, somehow... jazz would dissolve
into acid jazz...
   that ****** variant you don't hear
in a jazz club...
   sure... the one up in Edinburgh was
jazz by name only...
       instead?
   one night i heard the cover
of neil young's song old man...
yeah... very ******* jazzy...
                what's next, a banjo quartet?
first jazz song i ever heard was
art blakey & the jazz messangers'
      opening track from the album
   of the same name - moanin'...
          SOLD...
           had to stash on some of the records...
but did i really want to speak over
the music?
             did i want to contaminate
the music and produce some ****** mash-up
akin to the beatnik experiment?
     *******... high on dope...
              never bothered to call jazz...
the black man's equivalent status of
what white man's classical music is...
     and where's jazz now?
joshua redman isn't exactly a lifejacket
when a boat with 20 is sinking...
jazz has been neglected...
    relegated as posh black boy music
heading off to Yale... wap... or wrap it up...
talk with a mouth but forget playing
the ******* horns, the sax...
              can't exactly see a revival...
   but would i really want to speak to this music?
feels a bit like talking over an opera...
made sense back then, makes little or no sense
now...
                    beside the point...
      there's still a heatwave in england...
every morning i wake up in a furnace -
    or as if attired in a metallurgy suit working
raw metals...
       and i always ask myself the question...
to rehydrate...
   would i rather eat half a watermelon,
or drink a big glass of water?
                         it's always the first.

The Night King Ego died...

The time, the place, the setting:

T'is some hour for sleep, prescribed,
For me, the reality of sleep, proscribed.

The strains of Bach's
Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D Major
Haunt.
Richard II's words
Give pause, precision refinement of my cause courant.

“No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the ***** of the earth”

Two am in New York, sleep,
As advertised,
Literally, a passing acquaintance,
Doesn't make it to
The side of the bed occupied by
100% of me.
Seems he went
From chimney to chimney
This past Sunday morn.
Not having a chimney,
He flue right over me.

No matter.
Company aplenty,
Ego and moi,
We, had a long talkie.
A bit of a wrestle, a staring contest
In a mirror, we watched ourselves,
In the pitch black
where clarity is perfect,
For nothing else exists,
But ego and me,
To distract us.

“I'll read enough
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
Give me that glass and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds?
O flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity
Thou dost beguile me!”

Called my lawyer just now,
ordered her to commence
the divorce papers, serve them ASAP,
I need to rid myself of
My oldest nemesis, my oldest friend,
Mine vanity, my ego.

Let me explain
myself to myself.
You may tag along for the ride.

Writing is more important
than any of the individual
Five senses
That feed this addiction.
Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste,
I can live quite well,
Thankee.

But ****** boy mind needs to write
Simple survival.
No write, no life.

But ****** bad boy ego is a curse,
A contaminate of each and every
Line, stanza,word and verse.

"Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin”

At first, for an audience of three
I performed,
Me, myself and I.

But the suckiness creepeth in,
and etches my distorted face,
Salutations and gradations,
demanding confirmation
Of Shakespearen magnification.

Do you like me?
Do you love me?
****** all.

Curse ye King Ego and your vainglorious occupations,
Divorce me, from the sad isle of
Self
Self worth,
Pride, vanity insurance,
The most deadly of the seven
Deadly sins.

Ego desperate in kind responds:

"I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?”

Slime and slippery, want is what you feel,
Taste grief, need friends,
Sly devil, you twist thy cunning tongue,
The reverse, your plain meaning!
You need nothing but subjects,
In earnest and forever praise,
Absent them, you mood and whine,
A pretender, a poseur, a drug addict cursed!

Let us purpose to dispose of thy spirit earthly,
Slow starvation too good for you,
Poison, arrows, the hilt of my blade,
The neck, thine bowel,
Let me embrace,
Prefer your steel hot or cold?

If we both must expire, then it be so, for
My honor taken, my life forsaken,
My poetry in disrepute,
Until that day when I write for me alone,
And ally my scripts, in coffin, with me interred.

"My dear, dear Lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away
Men are but gilded loan or painted clay...
Mine honor is my life; both grow in one;
Take honor from me, and my life is done."

Yea, I'll bet yr thrilled to see, me yo read me


Cool

Ya read peas? Maybe a spool.

Wow. That's callee da burn grab the allo





I pop right b aka up on the trending poems , player and hat ears see me and go noooo,,,,





But I fight back, I don't retract my neighbor my neighbor I


Eat his cat rack jv,. Owe

Tipping point reached, one final breath
Let the waves of inertia crash, contaminate

....

Alone in complexity, machinery, and everything
Perfectly formed human being
Slowly turning sour by the minute

Stale air, only growing in its bitter taste as
Seconds that feel like hours, add to feel like years
All the plans i made
All the plans i planned to make
Gone, but not forgotten

But then they were gone
Truer statement never read then
What i read on the back of the final bit found
Within my reach
Filtered through a layer of sediment
settled over my vision
Sanitized as life had been

But my shelter having been breached
To seep much longer...

Too accustomed, but it doesn't help

Found lacking in the company I had hoped to keep

A poor atonement, sinking further

Or, it kept rising

I was nearly covered.

.....

They stepped a little closer
And left appalled by what they found
Rotting in the dark, silently

Defensive at the outset, shaking at the sound
Sounding incomplete

Face down this
Eventual ending
For me

Didn't it sound a lot like something
He said a long time ago?
Now it makes sense
Dripping from honey lips

I lowered the box into the ground
Empty but only I knew as much
Nothing to see, nothing to touch
My own heart was buried deeper down

Looking up I saw you shed a tear
For all I was laying to rest
Was to you a memory blessed
A short respite, the re-emergence of fear

Or maybe I had it wrong
You could have known all along
I could have been the one deceived
Or maybe I only thought you believed

Step back
She sings the Mantra
Let her finish
Before we continue

Hare Krishna ¥ Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna ¥ Rama Rama
Hare Rama ¥ Hare Rama
Rama Rama ¥ Krishna Krishna

I could tell you reasons for what I've done
Before the passion flamed
I dreamed her naked, unashamed
Innocent as the day was young

I thought it was love that drove me on
Even when the snake bared it's fangs
Injected it's venom of change
Convinced my compassion was strong

Now I know that it can't be forgiven
The arrows pierce you from behind
Weaker still your weakened mind
And contaminate your imagination

Stole a page from God's playbook
I'm sorry, my old friend, that you fell
But I have ****** myself to hell
Just one page was all it took

this end is for me even more than it is for you
the fog in the forest is still sickly thick
and you can't see the forest for the trees
I dragged it out for too long
but I know your ignorance is blissful and I don't blame you
I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes

It was my own guilt that stopped me cold
Made me think twice of what I'd done
I know you'd just soon it go on and on
(And on and on)
But seeing you so often demeaned is getting so very old

•••••••••••••

Cry when you hear the song
Crying is often the best thing to do
Break down for an hour, in the back of your mind
Know it gets better when the grieving is through
Don't take anything she said for granted
She felt she had good advice
But you gotta let it work
Learn how to pray
Build a fortress around your mind
Evict the rogue voices

"This is rebirth
The hardest word
Held under water
This is death
I'm out of breath
Held under water"
           - Dustin Carpenter
            "Held Under Water"
             (big sleep., 1988)

The road marched on,
beside a beach it ran.
Hailing the sea and heeding its groan.
Walking along, I came into view.
Welcoming the sea with a smirk.
The rising sun gently pushed down the red's blue.
Blessing the world with a yellow tint it lit up the view.
Much closer than the sun, another glimmer grew.
Down on the beach and off the road was where my feet then flew.
Getting closer, slowly I advanced through the sand.
Still it glimmered, though its glimmer was but a con.
A bottle lay ahead of me, flirting playfully with the sea, as he caressed her gently with his waves.
She beckoned to my curious hands.
"Come forth and grab me like I was yours."
A cork and a paper were in the bottle.
You've already been used, filled and plugged; you come with a catch. I am to receive a message!
Hastily I scratched the cork off as my fingers took it out.
Now for the message, unrolling, my eyes caught sight of the first lines..

[I write to you from the shores of pessimism:
These shores are dark and dreary.
The waves here are slow and drowsy
The water is turbid and murky
Enthusiasm is a scarcity
and optimism was long ago banished from the land.
Pessimism and depression reign supreme and none can avoid their grip.
These shores have been the end of many a happy soul's journey.
This is where they all came to know the meaning of surrender.
And the satisfaction of despair.
All flames were put out and all their torches were thrown into the waters.
You won't be needing them anymore, they were told.
The reason for that is quite obvious, torches bring light and light mediates hope.
In a place where all hope must be extinguished and remain so.
No, your torches won't be needed here.
Here is where you wallow, in darkness and despair.
Where you sit is where you sink
Slowly the sands will drag you under.
After entering, the caretakers tie one's right ankle to a rock.
The pitiful lump of obsidian shall be your home. The caretakers stand you beside your rock and explain the rules to you.
"The rope is not forged of metal, thread or leather.
Its length is not fixed but it never breaks. If ever you tug on it, back on your rock is where it'll take you. Affixed to your rock it remains. On these shores only a pair of absolutes are recognized.. Darkness and negativity.
All else are subject to fate's scrutiny.
You came to us of your own will. and by coming here you shall realize your destiny.
If one exists for a soul such as yours.
If you wish not to sink in the sand, then stay on your rock or go for a swim.
Here you will remain, on these shores, this place shall be your prison and your safety net.
Departure is not an option until your destiny is realized, but we can't guarantee such an occurrence."
Having finished with the mandatory formalities, they take their leave of you and return to their posts.

On my first day, I noted that curiosity has very little power over the minds of the shore's inhabitants.
That no inhabitant may use another's rock without permission.
That the rope expands limitlessly and that moving lightly helps prevent sinking in the accursed sands.
Allowing me to roam far and wide, yet ensuring that I will always be roaming, belonging only in these shores, on my rock, amongst my shadowy brethren.
These shores have no real boundaries... An inhabitant may choose to stay and ponder or wander off and roam the land.
There are no secrets here.
All knowledge is readily provided by the caretakers, who say that very few ever choose to stay and ever fewer choose to combine the two.
Though time and time again they are dragged back to the rocks after having tugged on their ropes, they always choose to resume their roaming.
Expectations have no place here.
Ambition was long ago thrown off the pier.
Crucified and drowned in Poseidon's terrible dear.
The caretakers offered to read me tales from the shores' diary. They found my patience and lack of affect fitting.
On these shores I remained, listening to their tales for a time, sitting on my obsidian chair for a time, gliding on the sands and at times surrendering to their grip.
To all my fellow inhabitants I spoke in whispers and respect I paid in full to all the rules of the shores.
Then it was time to wander the land.
As I departed, knowing that I would return, I felt like crawling back into the pits of my soul but I also felt the shores' hold over my humanity fading, fading down to the feel of the rope's fabric around my ankle. A constant reminder that only I can see.
A constant reminder of where I belong, of the dreariness of my home and the darkness that always lies in wait for my return.

After leaving the shores, I wandered around the northern lowlands for sometime. Of course in such a state of mind time has no meaning for the wanderer. As time's passing loses its significance when all events are perceived as irrelevant and utterly meaningless. Thus I wandered the land, moving from village to town and from forest to desert. My journey was interrupted time and time again by the rope's influence, for sometimes I would grow weary of my surroundings and choose to retreat to my rock, there the darkness and despair provide safety. Observing then became the only promising investment of my attention, and throughout my roaming I would observe my surroundings, be they humans, critters, rocks or even machines. I resolved that empirical knowledge and logical analysis were the only relevant fields of reasoning.
In retrospect, I believe these were the only perspectives my dulled affect and cold impartial existence allowed at the time, but they were fields nonetheless, new areas that interested me, progress from the aimlessness. For now, I could say "I am here to observe. I do not belong, but that doesn't matter."
The times I spent back at the shores were getting progressively intense, though the emptiness soothed my longing, it seemed the more I saw, the deeper I would sink in the shores' sands before my rope would pull me back.
It seemed the more I observed and learned, the darker my rock became. It seems knowledge has its weight on these shores.
This isn't the time for simplification. The only way out of this rut is analysis, complexities and deduction. The way of the mind, for the sake of truth and meaning. If objectivity ever meant anything to you, you would not simplify, you would indulge in your eccentricities and gorge on analytical absurdity. Feed your hunger for details and complications.
Now the shores are far behind and I've gotten the hang of this accursed rope. I won't be dragged back there anytime soon. I may now keep record of whatever I wish.
This is but a mere transcript of my quest, my voyage, my journey, my pursuit of transcendence and my search for enlightenment, for enlightenment is my holy grail. My residence at the shores of pessimism mustn't last too long, for my light can lie dormant for only so long.
The stronger my thirst grows out here, the darker my lump of obsidian gets and the heavier my feet become on the shores sands. What's really curious though is how calm the sea has been since I started my journeys.

Silence now, enough has been said, recounting the details eventually becomes a bore rather than a bonus.
It is now time for the message to be sealed and sent off on its questionable journey, to a surely unexpecting reader. I wonder if it even holds any real meaning. Let this not be warning, but a minor eye opener. May it open someone's eyes to depression's grip on us.]

And it was there that the message ended. I raised my eyes from that piece of paper and looked to the sea, a storm was brewing on the horizon.

----------------

What the F. is this anyway?
Is it a test ?
a game ?
an empty picture frame ?
Curious since birth. Now drowning in knowledge of birth...
What's next ?
Why do I always have to wait and see ?
Whatever happened to flying free ?
Why can't I just flee ?
Forged of the earth and baked in the fire of God's oven.
Infused with God's divine breath.
If I've learned anything from my time on this pitiful lump of water and rock, it is that there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, there is no justice. Humanity's behavior will always be chaotic and unintelligible.
If there is a God, then that God has chosen to be a spectator. For this day and age, God has chosen to let the world sort itself out for a change. There shall be no more miracles, only human deeds and natural disasters.

Back again to where it all started.
What do I do now ? Focus!
Find myself ? Know myself ? Control myself ?
What good would that do ?
Who do you think I am ?
Do you think what I want is really relevant ?
Do you think you would like what I want ?
Born beautiful ? Good hearted ?
Not all are born beautiful and not all are good hearted.
Not everybody has an adequately functioning mind.
What's an adequately functioning mind anyway ?
If I've learned anything from medicine, it is that the study of human life holds the key to all our relevant questions. It is that details always matter. It is that in the real world, the only thing that truly matters is to be right.

We are born beautiful, untainted and simple. Though helpless and in desperate need of our supporters, it is actually these very providers who shape us. They complicate us and teach us their ways, they contaminate our minds with their view of reality, whether knowingly or ignorantly, they lead us astray from the simple truth, just like they were led astray.
And that's not to say that parents are evil or anything of that sort.
If that's what my words meant to you, then you're an idiot who shouldn't be reading this in the first place, so get the **** out!

We tend to think of being lost as a bad thing, reasons have become a necessity for our kind and rational explanations have become our psyche's sole sustenance.
We as a species have proved our relentlessness, our strong-headedness, our ignorance and our stupidity.
Humanity is *******. Collectively, we would be regarded as the galaxy's idiot child. The down's syndrome stricken kid our galaxy had after several failed attempts when she got over 45.
So what the **** is this ?
The lay of the land ?
What's the reason for this verbal bombardment ?
Are these knowledge bombs ? Are they supposed to be words of wisdom ? Can any of the above be put to any use ?
Hah! I believe not, and I apologize if that's what I've led you to believe.
I don't think I'm special, no more than you are. I don't believe I know much.
And I sure as hell am not here to tell you how to live your life or to provide you with a lot of answers that you may or may not have been seeking.

I have but one small request however. I request an apology, I want an apology from our parents. I believe we all do, they brought us into this world against our will. Then lied to us about how terrible the world and the people in it are. Named us good people and gave us hope. Then planted ambition in our scalps and fertilized it with warmth and faith in our promise, while they played the game and knew the real deal.
If there is a grand scheme, then we are not part of it. If there is a plan, then we're simply going along for the ride, our deeds only affect us and we can never change the ride's course.
We were never part of the plan.
If enlightenment is what you seek, then the only hope for the success of such a quest is for us to know and accept our weakness, our irrelevance.
I like working my noodle
My hands love to doodle
and every question I google
As much as the next poodle.

He was the child with the magnifying glass that lingered
in the exhalation of the heavens. Always holding it on
those of weaker statue than himself. Insects were his
starting point, as they were barbecued under the influence
of what was focused between light and glass and what
lived became inanimate just a blackened smear that he
smothered words into the dirt
        
                           I'LL BURN THE WORLD,

His parents saw this and in jest laughed it off as the
Immaturity of a child's frustration. That all was but a
a boy finding his place within the many echoes of manhood.
A child was maturing, and they assumed that he was not
ready for the collision of what was in-between the moments
of childhood and adulthood.

One cold and sodden night where the only things that were dry.
Were submerged in the cover of roofs and foliage.
But even the penetrating raindrops gathered in haste to soak
the earth beneath the leaves protection. All drowned within
nights flourish of immersed air. Where it felt that breath was only
in-between the flurry of h20's deluge.

Within the house, within the rooms crept a silence.
            It wasn't alone, for it wept unseen streams between the  
crisp white borderlines,  were doused in clear liquids,
Draping the curtains in non received  heavy remorse,
the only things that were burdensome were the drapes as the weight of the liquid pulled at the seams holding them aloft.

Remorse was neither felt or given. just a feeling of accomplishment.  
Felt it in the moments that succeeded between this
gathering of dead lights as a flame was lit.
But not a whisper was echoed this flame was lifeless
in the eyes of its beneficiary.
But it lept upon the walls like a ballerina, gentle,
and dancing within the confides of its given dance.

He stood in the hallway the flashback was unexpected,
but he still stood there gazing and the beauty of something
given with such frailty that a breath could extinguish
its potential. His parents had no idea, they were slumbering
within the confines of blankets that entombed the warmth.
Clasping hand even in sleep love was a subconscious yearning.
The thing with these old houses some had decretive metal over
the wind bars in beauty crafted to keep things out.


But this was his plan, what cant get in cant get out.
He'd gone in there room and stole the key.
He took a last glance, and said,
             "I Love You
,Before sealing them within. The flames were silent like
a stalker watching waiting, till the inevitable conclusion.

As things started to burn more passionately, caressing every
thing it was touching. So the smoke started to thicken like
A heavy smog it got into places the fire had not reached.
Moans could be heard, then screams at the realisation of
what was happening. He Could hear them, he could see them.
For even though a teenager he was intuitively cunning,
tinkering with everything and anything.

And small cameras were dotted around the house,
looking listening to everything that was seen and spoken.
It had come to fruition due to one such thing he had heard
being discussed by his parents.

"I saw him in the woods,

                 "Doing what darling?

"He didn't see me but the neighbours cat,
                                  "you know soot,

"What did he do, nothing bad!

                "He tied it up,
"Then threw what I thought was water on it,
                  I thought it was nasty but then!!!  

"Then what, your scaring me,

"He lit a cigarette, I didn't even know he smoked,
  "Then he discarded the match,

       "The cat, oh my god the cat,

"But he recorded its screams, he recorded it dying,

"I couldn't move I was so angry, so humiliated,
        "I wanted to throttle him there and then,

"But ill phone the police tomorrow,
                  "He's not right, who would do that,

How dare they think that I can just be fobbed off,
         discarded.

                                             I was making music,
the screams were a delicate symphony,
            acoustics that's couldn't be reproduced.
It had to be from the source.

That laid, the plans for what now enveloped that house,
recording every noise, every scream. But what he needed
was for them to burn, to release the music he needed to
hear to complete his work. And they like parents gave it
there all, he had goose bumps as he heard there terror.
his eyes welled up, not in regret but the beauty that his
parent last words were given to him, so personal was this
moment that he'd never forget it.
                                                        
                                                                ­          "Thank Mum & Dad,

After this he released a mix tape, that could be only
conceived from an artist, in the womb of excellence.
That's the reviews he had, it brought shudders to your
heart and mind. It was if your humanity was crying out to it.

As so forth and more were sewn in the adulation of his work.

Now he needed to make more music, but he needed more
screams to make his next piece two were not enough..

So he wandered the night, dressed in unclean wear
so not to be confused with who, or what he was..
He hung around the homeless parts of town,
plastic sheeting for roofs.. and combustible bedding.
It was as if he'd planned himself. but he had to be smart.
for this was if ill planned he would have a needle in his
arm within the year. But he took his time tiny cameras
recording visually and sound.

He had gathered the combustible elements needed to
make this a orchestra of his needing, not a duet like before.
He didn't down play his past offering, but this would make
an album of despair and monument to the flame.

It had been raining, but only lightly as he needed some
dampness in the air on there sheets cardboard mattresses.
So not to raise suspicion on the dampness of there homes.

As they moved away from the embers of barrel fires,
yes he'd thought about that. Not every home was a
crematorium a cardboard and plastic coffin of there
choosing. He waited clasping his hands together breathing
on them as it was cold night. He liked to watch, a voguer
of sort, but his wasn't the fantasy of death it was to hear the
music that was about to be sung with smoke filled lungs.

He'd set up a unique but rudimentary way to light the fire,
a small gas hob with liquid within. it needed to be a certain
temperature ignite, he had tried it before in a field out west.
Deserted he'd made a mock up of this humble place.
And he wasn't mistaken it was fascinating, the flame spread
like the wind enveloping everything but, it was a dull for even
though the flames wept of everything, its tears turning all to
ash..

It was silent, deafening, he cried for a while, there should never
be censorship of the flame, for what is a log fire without the cracking of its inner self being consumed. This was just smoke
and regret. But he now looked down at the camp, his watch
counting down the precious moments.
                                                             He whispered.
                                              

                                                  "Thankyou,
­
And then like a super nova the darkness was ingulfed in
the aurora of flame, gliding over the ground as if a stream
of conscious reckoning. Those near by the civilians that were
                        across the street were transfixed.
As screams embellished the flames, this was my orchestra
of light and noise. Those across the street were either screaming
or videoing the scene.
I looked at them and wondered where there humanity
had gone to, as to film this moment rather than to rush in
and save the few that they could.

I watched as the engines came, extinguishing my masterpiece
choosing the night was always preferable to the day as flames
dance better when there is less light to contaminate there beauty.

My music, I had become quite the remixer, of vocal and rhythmic
sounds.
                               Within a week I had mad nine new songs.

I named them each as deserved, making them in memory of
those who perished that dreadful night.
            It was well received, a few thought it was a haunting
melody of humanity's struggle, while a few thought it was
over ambitious, and lacked the passion of my first piece.

All together it went down well, and the adulation of the
flame was kept, to honour that which gives as much as
takes the breath of life away.
A year had past and the door rang, it was an officer.

                 "Could you come to the station please,

Had I become the victim of my own success, had someone
broke down the acoustics of my music and realised what
they were?? So many thoughts went through the calm
exterior of my persona. But inside the flame dimmed,
had I lit the last candle. I was taken in to a room,
and questioned evasive not to the point but gathering
speed to the answer, where were you on the
                                                             ­       30th April 2019.

Alabi's were a fantastic thing to plan ahead, I had laced
my date with sleeping tablets to leave her in perpetual
slumber. And got back before she awoke, we made love
we were the flame and the wick.. and our sweat was the wax dripping from our form. The next week I dumped her.

They asked if I recognised a picture, blurry and ill framed
but I could make out the figure was me. No sir I don't why.
This person of interest is wearing your jacket, your logo!
I smiled and was truthful to a degree.
                                                             Planning is everything.

I threw maybe fifty into the crowd when I did a concert
in the city, when we drove past some homeless persons.
We donated what was left to them, do you realise how
cold these streets are, who am I to steal warmth away.
I don't wear my own merchandise what do you think I
am egotistical, no I wanted to help those who I could
have been if not for my music. I lost my parents I know
what its like to be alone.

I think the show went well, as I was released before
reporters even got a sniff. But I knew that my time
was a wick trying to keep the flame lit but dying out
anyway. I had made preparations for this time.

I had brought a club only for gigs, cheesy as hell but
had that 80's disco vibe the entire floor was light up.
But I had brought  the ingredients for thermite,
amazing what you learn in school and the internet.
But I never used mine different libraries in different
cities so not raise suspicion. I  invited the music critics
and others which I had personally disproved of.
its was going to be free drinks and themed 80's night.

Who can not want free drinks, well I wasn't going to be
disappointed 90% came, how lucky the few.
Phones were confiscated, no video, but more
importantly no phone calls to the outside world.
I told them at the end of the night that I was realising
a new song, they were like vultures to flesh.
As the night progressed some wanted to leave,
but we offered them the VIP section also lit flooring.

Now was the time, I had put heating elements under the floor
to ignite the thermite. A supernova of heat even though brief
would ignite the choir of harmony needed. I asked them,
                                                           ­ "Are you ready,

And then silence, I put on my welding glasses,
                                                        ­         I wasn't stupid.
Never look into the heart of the flame unless you want
to be blinded by its beauty.
I pressed a button and it was magnificent, it was like a tide of sunlight, they tried to scramble but all exits were locked.
It was like the wizard of Oz, and the witch I'm meltinggggg..
But this wasn't a fairy tale.. The adulation I had for these
chosen few. What excitement the others had missed.

I'd made my booth flame and smoke proof, I had my own
walkway but I knew that this was the last time I could pay
homage to the flame. As the screams died down.
The wicks smouldered and the floor looked more like a battle
field of  WWII. I began I knew I didn't have a lot of time.
But this was just a single I'd already got the backing music
ready. And as I worked away, I could hear the banging on
the reinforced doors. They gave me a breather to get my
work fulfilled.

I heard the doors start to give way but no matter
I'd only needed this time to tweak the music.
Given I'd started this over an hour ago, it was good
on my part for this not to be broadcast till I saw fit.
As the police burst through, gazing at the flaming
effigies that lied before them, some threw up, gross..

While others saw me smiling I pressed the button and
my new song was word wide.. its was called the critics
tried to burn me down. The response was gratifying.
Likes reached the hundreds of thousands in mere minutes.
Well it was only three minutes twenty five seconds long.
As they shoot at the booth I wiggled my finger at them.
I do like to plan ahead but dam was that loud against the
glass. Got to be said some had wicked aim, made me flinch
a few times.

But alas all things come to an end, I uploaded my videos
of what I had done. I was proud of my contribution to
my legacy and empowering others with my music.
As I looked down at the puddle, I tap danced in it for
a moment and then lit the lighter, I looked a them
and once again waved, I was like a funeral pyre.
A crematorium of silence and then I was gone.
                                                I didn't scream,
I was in her embrace and had done her proud.

I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think  and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And  it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into  more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******* to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic !  You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.

I wish to share with you
The patterns of destructive thoughts—
The ones that consume my mind
And contaminate my soul

I’d hoped it was time
FINALLY
I so badly need them to be free

I refrain
And keep them locked away
Trapped within the walls
I have so carefully built

And unfortunately
They shall remain put—
For you are not
Who I thought you were

The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a  can of raineer beer (if he really  goes there) ill never ask him.
             This is how lastcall always takes place:  a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager.  ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers.  He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.  
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach.  Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home.  Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies  ( a red head)
He charges like arhino.  Hes a animal without areason to ****.  But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening.  Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our ******* stories.  We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.

He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair.  Every one of his is angry patrons drink until the switch flickers the message ( crawl home bfore the cops fish with dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot. (Searching for fake DW'S)  each of themshine a britemaglite until the last car disapears still swerving like a skunk ptetending to hide in the storm gutters.

Get out of my heart
Get out of my head
You're not what you thought you were once
And even then you weren't that
Beauty is within
And without
And you're rotting
Rotting from your exterior to
Your core
You are a rotten apple, not a bad seed
Do you know how much sewage water it takes
To contaminate a glass of drinking water?
A drop
You're a gallon, baby
A gallon of sewage
Tons of nasty
Packed into eight ounces
Of Falsehood
So keep faking
Maybe someday, you'll find soemone else
Some other idiot who, like you, has no respect
For themselves
Or others
Or society
Or humanity
Or progress
So keep up your act
Act well your role
For you are our ***** STD
The thing we never want to hear about
But that reminds us of how much
We want better for ourselves

This writing was found in Italian among
my father's papers, when he passed away
___________
*Dedicated to F. Murray Abraham, whose
performance as Shylock, rent open my chest.
and with deep apologies to Shakespeare*
and gifted to Liz Balise
__________

The True Tale of Shylock's Pound
(Did Shylock pay his pound of flesh?)

A peculiar circumcision,
into the Jew's chest
shall now be commenced,
by the Medico Legale of Venizia,,
his instruments blessed, ready.

Dual purposed, to extract  
an accursed payment,
in service to the Court and
in furtherance to man's
greater scientific knowledge.

Incise a body prone before him,
but it's not a body at rest,
the cut, the trademark coroner's
inquiring and most appropriate Y,
(his pleas to Yehovah go unanswered)
shall be executed just so,
both as legal tender,
his debt to pay,
and to answer queries varied,
shall we,
this living body, dismember
while coincidental, alive.

Tho we injure with pleasure,
t'is recorded fair,
t'is at the behest of a
court-ordered scientific inquiry,
ordered to measure,
answer questions
from the trial's record
that having been posed
to the Duke,  
and for answers,
impatiently,
the Court and Duke,
now awaits:

By the unholy virtue of his
guile and trickery,
a trifling pound
shall be ours,
for the Jew's resource,
and fortune
have been most
legally reversed.

His due, most legitimate,
more than forfeit,
is now ours to keep.

Hath a Jew hands,
organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions?

If you ***** the Jew,
doth it bleed?

How much doth a Jew's
pound of flesh weigh?

Doth it weigh more or less
when his unholy soul
yet contaminate
his writhing body?

What color doth his heart,
exposed, reveal
or simpler yet,
does the accursed,
this dog's vessel,
even a heart contain?

What powers the Jew's cunning,
inspires his deceptions,
so he prospers despite  our
many constant degradations?

Come wise councillors of
most notable lineage,
let's us put our heads together,
like the olden Egyptian sorcerers
who tried yet failed.

Have at it skilled Da Vinci, you
and your scienziato brethren,
do assay well the potions
that doth taint the Jew's blood,
so that we may,
his secrets maketh,
our own notions.

Come Medicos,
discover how the Jew
maketh precious stones
from coals, spit and hate,
for the bene proviso of the
citizens of our city-state,
dearest Venice!

Our brothers who from
Spain and Portugal hail,
have much knowledge
in these matters,
so let make haste,
cut deep and true, Doctors
the Jew physic treasures discover,
lest the Spanish Alchemistos
the secrets earn,
their inquisitories reveal
how Jews turn
dross into ducats!

Take measurements fine,
observe most accurate
his corde vocali,
the infernal instrument
projecting these shrieks, cries,
so horrible peculiar,
we need to ascertain
the wherefore of such
wails and moans.

All knoweth,
Jew cries are lies,
yet they haunt and crucify
our most perfect, noble demeanor,
**** them.

Attention pay, dear ones,
examine with great care,
the tongue that populates
his now most deformed features.

Its secrets many,
for it speaks guile
so fluently and elegante,
and in so many lingua,
a skill, our brothers Borgia
hold exceedingly valuable!

Our introspection today
in Heaven's service performed,
this pound,
its value exceedth
its countermeasure in
gold and jewels

When has Justice
and science
simultaneous,
been served so well?

Only one quest remains
unknown and alas,  
as yet unresolvable:

**What maketh a Jew,
this Jew, all Jews,
choose death
over our warm and willing embrace?

The pulpit is a lonely place,
at a height just below
the nosebleed level.
It's very similar to the bench,
where white-wigged
robed-people
hand out sentences
to the so-called vermin.

I love them,
the stereo-typed
lowlifes of the world
who struggle with conformity,
who know about scraped knees
& broken hearts,
who are forever tainted,
scribbling.

You see, a life
sheltered by power
is way too antiseptic
for a lowly person like me.
I'd rather be a human contaminant,
than a holder of the clean tissue,
they understand nothing,
while we bleed out love
through our noses.

Creeping vines climb
crisscrossing the cracked clay
Crumbled brick shards collect
at the base of the tower
Essential oils permeate the air
Invisible liquid fire
Inflaming all feeling
skin bubbling and peeling
Grotesque **** oozes
from ragged ripped flesh
Itching is incessant
Swollen red eyelids
Tear drop elicits twitching
A scream of unfulfilled urges
Vines encircle the neck
countless green nooses
contaminate flesh
Breath becomes brutality
swollen esophagus
Red and green monster stalks
searching for someone
with skin thin enough
to climb underneath
into the innermost layer
Death
brings an end to the maddening agony
Body a bulging red ball already collects maggots
Creepy vines questing
never ending searching
not satisfied until they find
the next target
Cycle continues
no escape from the ivy.

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it? Jeremiah 17:9

Also from experience but through revelation
The heart of a man can hold great devastation
A man gone wrong can drain the soul of another,
Contaminate the soul of a mother
And change the mind of a child
Hate in daddies eyes, as the baby cries….
The Devil sat back and smiled
This morning the news said our future looks bleak,
No one can find what they seek
And I thank God that I know love
What chaotic life can be made when hearts of stone have been laid……..
As a foundation for our youth, and the children we dispose of
Our children are dying but our mothers aren’t crying
Because they are the cause of the needless pain
The children are misused and their bodies abused
And really it’s all in vain
The sickness within has spread like disease
and infected the general population
Now these children are grown and the seeds have been sown to carry on a mental devastation
Rumors of wars and personal vendettas in store from the people who lead you to hell
The path is narrow but the gates are wide
and my soul is not for sell
They say money is the root of all evil…… but really it’s the hands that exchange
The TV says *** sells and to look towards fame and glory… that’s not my story
And I am starting to think I have been short changed
The TV sells lies that are cleverly disguised
and I worry about my child’s perception
In the mind of a child is the twisted reality
of this world’s perverse deception
I wish I could cry but my emotions are dry….. I have been desensitized
And every time I turn on this **** TV… the chaos… has me mesmerized
I want to know what happens next, my mind is oversexed
and I am being told I need a drink
I used to believe it was easier to just get blowed….I didn’t have the energy to think
Well there’s a pill for every ill and a drug
for every memory I would like to erase
I wonder sometimes, while I am forced to commit crimes
if one day I will be free from this place
But my child has to eat and I won’t accept defeat……. I am also on the paper chase
I have hope still that the people’s free will can lead them to seek God’s face
Hope in a hopeless world is a danger all in itself
Passion, Empathy, Loyalty and Love
Exchanged in the place of wealth

While I grow older, heart’s of men grow colder
But I understand….the weight of the world can be profound!
If I could cry for the pain of the world,
By now I surely would have drowned
There is no true relief from this constant disbelief,
My head to the sky and my feet on the ground
I hope my daughter knows love and I am forgiven for my ultimate sin
Taking another life to avoid this world’s strife
And escape the hearts of men

Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who cannot save. Psalm 146:3

your fingers would tiptoe across my palms, and it made me feel alive.

the first time you touched me, i figured out what the purpose of butterflies really were.
the first time you touched me, i almost believed you were trying to create an army of them,
    that they were going to break down the maze inside my head
    that i would become some disgustingly lovesick drone

i don’t know why i ever doubted myself

the butterflies don’t visit me anymore,
they’ve done their job.

my feelings are neutralised.
my body is numb.
and you hold me like the touch of another would contaminate me.
your embrace is a cage,
but one i have built myself.

I can tell that
you can't tell
that you aren't
going to be famous.

You helped **** a kid
by selling him laced candy
because you were trying
to buy an acting career.

Your suicide threats
and cries for help
turn me on.
Because.
I would love
for you to die.

And if you were dead --
as dead as the dirt on
the graves you've helped fill --
I wouldn't sleep better or worse;
I guess I would just be happy
knowing that someone would
be able to sleep and wake up.

They put you on the evening news
and you laughed about it on twitter.
Because you are a river
teaching drowning lessons
but not taking responsibility
for the cornflower blue corpses
that haunt your dangerous brain
and contaminate nearby life.

You are a degenerate --
but not one with potential
or hope. You are not what
is beautiful about struggle;
you are not interesting.

You are written about
much like how cancer
is written about in journals.

The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a  can of raineer beer (if he really  goes there) ill never ask him.
             This is how lastcall always takes place:  a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager.  ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers.  He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.  
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach.  Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home.  Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies  ( a red head)
He charges like arhino.  Hes a animal without areason to ****.  But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening.  Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our ******* stories.  We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.

He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair.  Every one of his is angry like drini until the switch flicker themessage ( crawl home bforetheco9s fishwith dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot.

When you contaminated my hate
You chilled me to my bones
Time and time again
You just gave me the kick!
Oughta my own ****** home
Acting like you love someone
Just do me that real favor
And simply look in your mirror
For your love's untrue
Now I can see it's not me
It's you Love!

Don't let yourself fall in love with him
When a boy who gives you chills every time he holds you close, shows you his favourite place, don't remember the route on how to get there because when he's gone, you'll only find yourself going back there to get a glimpse of him one more time
Don't listen to his favourite song, for that melody will stay permanent with you wherever you go & the day he leaves you, you won't be able to listen to it without choking
Don't tell him to let go of his bad habits,  for you got your own too
Just because he got this positive mentality about life, doesn't mean he'll be good for you
And just because you two like the same bizarre things, does not make him your soulmate
And when the day comes where he stops putting as much effort like before, don't be expecting so much from him for you'll just be left hanging
Don't watch the stars with him, he'll contaminate it & you won't be able to look at the sky again without swallowing a mouthful of him
Don't let him enraptured you with his lovely compliments, just remember when he's no longer there, that you are beautiful too before he ever came into your life
Just because he promised & tells you that he loves you, doesn't mean he'll stay
Don't let the embrace of his arms be your comfort place, for when he leaves you everywhere you go will just be cold & chilly
Don't let him break your heart, but you're going to let him anyways
And when he does break your heart, you'll feel like you're dying. And it will feel like someone just ripped out your lungs & you won't be able to breathe. But just remember you will find someone better, because you deserve better
You shouldn't have fallen in love with him
-thrcy

Failure's in your future
so sit down and wait
until it's delivered.

Let's ****** your dreams
and watch them plummet
straight into the dirt
and wait until they decompose
and cease to exist.

[breath]

You're nothing but a failure in the making.
Your insignificant accomplishments
have bloated your reality and
have opened the door to hope
that still manages to spill
throughout
your mind and
contaminate the truth.

[breath]

You still live in the same spot.
You haven't left. You've stayed in your own tiny city still
trying to impress the same type of people, but you didn't
expect them to leave so soon. See them move on while they
forget you and slowly your entire environment changed.

[breath]

We've dealt with your nonexistent career.
Should we move on to your love life? You fell in love over the
summer and after she left you, you became so bitter you couldn't let
go of her memory and decided to ruin her name to
everyone around you. Blowing it all out of proportions
just so you can look like a victim.

[breath]

So after becoming so involved in your made up reality you
decide to give up on everything around you. You disappear and
nothing holds value to you anymore. Then, you feel like you should
escape your reality and moving two thousand miles away seems
the only way to make you happy.

[breath]

Oh. But you found love again didn't you? You are on step one aren't you?
She's your inspiration right now isn't she?
She gives you hope and her beauty makes you happy.
The results of this imbecilic attempt leads to your heart
being ripped out of its rib cage and after being crushed by her
foot full of rejection you sit there and your insignificant
hope begins to evaporate.

[breath]

You lose focus and nothing can gain it back in time
for the most important week of your short life.
You fail as well and
while you struggle to find why
it is that this is occurring an idea
that I have planted begins to sprout.

You've considered it. You've agreed to it.
You can only look in my eyes as I smile.
Climb on the stool and focus your eyes on the ground.

[Expected your own thoughts to betray you and we triumphed]

Never did I regret killing your hope.
Place this necklace over your throat.
The material? I believe it's rope.
Let me tighten it for you.
[push].

[breath]

Coffee shop boy sitting at a wooden table with headphones tucked gently into his ears
Sipping espresso or tea from a paper cup that says "Caution: Hot Contents"
Which makes him think desperately of her clothes, and the wind-kissed skin she wears underneath
Wishing he could be the air and wrap his soul around her with each of her steps.
He takes a sip of his latte or black coffee, and feels the burn as it travels down his throat
While it warms his heart he looks out at the night sky framed by the coffee shop window
He glances at the moon and all of the stars and prays they light her path and keep her safe
In envy he realizes the stars look upon her every night, when she wears the moonlight around her face
With her head resting against a pillow, eyes closed and dreaming things the day can't contaminate.
And he wishes beyond hope he could be there to write them down like a to-do list kept secret from her
Until completed he presents them to her, with a check mark on his own heart to show that it, too, is hers.
But since he cannot do these things he picks up his Americano or Cocomo and takes another sip
And he lets the banging of the drums and deliberate pounding of the guitar put her out of his mind
Until later at night he picks up a pen, half-full with ink, and writes once again about himself
Hoping she'll read each word and fall as in love with him, imperfections, flaws and humanity
As he is with her beauty, words, breath, heart, soul and spirit.

18 days left until the end of the world!

We’re down to the wire folks – so get your living in now because in 18 days, all this chaos, selfishness, hate, bigotry, joy, happiness, and beauty will come screeching to a halt.

I wonder if the WORLD – the PLANET knows its end is near? I wonder if it knows that a puny, insignificant species on its face has declared its end and death? I wonder how many times before it’s heard about its end and has kept on rollin’ merrily along?

To think that one species can – and has – imposed its superstitions and god-myths on such an immovable and ancient cosmic body. If you need a definition of arrogance my friend, look no further!

For billions of years this wonderful water-ball has spun its way through the cosmos and has nurtured, raised, and even destroyed countless forms of life upon its face, and yet only one species – amongst the millions that have come and gone, presume to declare its end.

While spiritual and metaphysical voodoo can make grand pronouncements about our doom, we are unique in one other aspect, and that is we are the most intelligent species on earth, and we use our accumulated brilliance to figure out better ways to **** each other, foul the very air we breathe, poison the water which sustains us, and contaminate the soil from which we spring.

So foolish.

So near-sighted.

So ignorant in practice.

So cruel to our mother.

I wonder what makes us – the most intelligent of them all – so incredibly stupid that we spend enough on war every day to eradicate world hunger ten times over, and yet, expect us to believe that in 18 days our world is going to end just because a culture composed of humans ran out a room on a circle of stone?

Pathetic.

Oh silly misguided human animal.

The only thing that’s going to destroy this world – this beautiful, self-protecting, self-correcting, self-balancing world – are the pitiful human animals who don’t even have the humanity to love each other – let alone the earth – enough to lift us higher than a stone-age culture looking at the stars and seeing only themselves.

18 days left before the world ends? I don’t think so. Maybe we’ll do the earth and all its wonderful life-forms a favor and stop the madness we’ve created, and in 18 days finally learn to love again.

  
© 2012 Michael Hunter

Is there really a guy out there
Who doesn't care what I look like
And will love me anyway

Girls say that there is all the time

All of them wear mini shorts and don't have to **** in their belly look good in a tight shirt

Like they know what they're talking about

Is there really a genuine man out there
Or will society contaminate him before I find him

a slithering urge rips up my appetite by grass-like fistfulls,
an urge to condense
falter every thought that has the audacity to contaminate my psyche.
the gentle thrumming under-skin is knotted firmly
to the drum of words tapping.

a shell, its contents,
tearing, perforated and utterly whole.
wring the rag
gulp the freshly stolen, assimilated goods
and spread the contents of your stomach for special exhibition.

she leaves pauses,
pregnant and lingering,
until the route to the next unmists.
a familiar pang gasping,
urging now shout and dare and spill
spill invent a new word for the pulsing
of yourself rising within yourself,
like so much bile,
**** as you please and leave careful notes
until the entirety of your vocabulary is spent,
burnt to a nub.

The buzzing of a street lamp,
Echoing through my silent block.
Sounds of crickets are heard,
But the silence is deafening.

Darkness surrounding 8th Street.
An uneasy feeling of being watched,
Creeping up against my neck,
As if it's licking me so tenderly.

The neighborhood of which my home resides,
So mysteriously nerve wrecking.
Petrified to take the garbage to the curb,
I look over both shoulders to make sure.

A creepy sound of laughter,
Floods the sound of nature.
Flabbergasted by my discovery,
That I am being stalked by an unknown being.

Whispers being whispered,
My heart begins to scream.
I loathe this feeling of dreadful fear.
I can't move.
I am paralyzed.

Whatever this thing is,
Human or supernatural.
I am almost positive this is arousing,
To the terrifying being that it is.

A predator hunting it's prey,
I now become the target.
Help me.
Oh god.
Help me.

Uncomfortable shivers contaminate my bloodstream.
Freezing in July,
It's 75 degrees.

Surrounded by the supernatural.
Unwanted manifestations of spirit,
Making me their little toy.
What in god's name is the end game?

Death,
Leaving my face frozen in terror.

It sat upon Virginia’s shore
stalked by the sea,
it’s lichen pale with salt
bark that broke the sand,
a haggard frame stark against
the last horizon land.

The butchered stumps contaminate
a hacked and broken field,
their sapwood leaking silence,
the birds atop them mute,
crowned with their annual rings
of righteous guilt and root.

But there it waits branded by
the blight of unknown fear,
a desolation beacon
when the other trees were cleared,

by then it was decided
what pilgrim eyes would see
CROATOAN
scratched into the tree.