“Countable nouns can be counted, e.g. an apple, two apples, three apples, etc. Uncountable nouns cannot be counted, e.g. air, rice, water, etc. When you learn a new noun, you should check if it is countable or uncountable and note how it is used in a sentence.”


“countable nouns” goes ding ding in the left-side-brain receptors,
where the write side is humbly aboded, unbounded, and well-recv’d,
countable nouns not simplistic apples, the mundane, not sweet, crisp,
important stuff like sins and dreams, lies and schemes: life alterations!

a single sin, two sins, then three, soon you’re another noun, a sinner,
a dream, two dreams, three, teach labels you a serial day-dreamer,
it takes just one little lie, be well on your way to a pants-on-fire-liar,
a get-rich-quick-scheme forms a life long persona, dastard schemer!

methinks these self-adjectives deserve a special denomination, for my
sins, lies, dreams and schemes are uncountable countable nouns!
they are a class of biological, taxonomic things, living and breathing,
a singular genus, many species, like slime molds of human characteristics

you don’t believe I’m a scoundrel, here is not the place to list,
each action/no action curse-courses animating suppressed brain cells,
when the lids close, the enumeration of sins & deeds, all sheep,
vivid colored, injured pointed hooves, silent screamed reslaughtered,
confession offers no solace, until someday the sticking point of the right brain actually resolve the misdeeds, undoing stabbings, healing

time to quit the confessional, no beads or Hail Marys will ever suffice, elides the wrong religion and mine done don’t lets you off so easy,
no siree…no siree…
even a few miscreant visions, originate from childhood indifferent…

perhaps you tire of my self-flagellate:

**these deeds, actions, some remediable, but not all, and these 50 years on, my palpitations fiercest knowing, that they are now
uncountable countable nouns!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do love
But it ain't quite
like the Discovery Channel!!!

I want so much more than
the collective desire of Park Avenues

I believe like,

With exactly no doubt
like zero are the hours
which can never count
upon the seamlessness
of my perceptions

I do but I don't
I am and therefor not

I talk in mirrored tongues
I observe in uncanny detail

Micro and macro all a flow
overly ever rushing torrents
moving galaxies about

Pouring in
more rushes out

You can picture it
over the mighty edges of
and rushing to, fro and about
every swirling an obstacle stout

Though such knows not
one another in such ways
inseparable upon one journey

As She manifests from her he, Self
He's giving for he gets the She of,

An ever persuasive passionate,

Play... .. .

Greater than the dreams

We know of love yet
Shy to conceive

They, their passion
.........
  .....
   ...
    "
    '
We inwardly receive

Those torrential lovers
pourings do spillover
and on and over
and rush upwards
ah ever more easily!!!

Vast sensualities
******* rhythms
of this a, Our universe
in micro exotic intoxicating
allure, irresistibly entwining
the smallest tastes and teases
of songbirds loving symphonies

As butterfly and a bee in the ever
sweet scents of psychedelic sighting
wavings in ever inviting ever ripening
ever flows of heavens manna sweets, but
sours the way short where some say sinners
ought never see or be, though such is silliness see,

For such shy glimpses of what is less than momentary
which is not countable, when our greatnesses will carry on
beyond our redemptions of what only we shall see clearly so
simply, one day twas the dark night of a soul, here blasphemed
about the sacredness of all ever evident being so close found fondly,

Sweetly, though lost in those ever aching wishes of our journeying together

Would death be ****** abandonment at all a freaky thing unconceived
dark night of the great light conceived viewed in our ever grace and beauty
but she lets you feel her he's and all the glory, all the glory an unrealized being
in all our collectiveness has not yet seen but in the depths of where it's consider dark
for simple decisions we all have and must have made to function here, there

and at all,
at once...

No time, no space, no EMC squared's
yet in Newtonian fashion the soul spirit remains
carries on in infinite motion and motions of our choosings
and for better and worse we do all about the same for we
were never thrilled about all the separation we discovered
in reluctance and or in blessed joys of great companies
of loving hearts, eyes, ears, arms with tender loving
caring hands of nurture enough twas enough for
you are still here now and those who have not
have forgiven all other misguidance eagerly
when it is easily found tis only our own
choice to be and set free freely

And I can want any petty desire too
and put myself up for adoption to,

The petting zoo
and you...

For hell yeah I want to be here
all the way and with you
my wayfarers

I Do...

do do dee da da
oo la la and ma mama

childs all of such grace
we oft just call gods

And greater love seen
dispensed philosophically
by self proclaimed atheism's

Denialism can rather be the truth
of atheism, self pitying so deeply
resenting the here now for some
overly wishful thinkings and
of mournful emotionalism's
about the 'it just ain't fairs'

Beware they will take you
to their wheres, wearing
their wares of self hate
while glossfully
painting in
glitterings
of fools
gold

Feign not thou
we are co conspirators
already decidedly agreed
agreeably dancing on the sharp
end of one pointed pin, hand holding

But remember if we were ever shaken
off of binding bonds ever closefully as
the chasms of divergences really are

We still ever dance ever lightly on
the everly fine poignancy of pin

And the illusion of being
garden casted for some
shamefully blameful
denials of the snakes
sly fashion to even
ones need of feed

And or wither from
the long and short
of journey with
the ever's of

here now...

Paradise
Perfectly

Paradoxically

In our
every
way

So I am
in great hunger
greater thirst firstly

For the one great illusion
desert stricken for not seeing
the forest of paradise for every
tree and every grace of all possibility

Without such would come from impossibility*

Once Again...

With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.

Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a prize,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.

Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.

The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.

Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.

Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.

The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.

The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.

And now emerges white bits of sunshine;
Eyes urged to wake, and tongues to pray;
To Lord of the worlds and of nights and days;
That we be pure in the heart and mind;

Feet saileth lower amongst one another;
With such admiration that lasts forever;
Faithful heads bow and touch the pious floor;
Pearls of rewards doubling behind the door.

And His beauty is deeper than solace;
More luminous than desire and grace;
He asks for love, chastity, and firm abstinence;
He longs for faith, modesty, and true penitence.

Praises and glory are floated to Allah;
Mouths recite and phrase la ilaha illallah.
And claim their very peace upon beloved Muhammad;
With dear respect from the deepest roots of hearts.

Winds might blow and grass might be green;
But we fear still, the restless Might of the Unseen;
He who watches and renders all our affairs;
He who breathes our blood and strands of our hair;

And do fear Him and seek His Abode;
For we shall cease and retreat to our Lord;
As this earth fades, where His end starts therefrom;
And sees our deeds since we dwelled in mothers' wombs;

But Allah is ever fair, filial, and loving;
He is the Keenest, and the Most Heroic king;
He rules perfectly the East and the West;
He listens to what flows within every chest;

And He is All-Forgiving and ever Merciful;
He is swift to both the living and the dead;
He relieves tears of the believing souls;
He lives and sparks, within our very breath.

And He is but ecstatic like the rainbow;
Nothing is more countable than His tomorrow;
His Warm Hands are what we all rush for;
His Words are a poem, like never before.

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krause asu
AN accident.

That's how, but why?
Many universes, many realities, imaginable

conceivable

how long must one live in a cardboard box
to confess the experienced
boxtime
altered next from then to now.

Copenhagen Calvinist or Lutherin or Anabaptist

holier than I, as was I, as the Hermit hidden
in the fool on the hill,
telling secret meanings to nowhere man, now
here
we're...

touching a time when knowing out paced known
knowables, imaginables were

imagined, not evil, but fine tuned to approach
per fection in effect

what more can I ask? All my debts are paid.

Accidental debt accrual demands accidental debt relief.

Political-lic, that's where my party stands.

Jubilee, nowhere has the ver been
a time like

now. We being at all, as mere words, heard only once,
never uttered

utter non sensed tone tuned to augmented minds

-- bio logic circuit
-- try a spark

Gleam in grandpa's eye, try umph, boy. Better up.

Swing and there is the crack of the bat

never heard, a clap

just now, you are on the ball, and this is
what that always means,
history-wise.

Okeh. Like safe. No war. Okeh. Mark to follow, someday.

biologic circuitry is so unbelievable,

to whom? All who see the supsumpsystems and the info resources,
re re re, every, meaning as if ever were in
finite, every things reasonable countable and measured,

AN ark is a box. Rectangular, most oft.
A box. Hermits live in boxes, some times,

with a coven-ante-cipitate, tincture
of this and that, with a drop o' Paracelsus fave,
Hermetic hermenuetic magishit.
Mercury, liquid conducter, okeh.

You axt a reason for the faith in the wrong *******
autodidactic augmented and medicated old man.

I hapt to save a dammercury switch from an old thermostat,
with a bi-metal coil we could
spring
into action and launch afacethefact face that fact face of fact
fracture
tap. Twist it, there, balance, level, spirit levels bubble
hermetic form flow act
ioncat ion quest
ion--

spark-- the idea imagicish dealybob- gleam
right

the feeling of gleam. Toothpaste imparts
*** appeal, I pana imparts diligence, pepsodent is perfect
for explosive types averse to yellow,
stripe,
oh my god,
game changer. Hidden persuaders never saw us,

by stripe are we healed and made bright white and loveable,
said the tooth from the future, we learned, in school, to love
each night, with a brisk brush before our
prayer for no cavities could be answered.

tap right there.

Gem quality. The meaning of life, I magine, is more.

She differentiated herself from society, thinking that her life would never intersect with another's.
Her irrational thinking was harmful, she called herself odd.
"Think positively" they said, "the outcomes are countless.
Life is nonlinear, it's not as simple as x=y.
It may not always make sense but you will make it add up."
She had no proof.
She hated the sine wave of life, her countable infinity that she wanted to stop.
The probability of her meeting her congruent mate was 7,000,000,000:1
Until the day her life was bisected by a girl.
The girl was her complimentary angle, her stationery point, her happy infinity.
She was integrated.

i have seen scarred wrists and burns and bruises marring the bodies of beautiful girls, countable ribs and thigh gaps and jutting hip bones.

boys destroying themselves in puffs of smoke and empty pill bottles, dry coughs coming from ruined lungs.

but nothing triggers me like you do.

What lies in store for a mind so divine,
Could never find, something like this can never be fully defined.
So I wait to see the unfolding of this amazing gift, though not mine.
There is high intrigue within your space, the kind of space I have not explored in ages.
Heartfelt words that regenerate my deepest thoughts.
I had eliminated the possibility of finding your kind. You appeared among the wolves and re-colored my imagination.
I wondered if your kind is still made, still exists...you proved me right when you gave me a glimpse to your thoughts.
Like a garden of splendor, with abundant treasure and amazing sights.
All capsuled in gold, I never want to depart from your side.
I say these words very carefully...thinking very deeply about where they could possibly lead.
Who you belong to is blessed...truly blessed since your mind posses depth and truth.
It is unknown where this will go, yet mentally entertaining, it also seems appealing.
Dangerous and exciting, a thrill known to cause heartache.
Clearly there is a rare connection if I write about it, you found dwelling in my words and stamped your arrival in my life, bringing on a surge of fresh air.
It is greatly unique that there is still a person of your calibre.
Every passing minute has you traveling along with my thoughts.
I reserve my heart, and protect my feelings.
I dread to hear the forbidden words yet I still lure the attraction.
Where will we go with this, countable is the length we've spoken and shared thoughts and every time I am left longing for more.
You are not mine and I should not wish you leave your other.
It would be so cheap of me. I'm tossed in the waves of a man who posses so much peace, importance,appeal....
We should keep this overflowing interest, this brewing interest that I suspect will lead nowhere.
I am intrigued by you, enticed by you. Don't want this to blossom, sense it'll get trampled on so fast from the realities we live in.
Words we share are pieces to a beautiful picture, stealing glances of our souls to paint the voices of our dreams.
Every detail of your personality resounds with beauty, delight and pure joy.
This feeble bubble I don't wish to destroy,
I simply relish in conversing with a mind so extraordinary.
There is so much I wish to share with you yet it would not be fair because you don't belong me.
My heart is wrapped in anticipation...waiting to hear from you.
There is so much I would say yet I hold back, out of respect  since I hold you on a high pedestal.
One I know you well deserve to be on, all despair vanishes when I hear from you.
Your fundamental likes are all similar to mine, it stuns me that we are in-line.
You inspire me to conceive words and thoughts of beauty, buried truth.
That clearly give account of how you make you feel.



Thandi Xaba 30 October 2013

The sun rose sideways over
Trees so full of birds I'd thought they'd
Taken the place of any
Real branches. The song came quiet, 
Making conquest of our opened ears,
And ******, if it all wasn't gorgeous.

The Jazz in it hummed loudly,
Asking whence the shakes began.
She screamed in an ear to
Inquire about the fun she's having. 
Stuck staring in a rear view,
With hope they're unaware of
Locked doors. 

Green-garnished, gold-rimmed eyes, and a
Brandished black mask, blocking the brightness,
But also the bad intentions. 
Let 'em know where you come from,
And they'll use it against you. 
Let them see where you're going: then, 
They run for the hills. 

"What's a vice worth, if you
Don't nourish it?"                
                                                               ­               What's a number, but an
                                                              ­                Excuse, or a limit?
"See, there's a countable
Amount of stuff, in this universe, but we're
Still unsure of what we're
Doing in life."

Gasping at the light's 
Bounce off foreign plants. 
Recollections of strengthened bonds,
Pressing heavy, into wet dirt
Of a previous day's rain. Fearing 
Faith in what you can't understand. 
Working for the worst people in the world. 
But because, you must 
Help, to exist. 

But break the bubble, 
Roll back those shoulders, tuck those wings
                                                           ­                   Maybe get the **** out of the car?
"I'm getting there, ******."

I met God the other day.

And this is what I had to say.

But first, let me tell you a little of my thoughts along the way

You see to me the subjective thoughts on freedom

I've had most of my life

Reinstate a calming notion

That there's really no difference between wrong and right

What's wrong to me is right to you

And what's wrong in God's eyes is just another perspective too

And i've told my self that we are all living proof

That the truth of real freedom

Is to simply have a real freedom of truth

Seriously though, either way,

whether freedom is absolute

Or it's a façade of a god made human brain

I say do what feels good and enjoy the now and today.


So what did I do along the way to meeting god you say?

Brace yourself. Cause this is exactly what I told god straight to his face.

God greeted 'Hello my son. How are you feeling today?'

"Hey Lord. I feel ******* great. This life was more than just okay. I mean you know what I did along the way"

"But hear it from my mouth. And the lack of conviction my words carry to this day "

"I listened to loud music and damaged my ears for so many ******* years."

"I filled my lungs with toxic clouds of smoke, stupid **** like dope, contemplated consequences but treated them like jokes"

"I damaged my brain with an array of narcotics."

"Subjected myself to a list of voodoo tonics,  sometimes just pure demonic ****. And I loved every second of it."

"To the point where I altered my already imbalanced chemicals beyond repair. There. I said it. Now it's out there for you to judge. "

"To you I am probably the Antichrist. And ******* It feels nice! "

"I pierced, stretched and wounded my skin, until the shape of my former self was beyond any contemplating."

"Relating it all to an an expedition of self expressions. "

"Erections? I got them everywhere. In the classroom in the office, walking up the ******* stairs "

I mean I even had them in church for ***** sake. Sorry about that. That was weird i guess but it was kinda different. Kinda felt great. "

"I did, and would do again, with total disregard for recommended calorie intake,

"Eat a whole pizza by myself. That right there to most, don't feel like a big mistake. "

"I mean none of this does. Least not to me at the time. I mean what else is there besides the now? "

"And what else then that is more sublime?"

God: 'Well...'

"Hang on. Not finished. So I got ****** up, I ****** up and sometimes I just simply ******. "

"Enough wasn't enough. This kind of lifestyle ain't tough, let me tell you"

"I did at least one stupid thing every day. Sometimes beyond a countable array. "

"I didn't learn from most mistakes i made. "

"I definitely disappointed my parents. Well **** em I say. "

"I didn't get to choose what life I was born into. Did you choose for me God? Well, did you?"

God: 'My Chil...'

"Don't answer that actually. Your words may just further infuriate me "




"I mean I've probably ****** you off more than you have me, right up until my last dying days. I REALLY went out in an unholy blaze of glory. Still an epic story don't you think?  "

God: 'Your stor.....'

"Shut it lord! I told you I ain't done! Cause just like you I knew one day this moment would come."

"And i've had countless years of your sermons shoved down my throat. And DON'T make me utter what else your holy servants made me choke."

God: '......'



And God was completely silent, and the heavens were calm. The sudden changed should have alarmed me. But it didn't. Cause I felt like he knew what I was going to say, every step of the way.


So I cried. And the next words I had to utter in complete dismay, but total clarity and no iota of disarray


"You did this to me. All of it. I hope you understand. You made this world what it is, and who i am."

"And I broke your rules, and the body you gave me. "

"I never once begged for your forgiveness or hoped that you or your son would save me."

"I never once asked for your help, and expected it to come."

"Us humans truly felt abandoned beyond any recognition."

"But this isn't me complaining. In fact, this is me saying cheers."

"Thanks for all those struggling, harsh and ******* cruel years."

"You see I know you "

"And this world you had a hand in "

"The strength you need to live in it is so demanding"

"Beyond any priest, pope and pastor"

"I learnt about you "

"And who I am so much faster"

"Through mistakes and wrong doing"

"Infinite battles ensewing"

"Within my mind and throughout humankind"

"I grew"

"I felt"

"I knew"

"There was a point to it all"

"And even in my continuous fall "


"From your holy grace"

"I understood why you breathed life into the human race"


I was silent. I wanted God to ask why


God: 'My dearest son. Give me your perspective on the meaning of all life'

I was frustrated and I angrily stabbed back like a knife

"My God! The meaning of life was simply just to live! Beyond a simple explanation and perspective, I ain't got nothing more to give!"

God: 'Then don't give me simple, give me complex yet precise. I WANT YOUR TAKE ON THE MEANING OF THIS LIFE!!!'


I stopped in the beckon of his holy colossal voice.


And In his frustration. I found some sense of absolute rejoice.

I waited. contemplated. I felt something inside my soul I had never felt before.


"No" I implored

Then I just smiled and stared.

God shouted 'WHY?!'


"You don't get my answer, in metaphor or otherwise"  

"You don't get the privilege of what it means to be me."


"You see, I understand that you may know everything already, within your created lands"


God raised an eyebrow and ushered with his hand

God: 'Go on my son'

"So asking me this question is redundant to me and the point is really none"

I paused and waited.

God contemplated


God: 'Well....what you say is right. And now the real question remains;


Through your mortal answer what does I, God, gain?'


'Must be something' I exclaimed


God: "Yes it is. And I'll i'll tell you what it's all for.
It's nothing more than another perspective. Call it if you will, an act of me being trying to be self reflective"
'You see in all it's glory, the world i made, follows rules and so must I, be as it may'
'So I can't know what you are going to say next. I never knew where this world was going to head'
'I never knew the human race could be so unkind, that hate would be the benchmark to define your lives'
'And I could sit here and give you a thousand sorries my son, but I had no hand in your life after the initial one'

"I kinda felt it" I muttered. Crying amongst uttered words

And I knew from God what next was going to be heard.

God: 'Freedom created comes with it perks, but also what lurks behind it all
Is the creators knowledge he could watch the beauty of it all disastrously fall'


So, I Met God the other day, And this is what he had to say

But don't let my experience cause alarmed dismay


Don't ask where I am now, or what happens after death

Don't ask me about life's secrets, another's answers are useless


Just know that your perspective, is truly a blessing

Your experience is yours to keep

It's up to you, to mean something

This gift we have been given

Is not for God to take

Unless we choose to do so



Freedom is ours


For simply freedom's sake

the history and indoctrination of infantry

infant re
cruits

de rim u derimu, I count (old high irish)

gityeirishup, er shut yer leprechaun trap,

clap three times, spit wit the wind.

reason countable

you are trained to focus, aim,

miss, aim, miss, aim miss, come let's
cipher this thang out,
raison d'etre,
and all...
aims,
though misses all
count for nothing,
valenced by
one heartfelt hit t' knock the lie right.

old man re
crew recurrent reason to let this be re
al, always, already re
pulsing
pulsing
pulsing

aim, loose... spit wit'thwind...

---- war seen from after his jet died--
---- vicarious warriors can't match
---- the missing memories.

Prisoners enobled warriors endurent
indoctrined to prevail

"did I train well enough to do my job?"

Win the war. Right, that was your job,
all along.

What?...

no will to win a war without a reason
not willing to question
reason

authority doctrines in undated
rulebooks only lawyers
can read, that's a rule.

sacrifice and suffering un
common valor *** common
virtue

how do you win?

-- my guess, really

love my enemies. As good a way to die
as any I've tried.

-----
war stories on youtube. imagine that and
sure as hellen highwater was easy

I gotta call armchair-back o' the arm
bullshistory,
as I wipe a smeared memory

bullsss'it... RTOs don't walk point,
not back when you had
the radio, or said y'did,
nor did ye rereguard, when you
have the radio, Pr'ck 25
(like a cell phone
weighing 25 pounds, with a 5 mile range,
and no data. One to a team, as we

squellch squellch out) Nah, the guy's

lying, but it will hurt his kid's feelings,
if I say so,

or
he could believe his own hero myth,

I do.

---- nah, war stories are all we remember
ever after, happy as helen highwater was
to find you after fifty years
on facebook.
***
FTA, it don't mean nuthin'

it was so
silly, this is not the way it's supposed
to be, we

were the redcoats.
We were hanging Johnny Tremain Ngyuen,

wasting the last crawling,

man,

the first starlight scope flash
bright green white

FNG popped a flare.

--- when do we call ******* ---

For the price of a baseball cap, a fool
can claim honor other fools died for.

Silly little war. Eighteen thousand
eleven bravos of aver
age age
Twenty-two.

Ooh ooh, like Pappa Doc 22 voodoo
doopy doo doopy doo
Duvalier, Ton Ton M'coo

hey. okeh

we got you. You thought crazy,
now you can stop.

--- there was a war and nobody won.
--- safe. passed madness has passed on.
--- see what good you may imagine done.
--- work that out, without making enemies.

April Fool. Why has this day always been about me?
Ask yourself. There exist

degrees of foolishness, none fashionable beyond
twenty-two.

footnote: https://www.uswings.com/about-us-wings/vietnam-war-facts/
Who has a guess why facebook would refuse a link to this page. ***** about it.

Census Stats and “I Served in Vietnam” Wanabees
1,713,823 of those who served in Vietnam were still alive as of August, 1995 (census figures).
During that same Census count, the number of Americans falsely claiming to have served was: 9,492,958.
As of the current Census taken during August, 2000, the surviving U.S. Vietnam Veteran population estimate is: 1,002,511. This is hard to believe, losing nearly 711,000 between ’95 and ’00. That’s 390 per day. During this Census count, the number of Americans falsely claiming to have served in-country is: 13,853,027. By this census, FOUR OUT OF FIVE WHO CLAIM TO BE VIETNAM VETS ARE NOT. This makes calculations of those alive, even in 2017, difficult to maintain.

You're not even gone
But I miss you so much.

Only countable days away
But I can't help it.. I feel so blue.

I think this time is the hardest
Even still I act the strongest.

The distance is far
And the time away is long.

I will feel helpless
Knowing I am away from you.

I am envisioning a world of bots,
pulling us into the black hole
of innovation and technology,
with no trees, no schools, no collages,
nothing that is bricks and mortar.
Can you envisage a life on man-made oxygen?  
Can you imagine the fantasy world
in movies becoming our real world?
I'm being ingenuously curious,
how long before
a plethora of machines and bots,
a metallic universe created by man,
replaces everything we have lived for?
A few more countable years perhaps.
Just the thought sets me off in trepidation.
I wish to somehow freeze and slowdown
the evolving era so the living flesh and blood
could be prepared for what they are about to face.

AIDS IN AFRICA!
Did you read the novel of our uptimes: Confessions of an AIDS Victim!
Did you watch the films of our time: about Philly Lutaaya and Wangeci!
First filmed movies of victims living with Aids in Africa
And did you see humans like living skeletons: thin as threads  
Body emaciated-denied of any fond flesh and tissues: zombies with souls only  
Ribs lean like loose groups of marionettes glued sticks-countable
Skin stretched slender and dry like rotting drought carcasses
Like harvest’s bounty, daily on reed-mats taken outcasts to dry in the suns
Waiting, waiting, waiting for its delaying-about-death!

Did you watch the agony in the victims of the viral virus?
The emotional struggle with rejection and dejection
The sorrows in regrets and the sadness in the imminent eventuality  
Did you watch the scare in those inwardly suckled sockets of eyes?
The hollow horror-stigma, severe in their scrawny faces clearly drawn and written
The dryness of their fears and fates, daily as they awaits for the-no-coming-damnations  
The torturous anguish of hoping, hoping, hoping the waiting will soon be over-rested!

Did you watch them with sorrows?
How mùkingo, kang’eeri, kìng’ùki………….....
Had ruined and damaged their promising lives
Had you watched them with fears?
How deserted and dejected they were
Did you watch their burials, a polythene bag for a coffin as outcasts of the suffering society-Emotional families alone in the final procession somewhere faraway from ancestral burial grounds?
Rest of the society watching from a safe distance as hastily they are sent deep into their underworlds

Did you watch how havoc ***-AIDS had done to families?
Grannies alone grappling with swelling families of needs
To eventually warm loneliness of surrounding graves: a total devastating calamity
Terrible tombs of sons, daughters and grandchildren: forever wiped-out generations
Did you watch the wiping out fatality of UKIMWI in rural villages?
Where the most sick finally retreated to, to reconnect with their angered ancestors
Gray-Aged counting on the crosses and daily, freshly dug moulds of soils
Carrying-containing their loved-ones larvae-ravaged remains

O God! Why did you create this thing between our thighs?
And burnt in it a desire to rise-jump, romp, **** and pump
O Lord! Why did you put in place this dry well between our *****?
And installed in it an urge to die to be drawn, drenched and danced
O’ Almighty Father! Why did you generate in us a desire?
A desire only to be quenched by this sinful sickening act-***!

Oh! Lord! Must we all die atop the trap of death-the ball inside the socket?
With all the sick beauties and wealthy behind bellied fat fed ARVs bodies-
Humanity, must we pitifully perish this way-slowly but disgraceful!?
Clearly know your partner; holily respect your partner!
Chain your dog, lock your kernel, secure your cheque-
Abstain-protect your love: protect yourself!  

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

words

           *telegrams
           calculable words
           words as objects
           words as mathematical
           meaning price > value

time

           days of the week, hours of the day minutes
           time is mathematical
           time is measurable
           time is a commodity
           meaning price > value.

(let's not fund the humanities they say.)

life

deaths by numbers
earthquake in Nepal -- death count over 7000
just a number in a news report, really
just a
number.
deaths are measured in numbers
not people,
people are countable
objects.
7000 people.
meaning all your friends on facebook
every person in your lecture hall
every person you have loved or kissed
all your former neighbours
everybody you have talked to on public transportation
every barista that has served you coffee
when these are faces you remember when these are your friends your family when these are *your people that is when
7000
becomes more
than a number.

but we don't want to let it
be
that
do we?

we cannot understand it
or let ourselves feel it
we cannot grieve for 7000 people swallowed by anonymity
when the death of just
one
could **** us.

the world will end by 2060 because we will have let
the oceans overflow and we will be drowing by numbers.
not people.

these are numbers. facts. statistics.

so
who
cares.

the journalists and scientists and economists
know what they know
and maybe we know what they know
but we have to experience before we change and
it will be too late.

it is up to the artists, now, to the poets and painters
and the actors directors designers to
show us what things
feel
like

before we all become
calculable objects
in oceanic waste lands.

it is up to people with the gift to make things
mean
more

than 7000
does.

One of the resourceful books unbeatable;
Children’s love, care and comfort biddable
Is none better than Reader’s Digest – capable.
Articles, reports, jokes and anecdotes audible;
All are present in it; all are undoubtable.
Changing the mindset of students capable
Is a new, systematic thing coachable.
Changing the world and its cannibal
Into the virtues and values bindable.
Explaining itself if anytime culpable;
And so is famous for being countable.
Teachers, parents, students ennoble
Reader’s Digest for not being enfeeble.
Leaders or followers who are like a crucible
Change their minds and be bendable.
Behaviour and conduct – key undoubtable
Will keep you atop, elevated, lofty and able.

There is a countable
distance between
the silence
where I sit
and the street
where I see
a mobile cacophony
of pedestrians
of various speeds
and multiple gaits.
From singular  
to numerous bodies
together and apart.
A part of me wants
to join them
apart needs
to avoid them.
So I count the distance
between voices
and my thoughts
silently
hush now
urging them all to stop
and embrace the nearest one
and say without words
life can be beautiful
if we allow.

I spent my life as a ghost
drifting lost through the halls
knocking on the closed doors
immaterial against their charm

a mere shadow by life’s gauge
with a past the most can’t see
while I dread the future times
existing longer than I dare

in response I mark my time
exploring themes most avoid
by this measure I am lost
a phantom seeking what most avoid

moaning poems to be heard
these enchantments from the muse
delivered a mantra daily shared
asking a world to bear witness

the themes of life are countable
on one hand or maybe two
knowing others also struggle
also shades to my form

only a spectre, nothing more
I’ll end my time with a verse
asking for an equal ear
to listen through the keyhole’s width.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180807

Possessing these few
On my fingers and My Toes
not much but e-nough

Sunken loyalty
surged into the abyss of
synthetic shrug off .

******* in-to voids
I: enigma machine
-- A Confusion cirque.

enmity vents
propagating soothsayer---
Such A paranoid

frailty to indulge
Even with the countable
Please no more strangers

For throng furnishes
Nothing but suffocation
vague sanctuary

So rather eye lurk
Within the truest fondness : My :
__ imagination !

reflect the sky at the dividing line
thousands, pilgrims, acrobatic flight
cautionary signals, holy outline
carry the form of grace and light.

countable and uncountable, alight
coastal meadows of purple aster
neon sun behind the fog, fading night
winged silhouettes settling at Big Sur.  

aerial blueprints, circling wet fir,
time resolved into opaque brushstroke,
compass lines, body before mind, umber
cliffs springing off a morning flock, awoke.

       red on red ridden their wild throats, pigment
       of deepest origin, indifferent.

life is an improbable nothing
it is a muscle
it is *******

it makes hands with hands
and speaks not a word

nor is a number

nor is countable

it is a whole and it is a moment

beyond heat, it burns

and say i (life little; life improbable)

speak not a word
be uncountable

be not a number

for many ran on fumes,
these few years,
living daily on hope,
and nothing else;

a great number wanted,
but the heavens never granted,
the privilege to see aturn in the tide,
to the dearly departed, sleep on;

and for the quick,
welcome to making history,
a rare opportunity to be amongst,
the countable, the reachable, the available;

whatever it is worth,
the next four can never be as darkly,
as the eight spent in vast backwardness,
time truly deserving to be forgotten;

but for the lessons learnt ,
nothing nostalgic of the cowtostrophic era,
every single element will get what is deserving,
karma always finds a way;

and for the hopeful many,
may your aspirations meet rapid improvements,
because today marks a departure from irreverence,
into days and nights of renewed hope.

It’s been ten years, long but short nonetheless,
But these last few weeks seem most valuable:
With the many tears, shed but shown much less,
With what was and still isn’t; days, countable,
Unwind the deep depths of my mind, as I press
And **** what memories I have left, unable
To realize, much more see, how near sunset’s
Come. For me, it might be time to buy a shave.

I’ve got a lot to look back to, much more to look at:
Those days I cried because I couldn’t fight and
The days I’ll fight because I wouldn’t cry… That,
That and why things are the way they are without
Having to ask “why?” are the things my mind can’t
Help but think of. It’s my time to wake up now.

Sunset nears, but there is no need to fear the night.
All nights pass as if there is none; hence, sleep is time
Travel. Sunrise will come just as soon as sunset; right
After the sun waves goodbye it greets us with light
So brilliant. Indeed, it is time to wake up… Tomorrow
Is just like any other day, just that it starts another
Ten years… of pain and joy, of sorrow and laughter,
Of new things and old habits… I’m not even halfway there!

Memoirs in Diaspora…..


The Egypt I miss;
Had bread basket filled, bottled butter
Mouth watering sliced salted spiced snacks,
Vast garlic gotten from government grocers,
Onions, olives and countable orphans,
Gracious graduates donned in fitting gowns.
No pick-pocketing pirate police……
Even though we wailed upon Pharaohs’ whips
Stomachs were stuck with solid meals.
Is Moses’ Canaan carrying a curse?
I can’t help wondering.

A tale of love
Brian Odongo.

Countable times in history
Two separate lives become one story
Such as was between Jacob and Rachel
A tale more beautiful than a fable

A tale not as a result of fate
But a plan in divine date
A tale of two hearts
That cannot be torn to parts

Even by ink it can only be faintly described
But in their hearts it is masterfully inscribed
A tale that lives for generations
And defies all common expectations

Such is my tale with this fair Lady
Fairest than the beautiful daisy
The only beloved daughter of her father
And the joy of the family when they gather

She is of rare charm and mind
“A virtuous woman who can find? "
Her heart is most pure
Her smile every pain cure

Seasons before us seem so long
But each day will be filled with a love song
Then all the rounds and bends of time
Will be far much worth than countless dimes

Not every step forward will be simple
But happenstances will not our love dwindle
For our tale of love  is not just a normal  ritual
But this tale that we coauthor is forever habitual

And if life be long and youth turn to old age
We will make more beautiful every page
And this by divine grace shall be our tale
That even time will not turn stale

Night has come and the glimmer of the moon won't reach my thoughts.

My mind is pitch black and no child would want to venture there alone...not even me

Bones...protruding from the soft cage of the skin.

Ribs so visible...so countable.

A tiny stomach just within your reach

A space between the thighs where a baby could fit right in.

Small,chicken wings that are called arms.

Just skin and bones

now that I am in my seventh or eight decade,
(not particularly sure when you start counting)
memories bust out like the flashbulbs on olden cameras,
briefly bright as hell, illuminating and annoying as hell,

this flash came to me this morning and don’t know why,
but it was worthy of writing down for no particular reason.

when I was a child in one of those indistinguishable early grades,
my teacher informed my father at an annual parent teacher partee,,
that I was “not particularly smart,” which angered him greatly.

He went home undecided whom to hide (1) p,
the teacher or hide me.
unsure, he was, which was the smarter course of action
(for my mother had passed and he without a consultant),
but informed me, who promptly hid (as in escaped)
in the only place suitable in our tiny house, behind the couch,
that was my mother’s pride an joy.

more tired than angry, he reflected while sitting on said couch,
listening to my breathing/panting, he decided that perhaps
the teacher was kerrect, and furthermore, I was not to blame,
(told to me years later by his serious drinking buddies)
“given the stock he came from, it was less my fault, and more his.”



this too, is only a love poem…



(1) hide as hiding, a countable noun, if you give someone a hiding, you punish them by hitting them many times).

When I was nine years old
The stars were countable,
I kissed each one with the
tip of my finger, not for long,
but just enough to know
they were still there.

By thirteen my cheeks turned
red everytime she held
my hand like it was something
worthy of possessing.
Somedays I still remember
the pain of her letting go.

At sixteen, I found God in the
very same place I left him,
somewhere between the place
I was going, to the place
I already been, maybe that
was enough to save me.

I am now almost twenty years old
and my fingers no longer count stars
and my hands have forgotten
how to hold another and
on the good days, God is still here,
on the bad I listen quietly.

For the most part, though,
I have left those things behind,
not because I no longer want them,
but because right now I am trying
to stay alive and I am afraid
I can no longer do both.

I don't think I can take it much longer,
I did think I was a little stronger,
But this warped world, and its warped inhabitants,
Have left me dumbfounded,
Running behind immaterial materiality,
Leaving behind priceless pursuits,
Seems I am trapped,
Doomed to be here,
With no room for my overwhelming fear,
Already left behind all that counts for anything,
Only to count all these countable things,
I know this doesn't make much sense,
But this is reality with no pretense,
If I could, and I wish I could,
I'd end it now, gladly,
Sadly, our beginnings and endings are never ours alone

Burning desire of
Success
Which makes me
Forget my past
My achievements
I know they are small
And not countable to
Others
But, they are precious to me
Still,
I am not able to remember
My past success
Because there is no stopping
But just keep going
Life became race
If you slow down
You will be late and
Have to give explanation
To every second of time