1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

"Plausible deniability" is an euphemistic phrase often used, it seems, by the CIA, among many other spying agences around the world, that really means "lying."

Is "lying" what our flag stands for? Is "lying" what we really want our flag to stand for?

When push comes to shove (too often, literally, as in "off the cliff"), that's exactly what it stands for.

What a morally grotesque, spiritually denuded flag we therefore salute unwittingly.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

You built a house out of dominoes and Jenga blocks, and it still took you by surprise when it all came shattering down around you.

In all fairness, it’s been a long time coming.

In all fairness, you caught pieces, from time to time.

But you wanted to hold onto something, because everything you ever knew only told you that the only way to make a good thing was to burn the bad thing down, rebuild it from the ground up. And you just wanted to be able to be fixed.

People are not houses. They do not survive the fire or the burn or the smell of acrid smoke. They can not be reborn like phoenixes from the ashes.

You flirted with denial longer than you should have. You let the streams of I’m fine It’s okay That’s great Everything’s good. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m alright. I’m fine, really. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. bleed into and over each other until your lies clashed a little too close, and people started to peer in with suspicion.

Rule 1 of denial: deny.
Rule 2: lie until you believe it.
Rule 3: don’t let anyone suspect.
Rule 4: minimize the damage.

Your house fell into rubble with a phone call at the end of a good day.

Because it wasn’t really a good day, just a good enough day, because you ate lunch and dinner, because your hands shook a little bit, because you had only a small headache. Because things weren’t worse, and they could have been.

You aren’t fine.

You’re breathing, and you’re going through the motions. And you don’t intend to die any time soon.

You’re existing, but you aren’t fine.

A stack of dominoes, and a pile of haphazardly stacked Jenga blocks. So build back a complete house, without the collapse. Add in glue, or safety pins, rope. Take a step back, sometimes, observe. When you see a fissure, hold steady and fix the crack. Do not avert your eyes.

You are not fine.

Sadness
Weapons of mass destruction
Witness protection program
Mutually assured destruction
Plausible deniability
Too big to fail
Pre-emptive strike
The final solution
Master race
Total Spectrum Dominance
Untouchables
Genocide
Greed
Racism
Sexism
Homophobia
Ca­ncer
Hate

Hope
Blessed are the peacemakers
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you
Turn the other cheek
Judge not lest ye be judged
Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone
Sacrifice
Non-violence
Integration
Pacifism
Environmentalis­m
Empathy
Understanding
Tolerance
Equality
Cure
Love

I knew we were in trouble
when they taught the machines to talk

parliament of artificial owls
nocturnal park line pirates

watch and learn
these conspirators
abduct the listening chair
and strap deniability to
another infernal device

so some hotwired pilgriming woman
possesses superior ****** abilities
and a skill with
the violin, the pointy end

camera is king

yet all the negatives
have been destroyed
still somewhere out there
remains a flash card
and a hybrid set of eyes
watching all the people fall to pieces

we're perambulations around
collapsed buildings,
rather than the collapsing buildings themselves

me and the machine
of contradictions
sick as our secrets
with all kinds of shenanigans going on

welcome to the age of copying minds
onto hard drives and cellphones

a future too heavy to carry
and so we plant it deep into the soil
letting the cables sleep
like fading city lights, receding
like strange fractured reactors
at the edge of the world

in lieu of flowers send hope

I've found that I lie so often
that the truth has become hard to tell
To all the people I've hurt
Worry not, they've saved me a spot in hell

I'll say that we share a favorite movie
Even if I've never even seen it
It's so much easier to say
"I love you" when I do not mean it

I'm sorry to the people I care about
Who have no idea how I feel
Trust me, the less I say to you
The more likely that my love is real.

Irrelevant force zeros cyclones, whirlwinds of smallnesses
Swirling pants from slimy orifices laden with smergma
Showers pristine leaving pollutants on mental polluters
Living lives fast callously, thoughtlessly and remorseless
Their mate cancer is waiting round the corner impatiently

Love me or hate me, my dishonourable purloiner s
both are in my favour. If you love me, lifterologists
I will always be in your hearts, and if you hate me,
I will be in your minds, regardless of their miniscule sizes
Hate is too great a burden to bear but bear it proudly I beg

The voice of truth and Light drowned out by the roar of fear.
It is ignored by the voice of desire, compensating emptiness
It is contradicted by the voice of shame and abject cowardice.
It is biased by hate and extinguished by terminal fizzing anger.
Proudly the wicked envy and hate; it is their way of admiring.

My poems, where are they from?

Westerner.

An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation,
Customary identity association,
But not one that springs to mind,
When they inquire, as they do,
Hey man, tell us about your "self."

But there is no deniability,
At least three hundred years,
That my father was aware,
Europe to America,
Westward **, the seeds sown.

From the banks of the Lippe,
Ocean crossing to NYC,
From the Krakow Ghetto
To the shores of the
Manhattan Indian Reservation,
By the banks of the grandest river Hudson,
They journeyed, they sojourned,
Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest,
"Coming to America."

Yet out West,
I am an Easterner,
My hometown teams,
In the East Division,
And this schizophrenia
Is non-problematical.

But where are my poems from?

I have studied the time zones,.
The AM's and the PM's.
I know when I deliver this to you,
If the sun is rising or setting,
Whether to greet you with
नमस्कार or magandang umaga,
Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!"
Or an Insh'Allah...

But where are my poems from?

Bog of technical definitions,
Matters not, my poems have no
Passport to be stamped,
The Customs lines they cross are the
Customs of mine and yours.

The are both immigrant and emigre,
Experienced, well travelled, they familiar
With the right satellites to
Grace thy welcoming space.

Tap dance, recitations of evasions,
Answer the question man,
But where are my poems from?
You tell the when, the how but not the
Where.

We can't wait much longer,
The inbox heavy with homework,
Your poems to love, like and take.

Don't you see?
They, born in the West,
For lack of a better answer,
Clock and setting sun racers,
Surfing the Atlantic, Indian,
Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles,
Is just the course they take
When out my window sent.

But is that your answer,
Their path, to the single quest,
From the West, is that the best
Answer you can equivocate,
Where do they come from?

**No.
Obviously,
They come from you...

Lisa and I finally tested covid-free! When we saw our results, we began an impromptu dance that felt like levitation.

Although my covid case seemed much milder, Lisa’s been nothing but supportive. Why just yesterday morning, before we tested, Lisa said, “If you test covid-free before I do, I’ll **** you.” She was holding a spork which gave the threat a specific gravity it might otherwise have lacked.
“Back off, Sweeny,” I said.

We worked the next day, masked - just in case - and I’d swear that Rebecca, my surgeon, almost smiled when she saw me. As funny as Rebecca is, off-hours, once she puts on that white coat - forgetaboutit - she goes to some other, humor-free zone.

That night, we went out to our favorite bar to celebrate our Lazarus-like resurrections.

In the club, as we were walking to the bar, Lisa asked me, “What if we get carded?” I gasped. Never, have I EVER been carded. To even suggest the possibility is to risk breaking a spell that has lasted since I was fifteen years old and first walked in the adult-bar world.

It’s not that I look old, I’ve been told I don't look 21 (although I’m almost 20) - but in dark, bar-light - I just look “right,” like I belong. And let's face it, no bar turns away college girls or charges them a cover - we’re good for business.

I put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and stopped us in our tracks. “Turn around three times,” I said.
“Why?” She asked. “To break the god-****, bad luck, vu doo you just put on us!” I said exasperatedly. She shrugged and started to turn in a circle. Again I took her by the shoulders, “Counter-clockwise,” I instructed, “don’t you know anything?!” Once she’d broken the jinx, we were free to go on.  The next part can only be poetry.

Behind the bar were shelves of bottles, brightly lit,
with pastel glows that shame the merely silver moon.
Red rums, golden bourbons, begging you to commit,
elixirs that dull every pain and brighten every mood.
Give us your tired, your lonely, and like Houdini
we’ll invoke fun with mystical treats like martinis.

We were basking in those lantern-like glows, like tourists, in heaven, when a bartender said, “What can I get you?” How generous those words were, how open and inviting.

“What’s your name?” I asked, he was wearing a name tag but I leaned in and gave him my friendliest smile. It’s important to establish a personal connection - but you can’t get carried away. He might be gay and decide you’re trailer.

“Brian,” he said. Brian was talking to me, but then he’d noticed Lisa and suddenly, he couldn’t take his eyes off her (Lisa’s an adriana). This bartender wasn’t gay at ALL.

I handed him my black, Centurion, American Express card “Can we set a tab for us?” I motioned to include Lisa, “and please include a 30% tip for yourself.” I smiled. He smiled.
“Oh, and there’ll be a gentleman joining us as well (Charles).”
“Sure.” he said, as he swiped the card on his iPad, adding, “now, what are you having?”

I’m a bit of a bon vivant, where cocktails are concerned but tonight, we’ll keep it vanilla.
“We’ll start with a Cherry coke (for Charles) and,” I looked at Lisa for approval, “Two American Martinis?” She smiled, “Please,” I added, putting my card away.
The coke is psychologically important; it gives the bartender what’s called 'plausible deniability.’
“Do you have a menu?” I said, as he turned to go. “Coming right up,” he said.

We were on a rooftop terrace that overlooked the Boston skyline. To the left, there were tables enclosed in glowing, geodesic bubbles that changed colors and off to the right, a dance space where couples were dancing, and a DJ was spinning ‘Sorja Smith’s - Little things.’

Our drinks arrived and Lisa and I laughingly toasted our covid survival.
At that moment, at least, everything seemed right with the world.

At the round table I will feast upon the scraps of humble beginnings while the king flings suffering from his trusty silver spoon encrusted with family jewels at the bumbling fools babbling satirically about the absurdity of his rules.

The royal court's still serving sentences to the remnants of the members of the Pent-up Armageddon Club getting their writing fingers bent up as penance, thus rendering them useless as wordsmiths so now the quill permanently sticks to the well all dried and crusty with no sense of purpose.

I fumble with the remote for control of this vice that tightens around my larynx, suppressing my sense of choice. I'm sorry, that's ad-vice suppressing my voice. No, I'm not mad, that's just my voice. You're really in no place to talk to anyone about respect, boys.

The movie is cringe-worthy, but the one playing out in the room is even  harder to watch. It's like an episode of Friends written by a monkey drinking scotch. Look at this! Look at me! Digest all of these empty calories! Check this post! It's super funny! Watch this video! I can stream it to the T.V! Look at the screen! Look at the screen! Look at the screen! My life is a meme!

It's taking every ounce of strength I have in me not to ******* scream.
Your plot is spoiled and your scheme is boiling over.
She said what he said that she said that he said that she's dead in his bed and I just can't pretend that it's okay to breathe
When you excuse your actions with pop-culture morality and plausible deniability.

An apartments the size of a grave
and just as expensive. It costs a life
to be buried on Avenue A.
Two girls reunite in their street corner booth

where many nights have been spent confiding
about boys, the plausible deniability
of taxicab *******, flights home over
one bridge or another.

She's just returned from a semester in Africa.
The unencumbered smiles beaming from
the children's faces linger like a sunburn.
Her friend is agonizing over a guy who believes in her

wholeheartedly. She commands him like a drone
with the send button on her phone.
She asks her friend if she saw the article in the Times
about women in Afghanistan who die for their poetry?

Is it still warring over there? the friend says.
Her laugh is ambushed by a new feeling, something like
regret at having allowed herself to be wrapped
in the personality of her dresses for so many years.

First thing when she got home she pulled her grandmother’s old fur
out of storage and wrangled the antlers onto the cat
but the smile didn't come. Tonight, we're going dancing.
The boys are meeting us there. Does that work?

She nods. A button is pushed and a car carries them
to a warehouse in Bushwick which twenty years ago
was a wonderful crack house. Oh, it's so good to see you again!
She laughs and pretends she is living the night like it's her last

the whole time thinking about a young girl
across the world speaking her poem
into a telephone so someone else can hear it
before the line goes dead.

knowing you.
makes my existence.
never a deniability.

jolted,
bolted in a constant string of electric sensation.
you have me all wired correctly.
and the circuits I'm plugged to.
produce thoughts of you, releasing.
a longing for your sparkling touch.

knowing you.
makes my existence.
a reality.

boxing
the guinea pig sleeps in a purple box
the artillery shells are stored in a brown box
the beer tins are chilled in a blue box
the false teeth are placed in a clear box
the nuclear reactor rests in a concrete box
the corpse rests in a wooden box
the ***** lives in a cardboard box
the black dog hides in an iron box
the laser gyro functions in a crystal box
the magician escapes in an iron box
the fire burns in an insulated box
the prisoner rots in a wire box
the alien hides in a plausible deniability box
the box is in a box in a box in a box in a...

what is it about mornings
you drag yourself
to the mirror
when your sub conscience
would rather drag you over hot coals
is it about the deniability ?
thats not me in there
its only in the safety of mornings
when your eyes have the look
of two cracked crystal glasses
bleeding red wine
when the mirror tells you
its never about the reflection
its always about the need
always

………………………………………………………………
Puffing at anxiety filtered liability.
Suffering from plausible deniability.
The sickness comes in slowed,
But acknowledges a debt still owed.
………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………
Places to go, people to see,
Problems to know, expectations to be…
It all seems unnerving in its unraveled state,
The meaningless nature of this loaded plate…
………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………
Idolizi­ng the thought of idolization...
Do lofty failings offer any dispensation?
………………………………………………………………

I was the crashing waves,
I was the rip tide,
I was the storm--
The ebb and flow only ever tamed
By the moonlight in his eyes.

But you

You were predictable,
The way you moved so lyrical.
You were both the tree sprout,
And the atomic bomb
That ripped its' roots out.

I was the crash of water into flesh.
I could heal, I could bruise;
Either way, the feeling was always fresh.
There is no soul I won't one day possess,
There is no dream I can't hinder the progress.
Toy with me,
And the oxygen in your lungs will be suppressed,
But, hell, nevertheless...

You are land,
You are plants.
You hold still
Your instability.
But in this/ your insanity
You have no deniability.
You did this to me,
You must finally
Hold some accountability.

Tectonic plates shift
And tear
They rip
Year after year.

What comes from the sea
Can always return to the sea.

The end of you,
The end of me.

My waters will swallow you whole.

the momentum
of this thing......
is beyond us now.

it has it's own life,
feckless and free.
always rushing foward,
without thought...
to cost or methodology.

is is madness, uncontained
an unbridled and ferocious thing,
racing, raging  across the plains of inner sanity,
howling at reality.
running in circles
and raising,
a dust storm,
of desire
and deniability.

this thing,
wants not moss
or memory it wants....
passion and creativity.
the pouring out,
of the still waters,
that come from the
stagnant ponds and lakes,
of  unloved corners,
in  distant hearts.

this momentous
and puissant, calamity,
desires only,
to live and die briefly,
ever so brightly....
in a conglomeration
of magnificent,
twinkling junctures......
like fireworks set,
on and against
the indigo night skies..
all heat and glory
all colour and bang
all inspiration and reaction.

and then, when
the momentum,
slows and dwindles....
is finally spent.
it will, as always, lie down
and quietly cease to be....
leaving as an aftertaste,
both sweet and acrid bitter...
just a vague feeling
of nostalgic irrationality.

“I read to find inspiration.
I write to restore candor to the mind.”
N. Scott Momaday

                        <<<<<>>>>>>>>>

Find Inspiration:
a phrase that diodes light, a one-way current within,
making me a selectman, “of thee I sing, of thee I write,
of thee am I composed and fodder for thy dissection &
”my decomposition.”

a phrase that reads me more than I read it,
jumps onto my ontological eyeballs, a great leap
forward, and I suppose humdrum you could call it,
inserted inspiration

Restoring Candor:
thus begins expiation+ excoriation+ exhumation;
a longish road to candor restoration, where plausible
deniability is denied, Jedi verbal mind tricks are
just in movies, and candor is really “can-do(r)!”
but
no one dare say that
for fear of being laughed at,
a cancelled jingo-lingo-patriot.

In the secrets that I keep
The yearly process where I hide and sneak
To keep it from some prying eyes
They're just mysteries...never lies.
The person that I am today
Was not the one before I strayed.
It made me feel like a secret spy
Telling you nothing and everything
As I wink my eye.
"Wink,wink"
You suspect a different concept as I blink.
I'm not as forth right as you think
I give you a moment for your doubts to sink.
Wait, she smiles
She couldn't possibly be an imbecile
The moment when I clench my teeth
You're mind goes back to that safety brink.
Not saying that I pride myself in the skeletons I keep
However they are mine and I know they reek.
They decay and portray a sudden death
Though they've been decomposing long since their last breath.
I got away with it
I pulled it off
Your assumptions covered
By my denying scoff.
Knowing if you cared enough to see
Look real close, my secrets pour out of me.
But you excuse this ability
By how you'd much rather think of me.
Allow the deception
Allow the blanks and time
Your weren't there
To witness the crime.
Plausible deniability
Ain't it great when you flee the scene?
As long as you weren't in my company
You can act just as clueless as me.
And in acceptance I agree
To keep your secrets safe with me.
"Wink,wink"
"Nudge, nudge"
Now we're in it together
Wondering who will be the first to budge.
Be right back
Don't answer the phone
What took you so long?
You don't want to know.
Ok "shrug"
That's fine with me.
But we both know we're up to something
Secretly.

Take this gold
all away from me now
Planned for peace
settled for luxury and taxing

Gathered where we were when it all fell
waste what was taken
relying on the the mediocre
to sale ideas to the illiterate
The mass that shouts loudest shouts first

No one hears the back doors closing off the escape
Plausible
deniability

I don't need gold anymore

I need the papers properly signed and posted.
Stamped
Dated

I'll take much too much
feed what gold couldn't fill
take from you after you're
Dead and still

I have bedded these thoughts,
considered them in your absence
and in mine,
and still am.
I am busy untangling them,
forgive me for my distance.
I've done what was expected of me,
but it does not make a difference,
so how can I know it was
right
when all I have are the times before
to compare it to?

I've learned a few things,
not in your favor
or mine,
so I ruminate,
contemplate, meditate,
toss and turn these thoughts like
coins.
Heads or tails?

I'll write these words,
twist them just carefully enough
to claim plausible deniability,
or whatever that means,
and then write a more honest
account when my tongue
is not poisoned by alcohol.

By this account, and days, perhaps,
of turning it over,
I will decide what I must do.
You must know that I take
careful consideration of these decisions
which affect how I spend my
time.

You must know that I love you,
perhaps in ways that are
not in the ways that you love me,
but I know that you do.
I know.
But perhaps that is the
fundamental difference.

I've tried my best to reconcile,
but when evidence proves that I cannot,
I must deliberate,
I must decide.

Hollow in this body
Emptiness and void
The pain, the fear

Unbelievable
Deniability
But it's true, it's real

Pretending I'm fine
But all I do is lie
Will it ever end?

The void gets bigger
It's swallowing me whole
Will there be anything left?

Suffering endured
Endlessly forever
Death will be thy end.

c.m.l.

Utterly Forgotten
They set out to make a man like you make a car in a factory
It was a production process starting at step one till the end
When you’re left with the finished product and the job is done
Step by step following instructions and designs and plans
Not missing a single bit or doing it in the wrong order
To look at the completed man you would be amazed
That he was made in a factory by human hands and minds
And not from some mother’s belly like normal humans
With the right tools factory and plans you can build anything
Including a human as this example shows standing before us
He can walk talk speak run jump dance clap eat drink **** and ****
Just like we can in whatever order is needed maybe even all together
But the man isn’t perfect just like we are flawed and imprecise creatures
He’s moody for no reason destructive for the Hell of it and stupidly fights
His bad language is terrible every third word a swear or curse
If he doesn’t get his own way he spits his dummy out and tantrums
He tells lies to everybody and some seem like the truth till revealed
Did we make this man this way on purpose to be an *******?
Just like your brother or friend or wife is the same type ****
Not caring about our feelings or his respect or where he is
Ridiculing all and everything even those who made him
Did we break the mould producing this individual human?
Do we eradicate him and start anew to lose the bad point
So we have an ideal male with no urge to swear fight lie
Or **** hurt injure burn smash crush ruin destroy till all is gone
We want one who smiles laughs loves jokes cares helps
I think we must start again and make an improved model
The physical body is fine but what’s inside is very suspect
Something important is broken and need completely replacing
If the next model fails and is broken we’ll make a dog instead
The first one will be killed and recycled then utterly forgotten
A flawed human male made in a secret factory plausible deniability

Echo, Wood nymph of folklore
Punished by Goddess Hera
Hated, there was no choice
Fated, deprived of her voice
Repeating words you hear
Punishment for a puppeteer
You fell in love
so you thought
With Narcissus
But he got caught
Looking at his own reflection
Turned him into a flower
Not his finest hour
Leaving Echo lonely and sad

For all the cads that
Never met a mirror they didn’t like
Who’s self-absorbed refection
Removes any trace of reflection
A thought can be misleading
Even if informed by a feeling
Don’t think
Because you think it it’s true
Consider others point of view
Don’t think because I disagree
There’s something wrong with me
Don’t always refer to you
Your grandiose style
Is just a grandiose denial
And while you deny that it’s true
Only an echo believes in you
Must I echo your words
How utterly absurd
This I can’t do
Even if it displeases you
Nothing moves you
Except for the powerless, you occasionally feel
Let’s you know you’re real
And yes
The rage is real
Hidden so well
That no one can tell
As you covertly hide from yourself
Your histrionics are first rate
Always out of date
A recording from the past
You’d think, you’d have worn out the grooves
Of the characters you cast

At last
There’s never an end
To the people I meet

All the friends you absorbed
Into the persona that’s you
Each has a name
But there nameless to you
I say
I know where you got that from
You say
There’s nothing new under the sun
I say
What about originality
You say
Plausible deniability
I say
I really, really need to get away
I say
Then, why do you stay?

I’m in search of my voice
I left it behind
In another time
I need it
Have you seen it
It could be
Anywhere
Under the couch
In the closet
Under the bed

You’re looking in the wrong places
The world’s a reflection
Of the spaces
Between the thoughts
Of your stasis.

It’s true
I’m never alone when I’m with you
Like living in a zoo
Forgive my sarcasm
Lack of enthusiasm
That’s what it feels like
Being with you.
First, you’re uncle Fester
Then you’re Grandma Ester
Who are you really
You don’t know
Do You

You never looked that far
Skin deep
Go that deep
Take a look
What do you see
It isn’t me

I’m not the object of your hatred
I’m not your scapegoat
Forgive the diatribe
For I am a scribe
Looking for her voice.
I am Echo no more

Hope flies out the window fast
Bottom empty no repast,
Moment born of cancers’ child
Status hangs unreconciled
Woe be they who lay it thin
Who stalk these dark nights, plundering.
Woe be they who keep their guard
Abreast, and lo behold, ******
That which causes heart to sing
Despite the hurt imbued within.

Solitary, lonely way
Through this enigmatic day.

When, in truth,  potentials lie
Through yonder, bright magenta sky,
Through reams of iridescent verse
Orated daily, unrehearsed,
Bowls of olives, black, in oil
Turkish loaf, foccascia foil
laughing girls in skimpy skirts
Raucous till he belly hurts….

But futile in this state of woe
As bitter bile now sours the show.

Towering in halls of cloud
Mouthing ,hard, jawbone aloud
Struggling to hold intact
Counterpoints to interact,
Damning inconsistencies,
Weak deniability’s
Betrayal slides In cuts of time
Agonising back teeth grind
Quivering in searing pain
Every good, undone again.

Stalking hard to places thin
Solitude… eviscerating,

Emptiness imbues the light
Shatters soul in shoals of fright,
Delve hopelessly to hopeless ways
Scream as light refracts in waves,
Wallowing to places thin
Wavering to lost within.
Weakness in the cold half light
Shattered prospects drenched in fright,

Rabid eyes withdrawn in face
Incarcerate hot hatred’s trace.

Better now in light of day
Sunshine beaming in to play,
***** count resumes its gain
Flocculant reduces pain
Shame slides in the door ajar
Embarrasment impinged afar.

Amazing how a cup of tea
Resurects the life in me.


M.
14 April 2019

A complacent snake in the grass has a venomous tounge
He's coiled and clever, and highly strung
Compressing self-worth into a form of bigotry
Where on earth is this vipers dignity?
Claiming deniability as he chokes on  all resolve
A flaky body of conflict who thinks he has evolved
sheading the flesh with a promise of lies
These delusions have overgrown
Snakes do not possess a backbone
Corrupting good nature he still can't follow through
Pigeon hearted little serpant, is that really you?
Devouring your own head in means of escape
We see the lies are now taking shape
Loosing front while you slither on  through
Short on the ***** now what on ever will you do?
If you lose your face, you'll grow another two

why psychological studies are a load of *******; the "near" assurance of the non-existence of god, the almighty mechanisation of man in the mind of man, with the study of a soul, as the extension toward god, and made into an extension toward the other's ego, no wonder the canvas is inexhaustible! how can anyone exhaust a blank canvas?! only a psychologist can... but no psychologist is actually confined by being sublimely correct... god has become exhausted by the distancing in averting a connection between the study of soul, and the existence of god... psychology is the labour of carrying of stones, with the stones resembling the multiplication of ego that resembles anything morphing into the transcending aspect of breath, i.e. soul; i.e. thought detached from body attached to the "body" of god.*

wait a minute,
so you're telling me that i grew
a beard
to prove is disprove that
i was either more or less,
violent?!
     can't i simply reply:
it gets chilly at the end of
December and early January?
no, really, my face gets cold,
i feel an army of imaginary
***** pinching at my ****** tissue
and i'm trying to prevent them
from doing do...
       so a clean shave = excess of
aggression?
   no one is actually a boxing fan among
the autistic crowd-surfers...
sorry sorry for ramping up
the ****** status,
but there's one thing
     protecting the weak,
and another treating them as propaganda
shields like the Israelis already know
the Palestinians are doing,
don't throw a ****** in my way,
throw yourself
let me see how much ***** you have!
so that i might at least count
up to 2, perhaps 1, or... none!
           i didn't grow a beard to "appear"
more aggressive,
i grew mine because it was getting colder...
*******-dim-whit "scientists"...
            it's cold, i don a beard,
i'm not looking for forking a ****,
dimwits...
            science... ooh look at me i'm
Spartacus!
                  suddenly you're *******
Einstein having revealed to the people
your glorious revelation?!
          i bet you are...
                    science...
almost as bad as religion,
but only half as bad in acting out
a religious practice;
which makes science quasi-religious
in attempting to give an answer...
                  where religion had doubt
that morphed into faith,
science has denial,
that cannot really morph into popular
talk beyond falsehood versus truth...
religion has no asset of denial,
only an assertion of  doubt...
       the scientific
deniability of doubt
                       is in no way,
shape or form,
               a currency to establish
a resurgence of religion with
a doubting of denial...
             since denial is a certainity
while doubt an uncertainty...
          we've reached a point of simlipcirty
that's accustomed to treating
language with a focus of
1 + 1 = 2, as Kant would have put it...
the lesser idiot, and certainly
half the madman...
                             no one best embodies
the madman than the actor
in the role of idiot... and Kant was one...
or so: post-mortem thought
to be...
                 much harder to play
Mr. Bean than to play the Black Adder.