Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog

Forty Days

A Season of Grief, a Season of Rejoicing

November 9-December 20, 2014

For Barbara Beach Alter 
It is Christmas morning in Saco, Maine, where today Bett, Aaron, Emily, Thomasin and our beloved cousin Marie find ourselves gathered to celebrate our first Christmas without dadima (our name for Barbara Beach Alter).  Brother Tom writes that already in India he and Carol with Jamie, Meha and Cayden (the only of her seven greatgrandchildren Barry never held) have celebrated.  Today Marty and Lincoln join us in Maine.

This gathering of documents—notes, drafts of memorial services, poems, homilies—is my christmas present to each of you.  It is a record, certainly subjective, of grief and rejoicing.

John Copley Alter
1:14 a.m.
Saco, Maine 
November 9

Loved ones,
Barbara Beach Alter died peacefully at 2:55 Sunday morning (today).  Bett and I had the good fortune to be there for the final beating of her good strong heart.  She murmured charcoal.  The nurse who was bathing her afterwards noted how few wrinkles there were, and it is true.
For those of you nearby you may if you want visit Mom in her room at hospice this morning (until noon).  Visit? Darshan? Paying respects?
Bett and I plan to be there around 11:00.
Much love to all. A blessed occasion.
John

 
November 10

Matthew 5:13-19
Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

yesterday in the early hours my mother died her saltiness
restored all that had through the months of her old
age and convalescence obscured the lens of her life cleaned
away so that for us now more and more clearly
as we hear about her through the memory and love
of so many people her good works shine forth in
their glory but it is to the days of her
convalescence the days of her dementia I would turn our
minds those of us who spent time with her at
Wingate long-term care facility remember that Barbara Beach Alter became
at times fierce in her commanding us that ‘not one
letter, not one stroke of a letter’ of the commandments
should be altered do you remember that those of you
and us who were given the work and gift of
spending time with Barry in those days in that condition

remember for instance how fussy she became about the sequence
of food on her tray how impatient with us for
our trespasses and violations how adamant that we look forward
for instance and not back at her how she would
say stop holding my hand and saying you love me
you have work to do o she was almost impossible
and certainly incoherent and demented in her obsession with law
and procedure fussy impatient imperious I do not forget being
scolded reamed out put in my place for having somehow
failed to do what the ‘law and the prophets’ demand

Barbara beach alter in the days before hospice in the
nursing home and hospital and even if we are honest
in the final years of her life found herself caught
up in the rigidity of her anxious desire to be
faithful to the laws and commandments of her life and
that made her at times extremely demanding to be with

amen and the epistemological confusion of course the clash between
her reality and ours it was all an ordeal for
her and for those of us who kept her company

and yet and yet through it all and now as
that ordeal for her is no longer paramount as she
dances in heaven all the wrinkles and discomfort of her
life removed and forgiven Barbara Beach Alter kept the faith
living in the midst such that those who cared for
her most intimately the strangers all professed your mother blessed
us


Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.



So, brother and sister, here are my thoughts about the memorial service(s).
Let’s find a time when we three can be present; that’s the most important thing.  My life is currently the least constrained by agenda and schedule.  And then the grandchildren, recognizing that Jamie may not be able to come.  So, our work is to find our when our kids are able to come. Bett and I are exploring that with our three, each of whom has some constraint: Emily, the cost; Thomasin, the piebaking demands, Aaron school.  But we are flexible.

Much love.

John



Walking in my mother’s wake today some trees
a gentle breeze some dogs a little boy
the neighborhood and I took joy from interaction

we are at best a fraction in love’s
calculation after all heaven I realize is not
above or below cannot be taught comes naturally

as death does walking in my mother’s wake
I found new allies learned yet again not
to take myself too seriously to be caught

off guard as a matter of principle and
not to insist that I understand but live
in the midst of forgiveness


in my mother’s wake I am reading these books for
some way to continue to knock on her door Wendell
Berry he can tell me some things and William Blake
he can take me closer and I remember she described
me once as an unused Jewish liberal so I am
reading about protestant liberalism but ham that I am also
reading Carl Hiassen’s Bad Monkey and Quo Vadimus that my
daughter left behind and mythologically Reflections from yale divinity school
no fooling Denise Levertov David Sobel Galway Kinnell’s translation of
Rilke some wake
 
November 11

Matthew 25:1-13
Jesus said, "Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

this morning in the wee hours my mother died one
of the wise bridesmaids whose lamp to the end was
full she carried always the flask of oil that is
joy that is the love of the kingdom of heaven
and of the bridegroom a flask always replenished by prayer
by devotion by a humble courageous living in the midst

she expected every day the bridegroom to come in other
words and she was also one who would never refuse
to share even the last drop with somebody in need

and at the end it is so clear the door
into the banquet hall was not closed to her as
it is not closed to any one of us foolishness
is to believe otherwise to believe that the bridegroom will
not come today in the early morning in the wee
hours that is when he comes in the midst of
other plans is when he comes even when we are
doing what we assume to be good work when we
are doing what gives us pleasure our duty joy comes
then unsummoned unpredictable random even according to all our best
laid plans my mother loved so many things her pleasure
included dancing late in her life terminally unsteady she invented
what we loved to urge her to do namely the
sitting jig and we grew up with images of her
Isadora Duncan dancing with white scarves in an enchanted forest

Barbara Beach Alter aka Barry aka dadima bari nani aunt
and daughter wife missionary is now I know dancing a
rollicking boisterous jig on the shores of a lake that
is as her grandson once confided to her god in
liquid form spilly Beach of course also dyslexic executive function
compromised she was but one who loved to be always
in the midst surrounded by loved ones some of them
absolute strangers she shared her oil because for her it
came welling up from an inexhaustible source a deep eternal
well of such illumination and laughter such giddy divine chuckles

for her there was to be no exclusion she would
not find the awful idea of being one of the
foolish applicable to anybody but happily she welcomed into her
midst so many it is hard to imagine how many

so there she is now a bridesmaid dancing for joy
in such elegant clothing with such perpetual brightness

amen hallelujah rejoice


sometimes I think she pulled us all out of the
magic hat sometimes I think she knit us all into
one of her theologically impossible sweaters and then with a
wink she passes through the eye of the needle and
is gone and we are left to play in her
honor endless hands of solitaire sometimes I think we are
no more than the hermeneutics of her life the epistemology
artless she was not her heart like one of those
magical meals for her then a doxology praise then praise
she knows salvation

what is a life’s work it is like a landscape
dotted with oases and gardens for the thirsty and the
lost it is like scraping through dry barren ground and
finding there suddenly not only the theology of paradise but
such seeds your hands ache to begin the planting what
is a life’s work what has been shut for too
long opens what has been shut for too long opens

a life’s work renews itself then with death the kernel
of hope that dies in springtime sprouting is what a
life’s work becomes
 
November 12

John 21:15-17
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep.

I know my mother very much enjoyed having breakfast with
god and that the meals of her nursing home drove
her nearly crazy and that when at last she found
hospice o she again could imagine the feast of heaven
at which Jesus breaks bread with us and speaks with
such clarity do you love me more than these I
know it was questions as simple and overwhelming as this
that dominated her final days do you love me love
being  one of the last five words she attempted to
speak do you love me she wrestled in her last
months with epistemology and psychology and theology and all had
to do with whether she could answer unequivocally you know
that I love you and that she could say of
her life that she had broken bread with god we
all remember in her life those moments when there was
a great gladness an innocent acceptance of what lay immediately
in her presence now those months in the nursing home
tormented her in precisely this fashion that it was hard
to accept to be in the midst of such mediocrity
and woe to be innocent and accepting but now praise
god there she is a happy guest at the great
feast and we left behind bereft can acknowledge that she
loved god in her own fashion as best she possibly
could and do you remember being with her there in
hospital or nursing home and she commanding us to move
beyond holding her hand and saying we loved her and
to feed the sheep to do that work which will
make of this earth this here and now an outstation
of heaven Barbara Beach Alter loved god in her own
fashion as best she possibly could we remember that and
that memory is today like a great network a web
of love and inspiration o we would gladly one more
time hold her hand and say I love you but
we know also clearly I think today what the work
is to love our neighbor as ourselves to work for
peace and justice I think of my sister with her
colleagues in WEIGO and how her sisters have understood her
grief  let us break our fast together then glad for
the worldwide web that in these days is reading the
gospel of the life of Barbara Beach Alter praise god


feed
tend
feed
in exchange for his three denials Peter is given three imperative verbs
feed
tend
feed
this is the commission Jesus after breakfast on the shore of the sea of Galilee gives to Peter
twice he says feed
in the commonwealth of Massachusetts 700,000 people are hungry
1 in 6 americans are hungry
living in uncertainty about their daily bread
more than 18,000,000 in Africa
842,000,000 around the world go to bed hungry


Marty and Tom
The thinking about the memorial service is taking this slow and cautious turn, namely that we have three services (at least), one in Sudbury, one in New Haven (allowing Stan and Chuck and others to come) at First Presbyterian (with Blair Moffett we hope), and of course one in India.
The date frame appears to be somewhere between December 17 and 20, unless you have other thoughts.
The actual cremation happens tomorrow.  Lincoln, Bett, Alexis and I will attend, and then of course there is In the Midst on Friday.
Love you more than tongue can tell.
John


the thing with a life well lived is that many
people have partaken the way let’s say a river moves
down through any number of different lives all the time
sedulously seeking the shortest path to the sea to steal
a line from somebody or other meandering a watershed within
which so many of us find a way to live
our own lives nourished and for each of us the
river distinct and different white water the slow fertile meander
the delta and we say to each other this is
the composite river


sometimes I feel like a sleepwalker trying to run a
marathon sometimes I feel like a speedbump in a blizzard

an arrow in a wind tunnel sometimes I feel like

a hazard sign in an old age home sometimes I
feel like a tyrannosaurus rex trying to ride a tricycle

and sometimes those are the good days when identity is
strong like an icicle in a heat wave is strong

I try to read wisdom literature at happy hour scotch
and Solomon can’t go wrong I think and sometimes I

feel like crying
 
November 13

four days ago we were left alone there with your
body after your breathing ceased and the proud stubborn beating
of your heart and in those four days beloved mother
so much I would love to say to you and
share the antics of the squirrel late leaves on the
neighborhood trees music Orion the network the atlas of love
your life has left behind and all the words we
are the gospel of today and I would sit with
you there then in silence as I sit now four
days later vigilant insomniac aware that the kingdom of heaven
is not more complicated than singing than love than dancing

we are all dancing the dance lord siva teaches and
the s

Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.

Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.

How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the ***** is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe

a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide

once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.

Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,

I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.

Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy

past pain,
keeping his heart
such company

as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall

into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and *******
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.

Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, crussian bones of the law
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
Now your Motherland’s mine
Swine

when i was born within the Chernobyl aftermath, and the nurse tried to **** me, in that she almost choked me, enlarging my heart, and when that didn't **** me, and they attempted to befriend me, and gave me a brain haemorrhage... and that didn't **** me... i started to think: what will? i can't say i'm in hell, i can only assert limbo: i'm not a monster, just yet... it's only later that i became *******, when they wrapped me in a blanket of denials, to ensure their society was a beacon of false hope and even more false love... that last bit is the cherry on the top... i once hated ridicule: now i started to loath playground like games of lies... i just started thinking: these people are a bit worthless... how could people i once respected become so... so... pointless? it's not a case of: oh poor me... i'm laughing... asking for the next quickened allotment of epitaph in marble... i prefer the pain rather than this kiddy game of denying something being true... that sort of **** just makes up for being thought about too much... it exhaust my mental capacity... limbo is quiet fine, i'm apprehensive where these people think they live... utopia isn't exactly a best-described vicinity... but when did people start to become so ugly? it's slow down here, the big bang just happened, or as i say: with the kettle boiling water... biology's darwinism timescale for a reaction, and physics's timescale of the big bang theory are not exactly fascinating for me, boiling my water to make a cup of tea... i am literally split-mind concerning these two "barometres"... it's just hard juggling these two (0, 0) coordinates... to stress a beginning... evidently juggling these two narratives leaves us living our lives on amphetamines... insect like... it's hard to even make time or emotional investment in: a death in a village... it's doubly hard to make adjustments for a tomorrow, giving our input in beginning: no one knows, billions and billions... years... and then back toward the befitting cranium... it really is man with an omni-characteristic, well... at least one of them... which clarifies itself in a way: given that we're no longer exploring this orb, globalisation ensured the tribe died... we can go in circles: round and round... there's never a clear vector in sight... no real unknown land to challenge... it's all been tamed... once the savannah, now the zoo... as one german noted: the melancholy of the completed house... all the work gone into constructing it, the thrills, all gone... it just stands as perfect, as it is already derelict... hard to keep track of a two-beginnings system... it's hard to find awe these days, i mean awe that might allow an Aristotle, rather than just looking stupid... i think that England really does require an invasion to shake it up a little bit, it looks so docile in its arguments... so certain: "poised" to conquer... i can get (0, 0) of the big bang, a big blank... my brain just became scrambled eggs... i store that **** in my head: i'll see forever-never-tomorrow... i store the monkey-suit in my head (the other (0, 0) beginning) - i'll begin to wonder: but the monkeys have it so easy! me panda! me and bamboo! darwinism has either killed of history that we made in the centuries a.d. / a few centuries b.c., or what they're prescribing us really can't fit into one head, or into a few, to make it into a crowd... because when a few ditto-heads ingest one wise monkey talking over another monkey... the atheistic crowd is the quickest to disperse... as with the constant banging on about the number of stars in the universe... i like to look at the number of carbon dioxide bubbles in a glass of Perrier water.

well, maybe because they aren't
my contemporaries... but i despise Chopin
like despise Liszt... the fact that the latter
smoked cigars is just asking
for me to abhor him... and that a poet
   succumbed to his virtuoso skills
with dire tears of
       a jealous thread (matt arnold)...
for me Liszt and Chopin battered the piano,
literally, battered the piano...
     could have slaughtered a cow also...
but then again there's a part of my that says:
well, if the god argument is infantile,
how about the nation argument, is that infantile also?
are we to be bleached entities,
or merely abstract pronoun users? you see,
   they stole Copernicus from the Poles,
and Mickiewicz, and evidently Chopin is no Pole...
but a prize nonetheless... so they keep him
as that rare thing: something born into an almost
inescapable state prone to disintegration...
   what with the monarchy being
     one of import, either a Swedish electer ruler,
or a Hungarian, or a Russian, or a German (e.g.
house of Sas) - a monarchical brothel,
   otherwise known as an aristocratic "democracy"...
    it's just a good thing i don't like him... i don't see how
a piano can be ***** as it has been by either Liszt or
Chopin, sure enough, nimple fingers,
joseph ii hapsburg, mozart, the film amadeus citation:
                                                               too many notes...
    a bit like me... for its worth, the piano is so delicate,
    so so delicate... how it becomes an instrument that
requires competitors, how you need more virtuosos
who can play the **** music than original from-scratch
composers... piano: it just asks for gliding hands,
it's not asking for these megalomanic
tunes that might leave you with a wish from an audience
memember: to break your fingers...
evidently nothing more than a death / ******* stare...
or why the true resting place
of Chopin is Japan... as odd as it might seem...
           plays the piano great... plays a woman
  like a bagpipe...
                  aren't the two related?
     and when i first heard *ola gjeilo on the radio
i was a woman watching a romcom...
                              the whole northern lights album...
my: a feast!
         just one of the few contemporary composers
that i can invoke...
     so coming back to the piano:
   me more of a Debussy and Eric Satie palette...
they just glide... i can only imagine
       a flight of migrating swans,
   or ice-skating...
    Chopin and Liszt is a mathematical headache...
        solo piano and the gentleness of approach...
    and only today,
   a lesbian couple travelling to manchester...
one of them phoned the radio station
and asked for a request...
      i've been dying to note this song / composer
down for a year or so... always heard the song:
never the composer's name...
                   ludovico einaudi,
much to my taste: the piano still remains
   a wardrobe item of the orchestral architecture,
rather than a door of your fridge...
constantly yapping for: more, more, more.
you glide across it,
tease it, rather than taste it,
  or subject it to a rubric of quickened calculation,
it stuff the room,
the best you can do is make it sound airy,
    make diacritical echoes from it,
than actual letters...
           say: the acute above the o, rather than
the o and acute in ó....
such a delicate thing: the piano:
which is why i never understood Chopin,
or felt a need for a national argument
       needing him, propping him on a peddlestool...
having him as a national treasure...
                  i always remained true to
those who settled for gliding over the alphabet...
    rather than immersing themselves in it...
that kind of composition, that simply fakes lazy...
     they are the ones i admire...
     and yes, given that dialectics has been
completely forsaken,
   the best we can do is give an indulgence
in an opinion, and make comments of
diacritic...
   women, chocolates,
men: dialectics...
                    or at least that's how i find myself,
making diacritic comments...
   akin to piano (contra chess,
    white notes consonants,
black notes vowels,
or should i say: any letter with a diacritical
distinction is the black note,
vowels and consonants are uniform in white)...

anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs
noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?

she's awkward and shy,
but she's got a thing for that guy,
the one making a fool of himself,
falling at the entrance of the class

they have been classmates since 1st grade,
they have held few eye contacts,
they have collided in a few bumps,
but never have they ever spoke to one another

he shouted the answer for her,
he said her voice is too low,
he tells stupidly foolish jokes,
that secretly cracks her up

The very breath I breathe each day
Is imprisoned by your name
A captive of my heart's desire
With only your beauty to blame

I dare not close my eyes to sleep
For I'm haunted by your smile
Like the serpent in the Garden
Your purpose is to beguile

Even your shadow takes my breath
And causes my heart to stare
Forgetting to beat as you pass by
From the moment it sees you there

The flowers look on with envy
Knowing they can't compete
The magical smell of your perfume
Makes the flowers incomplete

Your name has held a thousand lips
Your beauty, a thousand smiles
At least a thousand broken hearts
Now, a thousand and one denials

/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.

I cannot recall you gentle
yet through your heavy love
I have become
an image of your once delicate flesh
split with deceitful longings.

When strangers come and compliment me
your aged spirit takes a bow
jingling with pride
but once you hid that secret
in the center of furies
hanging me
with deep ******* and wiry hair
with your own split flesh
and long suffering eyes
buried in myths of little worth.

But I have peeled away your anger
down to the core of love
and look mother
I Am
a dark temple where your true spirit rises
beautiful
and tough as chestnut
stanchion against your nightmare of weakness
and if eyes conceal
a squadron of conflicting rebellions
I learned from you
to define myself
through your denials

audre lorde

Grow organic gardens, untainted seeds, saved and collected
plow the dirt, rich red earth, autumn's bountiful birth
food pure and wild, to eat - a way of life!

we cannot thrive in unearthly soils
in their poisonous, GMO field of spoils

awaken from our sleeping denials
autism, sickness born in the chemical fields
all the killing of you and I

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...

I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation

raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down

she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”

gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet

she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of  “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******,
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm

I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup

her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments

parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,

”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”


and she would be wright...

The bows glided down, and the coast
Blackened with birds took a last look
At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye;
The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck.

Then good-bye to the fishermanned
Boat with its anchor free and fast
As a bird hooking over the sea,
High and dry by the top of the mast,

Whispered the affectionate sand
And the bulwarks of the dazzled quay.
For my sake sail, and never look back,
Said the looking land.

Sails drank the wind, and white as milk
He sped into the drinking dark;
The sun shipwrecked west on a pearl
And the moon swam out of its hulk.

Funnels and masts went by in a whirl.
Good-bye to the man on the sea-legged deck
To the gold gut that sings on his reel
To the bait that stalked out of the sack,

For we saw him throw to the swift flood
A girl alive with his hooks through her lips;
All the fishes were rayed in blood,
Said the dwindling ships.

Good-bye to chimneys and funnels,
Old wives that spin in the smoke,
He was blind to the eyes of candles
In the praying windows of waves

But heard his bait buck in the wake
And tussle in a shoal of loves.
Now cast down your rod, for the whole
Of the sea is hilly with whales,

She longs among horses and angels,
The rainbow-fish bend in her joys,
Floated the lost cathedral
Chimes of the rocked buoys.

Where the anchor rode like a gull
Miles over the moonstruck boat
A squall of birds bellowed and fell,
A cloud blew the rain from its throat;

He saw the storm smoke out to ****
With fuming bows and ram of ice,
Fire on starlight, rake Jesu's stream;
And nothing shone on the water's face

But the oil and bubble of the moon,
Plunging and piercing in his course
The lured fish under the foam
Witnessed with a kiss.

Whales in the wake like capes and Alps
Quaked the sick sea and snouted deep,
Deep the great bushed bait with raining lips
Slipped the fins of those humpbacked tons

And fled their love in a weaving dip.
Oh, Jericho was falling in their lungs!
She nipped and dived in the nick of love,
Spun on a spout like a long-legged ball

Till every beast blared down in a swerve
Till every turtle crushed from his shell
Till every bone in the rushing grave
Rose and crowed and fell!

Good luck to the hand on the rod,
There is thunder under its thumbs;
Gold gut is a lightning thread,
His fiery reel sings off its flames,

The whirled boat in the burn of his blood
Is crying from nets to knives,
Oh the shearwater birds and their boatsized brood
Oh the bulls of Biscay and their calves

Are making under the green, laid veil
The long-legged beautiful bait their wives.
Break the black news and paint on a sail
Huge weddings in the waves,

Over the wakeward-flashing spray
Over the gardens of the floor
Clash out the mounting dolphin's day,
My mast is a bell-spire,

Strike and smoothe, for my decks are drums,
Sing through the water-spoken prow
The octopus walking into her limbs
The polar eagle with his tread of snow.

From salt-lipped beak to the kick of the stern
Sing how the seal has kissed her dead!
The long, laid minute's bride drifts on
Old in her cruel bed.

Over the graveyard in the water
Mountains and galleries beneath
Nightingale and hyena
Rejoicing for that drifting death

Sing and howl through sand and anemone
Valley and sahara in a shell,
Oh all the wanting flesh his enemy
Thrown to the sea in the shell of a girl

Is old as water and plain as an eel;
Always good-bye to the long-legged bread
Scattered in the paths of his heels
For the salty birds fluttered and fed

And the tall grains foamed in their bills;
Always good-bye to the fires of the face,
For the crab-backed dead on the sea-bed rose
And scuttled over her eyes,

The blind, clawed stare is cold as sleet.
The tempter under the eyelid
Who shows to the selves asleep
Mast-high moon-white women naked

Walking in wishes and lovely for shame
Is dumb and gone with his flame of brides.
Susannah's drowned in the bearded stream
And no-one stirs at Sheba's side

But the hungry kings of the tides;
Sin who had a woman's shape
Sleeps till Silence blows on a cloud
And all the lifted waters walk and leap.

Lucifer that bird's dropping
Out of the sides of the north
Has melted away and is lost
Is always lost in her vaulted breath,

Venus lies star-struck in her wound
And the sensual ruins make
Seasons over the liquid world,
White springs in the dark.

Always good-bye, cried the voices through the shell,
Good-bye always, for the flesh is cast
And the fisherman winds his reel
With no more desire than a ghost.

Always good luck, praised the finned in the feather
Bird after dark and the laughing fish
As the sails drank up the hail of thunder
And the long-tailed lightning lit his catch.

The boat swims into the six-year weather,
A wind throws a shadow and it freezes fast.
See what the gold gut drags from under
Mountains and galleries to the crest!

See what clings to hair and skull
As the boat skims on with drinking wings!
The statues of great rain stand still,
And the flakes fall like hills.

Sing and strike his heavy haul
Toppling up the boatside in a snow of light!
His decks are drenched with miracles.
Oh miracle of fishes! The long dead bite!

Out of the urn a size of a man
Out of the room the weight of his trouble
Out of the house that holds a town
In the continent of a fossil

One by one in dust and shawl,
Dry as echoes and insect-faced,
His fathers cling to the hand of the girl
And the dead hand leads the past,

Leads them as children and as air
On to the blindly tossing tops;
The centuries throw back their hair
And the old men sing from newborn lips:

Time is bearing another son.
**** Time! She turns in her pain!
The oak is felled in the acorn
And the hawk in the egg kills the wren.

He who blew the great fire in
And died on a hiss of flames
Or walked the earth in the evening
Counting the denials of the grains

Clings to her drifting hair, and climbs;
And he who taught their lips to sing
Weeps like the risen sun among
The liquid choirs of his tribes.

The rod bends low, divining land,
And through the sundered water crawls
A garden holding to her hand
With birds and animals

With men and women and waterfalls
Trees cool and dry in the whirlpool of ships
And stunned and still on the green, laid veil
Sand with legends in its ****** laps

And prophets loud on the burned dunes;
Insects and valleys hold her thighs hard,
Times and places grip her breast bone,
She is breaking with seasons and clouds;

Round her trailed wrist fresh water weaves,
with moving fish and rounded stones
Up and down the greater waves
A separate river breathes and runs;

Strike and sing his catch of fields
For the surge is sown with barley,
The cattle graze on the covered foam,
The hills have footed the waves away,

With wild sea fillies and soaking bridles
With salty colts and gales in their limbs
All the horses of his haul of miracles
Gallop through the arched, green farms,

Trot and gallop with gulls upon them
And thunderbolts in their manes.
O Rome and ***** To-morrow and London
The country tide is cobbled with towns

And steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulder
And the streets that the fisherman combed
When his long-legged flesh was a wind on fire
And his **** was a hunting flame

Coil from the thoroughfares of her hair
And terribly lead him home alive
Lead her prodigal home to his terror,
The furious ox-killing house of love.

Down, down, down, under the ground,
Under the floating villages,
Turns the moon-chained and water-wound
Metropolis of fishes,

There is nothing left of the sea but its sound,
Under the earth the loud sea walks,
In deathbeds of orchards the boat dies down
And the bait is drowned among hayricks,

Land, land, land, nothing remains
Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech,
And into its talkative seven tombs
The anchor dives through the floors of a church.

Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon,
To the fisherman lost on the land.
He stands alone in the door of his home,
With his long-legged heart in his hand.

Metal bones dropped over another
clashing sounds across the night of smoky denials
in a city of thieves, paupers and scholars.

Worn down and without memory, someone's father
brushes off the dust of a young person's tombstone.
The oblivious student bends over information
into another alarm bell of insatiable chases.

Huddled in a street corner
like sprites of another dark jungle,
workers in uniform and hard hats share
stories and spare time as if nothing else matters
but this fading incomplete point in time.

Overhead looms the impending bright dangers
and dim warnings being built
From metals and soil into another giant promise
trying to excuse itself as it rips through
the city lungs, calmly abiding
and seeming always ready to die or live through.

The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)

The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med

The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car

His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know

The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room

Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs

The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove

One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”

The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)

The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers

The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised

Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?

But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills

Your eyes are so beautiful but sad.
Ladders on your walls with
"unreachable" peaks encapsulate you.

Chapped lips and blistered palms
symbolize your life's struggles.
Scars coat your arms
as you crawl on such rugged rubble.

God, who lifts his hands to either
punish or reward, heard your prayers.
All your ordeals and prejudices
has burdened you in many layers.

Your eyes are so beautiful but sad.
A rare beauty is what I call you
but I know you wouldn't like that.

Amidst all the troubles of your days,
a compliment might seem like the
last thing to say.

I have seen your trials and denials,
your slavery and hopeless compliance.
I still see the beauty in you and I can
write it in words but cannot sing it in tunes.

But don't worry, pain is temporary
and it would leave soon.

Gorse burnt
bird skeleton
laying beneath
stark, white, crumbly
just calcium
a proto-fossil
that lacks the hardness
derived from
aeons encased
in mud
becoming stone
but this one
will never be
its future is dust
mingled with sand

Close by lies
a golf ball
a wayward one
that strayed
from links
to dune
to deform
in the blaze
become blackend
and split
the skin peeled back
opened to reveal
the tight-wound
elastic strands
fused together
yet penetrable
with persistent
small fingers
and unravelled
in exploration
to be left
in an untidy
forgotten pile
once the sac
at the core
is retrieved
within which
thick white paint
to sqeeze forth
and daub
on wall or fence
or kerbstone

This was the day after
fire had torn
through a thicket of gorse
that I and one or two
others had found ablaze
burning red and yellow and orange
hissing and spitting in protest
radiating heat in aromatic miasma
impressing all senses together
and knowing our civic duty
had run breathless
two streets inland
to fire red telephone box
to dial three nines
and deliver the news and wait
for fire red fire engine
to thunder by with shrilling bell
then to follow on, running back
to observe and to claim
with pride our part
in the resolution of danger
only to face accusation
that we must be responsible
for starting the conflagration
our shock and earnest denials
not entirely convincing
even when we protested that
had we been the culprits
then reporting the matter
would be the last consideration
instead, we were told
we'd clearly done the deed
so we could call out the brigade
and though nothing in the end
came of it, I was left convinced
that adult thought patterns
left much to be desired
and were far too convoluted
too suspicious, too impenetrable
to be ever worth adopting

That episode taught me
the magnificence of gorse ablaze
that discoveries were to be
made in the aftermath
that doing the right thing
wasn't always to be advised
that overly suspicious
too officious firemen
were fishing for payback
that if I were to be judged
guilty of the offence
when I was innocent of it
then I had a credit awaiting
in the bank of misdemeanor
so in due course
I made my withdrawal
and lit the gorse
in assembly at school
we were told we should
not hide our light
under a bushel
but I, not knowing
what a bushel was
lit mine under a bush
I did it only once
and though I had a brief
flirtation with Fraid
Her power scared me too much
no great damage was done
no human life lost
or placed in danger
save possibly mine

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 19/10/13

Is this it?

The sight of a finish line,
despite all those nights sipping wine,
coming closer.
Has anyone ever kept running even after the race was over?

Is this it?

Echoing in the back of my mind:
hushed denials with each squeezing embrace
Every option leading to a bitter after taste
So I leave these aching memories with haste.

Is this it?

My frustration escaped through exhaled sighs
While you place your hands on my trembling thighs.
Blue, deeper than the ocean, colored our sad faces
Because a orange dream was about to reach its demise.

Is this it?

My heart tries to argue: "It cannot be.
For every end is a new beginning
With a twist of fate's hand, something has to be brewing.
Perhaps lead us back to what was once felt that was lost as of late.
History repeats, a wise folk has once told me, make that brave leap and just keep faith.

Is this it?

Meet me again.
After you close your eyes, please I implore, count to ten.
Drift into a dream and meet me there
Until one day you don't have to close your eyes.
One day we will be nose to nose under the same
orange skies.

We The People
Sailed the same course
Some willingly
Some by force
We The People
A document to inform
A more perfect Union
To weather any storm
No more kings
No more oppression
No taxation
Without representation
Checks and balances
And the rule of law
Mitigating injustices
Safe harbor for all
The secular trinty
President, Congress, Court
Not one above the other
Veto, fiat, tort
Our common interest
Of defense
With liberty
And justice
Our common tranquility
And general welfare
A union
With resources to share
American rights
And protection
From a despotic government
Or an insurrection
Free to worship my God
Or your God
Freedom to find God
Or deny any God
Open discourse
Speaking my mind
And yours
However unkind
Collective grievances
Peaceably petitioned
We walk together
But never threatened
To bear arms
For our security
Never being forced
To quarter unwillfully
To remain secure
In our sanctuary
Unless presented
With writ of entry
Neither held
Absent habeas corpus
Or loss of property
Unless agreed by us
Or forced to testify
To contradict our own denials
Or brought forward
In duplicitous trials
To face our accuser
In much haste
Represented by counsel
Our peers decide our fate
Not one but twelve
Examining the facts
Brought forward
But only this court acts
Reasonable recompense
For fine or bail
Cruel or unusual retribution
Shall not avail
An enumeration
Merely provides illumination
But within the penumbra
Reveals more freedom
That is self-evident
No list or count
Exists to encumber
Or restriction to surmount
A union has formed
But sacred remains the individual
The tyranny of the majority
Is not permissible
A living breathing document?
Or static words unbending?
Even as we amend
Change never ending
Open to interpretation
If you see a right
But others may disagree
There may be a fight
The spirit of intent
Is there to see
Freedom to choose
Secured by liberty
We The People
A sacred quest
We The People
No more no less

I need to say that sleeping is...
hard to achieve when your goals are set high, and yet something prevents me
to convey just how difficult rest is to apply to your day to day life
trying to get by
Every year around this time I get weird without knowing why...
Leaves start to fall and my body starts shutting down in depression that won't let me live my life happily without dodging the darts, here's my vain confession, I'm scrolling through a lie, reading stupid people's denials... just an advice:
don't let them tell you that you don't suffice... you **** well know what you have to do, just shut them up with a smile that says "I hate you too" ;)

what can't become anything like a theatre,
yet faces and masks fly off the shelves
in market stall, none are given the gravitas
of thought, instead: turkey-feeding
reverse bulimia, the sith and jedis?
      i can create a string of oaths to suggest
that it's happening,
   a grand masquerade of "concerns"...
      they call them the inverted commas...
what, like the spanish inverted question mark ¿?
jinnie out of the bottle sort of ****?
                   when did " become an inversion
of '?
                  that time i did the only thing possible
and dragged it down to the plateau of sentence
and paragraph like a prometheus?
         what could possibly be inverted about
the ditto?
              i guess you have to say that, given
shortenings, and all that glutton english,
don't ****'stani me this ******* back!
         the idea of an inverted comma is already
in use, and it's up, not down, as is:
    i wouldn't care as much if i didn't have an
education in chemistry: and didn't become pedantic
about certain things.
   the ditto enclosure: " " = ~ / ≈...
                             and that translates into:
well... if you want ambiguity of certain words:
read a book on existentialism rather than a harry potter
instalment; movies? great great,
      books? i'd sooner be dead than read
on of them.
                 i was just watching this
julian assange interview and couldn't help but see
a constantly implosive dualism,
    we got rid of the church-state,
   we inherited the military-industrial complex,
    and only americans have a justifiable concept
of nationalism, or so it would seem,
given they don't feel threatened by russia's ideologue
or that of china's; which really helps if you have
a puppet-state...
        back in napoleonic times they had satellite states,
now they have puppets...
    napoleon liberated poland and created the duchy
of warsaw, america has israel and the soviets
once had cuba...
                         but are any of the "axis" puppet-states
even recognisable? israel is blatant with connections
to america, they're practically nudist about it,
if i ever need to look at a glass window, i'd look
at that relationship...
   oh pick my sweet cherry blossom while you're at it,
i'll find the next plastic surgeon to remove my
protruding male larynx and talk funny...
water adam's tonic...
   i really want to see, though, how many spelling
mistakes i can make... julian... assange? assangé?
mannuel's ¿que?  fawlty ******* towers:
flip me a pancake!
                                  but you know what the saddest
thing about university is? babies...
  you end up teaching them how to make
pancakes, about how you add sunflower oil to
the runny-dough for the purpose of
what would otherwise become a tefal fryingpan:
garko-tłuks!
  can i ask what the necessary proximity of two
letters with diacritical marks? i know that english
loves that **** with either consonants and vowels:
tool.. pool... poll... pal... paul...
                                     stutter, staged,
     staging, poppy, pop, pops,
                         populist, pondering, package,
edge, age, -ydge... ****'s freaky...
             it really is... so you can have the orthographical
aesthetic of two vowels or two consonants side by side,
but what of an actual orthographic example?
the horrid case in poland of ó vs. u...
  there's no visible stress in the disctinction,
it's just something that ends up being either:
pleasing to the eye, or displeasing.
                               i never heard the ó accent to
be honest, people just ended up saying:
we need to remember the beauty of a word that uses
that distinction... notably on walls via
graffiti... grafitti? cappuccino?
          huj vs. hój...    or what later becomes: ahoy!
cockrels for supper! no, wait: cockerels for supper!
tomato       ta-may-toh, american drooling out
spaghetti from their gobs... tah-may-toe(h)...
and between H and H              a lot going on...
     hard to find a laugh though... you find it people
start complaining... i never understood the
cognitive concept of laughter, about how you might
laugh internally...
          if only germany learned to play rugby...
i'd love to see germans play rugby, just for fun,
and expand the tournament into: the 7 nations cup...
what sort of history can combine scotland to
italy? i get the british isles to be related,
but i just loath seeing italy get thrashed all the time...
i'd love to see germany pick up a tenet for rugby
(yes, a tenet, not a tenant... and it is a type
of spiritual currency);
or maybe the germans are just really good football
ballerinas?
            oh they'd fit it alright, what with so much
shared history; they had a football match in
Flanders one time, so why wouldn't they bond over
rugby?
             yeah... so this old form of problems,
what with the church-state complex, that lost both
church, and state, and became a federal institution...
or whatever it was that it became...
it's something new emerging on the horizon?
   i couldn't say church-like, but nonetheless very
much church-like?
                       i don't even know how to conceptualise
current affairs in a hyphen (-) complexity...
   it's ****** obvious though: corporations?
      yet the state disappears... the only permitted
nationalism is american, so what the hell do we get
to juggle with? evidently throwing only one
ball from hand to hand and "pretending"
to be juggling will not end up with a successful circus
act...
                    so we got rid of the church,
and that morphed into the ultimate poly-schism in america,
we got rid of the state, and that morphed into
denials of sorts...
                so from the military-industrial complex
we have created a military-consumer complex...
    isn't that so? isn't america faking it a little bit?
   ever time i had *** with women i always assumed
they were never pleased...
    then one night in st. petersburg i asked her:
- i'm keeping count, how many did you have?
- 7.
- thank-*******-fabulous.
                     brag? isn't that the whole point?
****** brags about a yacht he owns in the caribbean (
carribean?)... i'll brag about that night
                                                  and the 7 ohs;
but the current situation isn't about a military-industrial
complex, that's why there came promises of
job revival: blue work, not white collar work...
   but once you feed china-smaug the coins
for every piece of work someone else could have
done to a better quality... wait... what was that? desolation
of smaug?            
                 the military-industrial complex isn't exactly
dead... but it's like a seesaw with a fat kid:
   to many losses on one side... say 100,000 iraqis
and about 400 english troops...
                when it becomes too easy... to ****** advanced
that it: literally becomes boring...
                  no kind of memorial will do it for me,
i'm still involved in the military-consumerism complex...
          like: it's so so "complex"...
                          throw **** here, throw a **** there,
and then not ask for spoilt snowflakes to come along.
             if i only said something original
i would have been more than happy...
        but since i didn't, and it's all there for everyone
to see, i guess i had to turn toward
         orthographic "inconsistencies" -
or those dreaded words: inverted commas...
     "    "     i'm seeing four, no one writes the un-inverted
comma, since no one writes,, and doesn't point out:
oh look! a typo!

From afar I knew her at school,
We talked once or twice,
She was a beauty you see.
Having a boyfriend elsewhere.

Came our Senior All Night Party,
Planned out all very cool.
After an afternoon Graduation,
Our entire class of several hundred
Embarked on a private train,
Eight passenger cars,
An Engine and caboose.
All Just for our use.

As a class officer I was in the entry car,
Handing out handshakes to the guys,
And goodbye kisses to the girls,
(One last chance to flirt.)

Until she, the leggy blond came along.
That kiss was not fleeting, not congratulatory,
If was mutually passionate and assuredly sincere.
It took my breath away, she tasted of lipstick
And honey, sweet as can be.

Minutes later we found ourselves
In a compartment, mostly alone,  
Stayed there though out the,
90 mile train excursion,
Discovering each other as
Young Lovers should.
Nothing seedy,
Nothing inappropriate,
Just kissing until our lips hurt,
And I felt like I might explode.
This beautiful long legged girl,
And I, fogging the windows up,
All Fireworks and night flares,
Like a steamy magic act on the rails.
Other people came and went,
But we hardly took notice of them.
Lost in a little world of our own.

We reached Oakland,
Departed the train,
Went aboard a three level,
Red Line Cruse Boat
And sailed away.
Two bands, music,
And just a little *****,
High on kisses, Royal Crown,
Jack Denials’ Black Label.              
All night on the Bay water,
A little dancing too, as I recall.

Then back at the Pier by six.
Breakfast and return train trip.
Somewhere along the way,
We lost track of each other,
Too many people,
All moving and shoving,
Friends pulling us in different direction,
Too tired to protest I guess.
I found a place to fall asleep and did.
And just like that it was over.

The next day and for years,
It all seemed like a dream.
How does that happen?
What had we both been feeling
For those four school years,
But had never expressed,
To ourselves or each other,
That put us together on that journey,
Of Steel Tracks and Water Adrift?

During those years,
What passions had we stifled,
All for lack of opportunity?
Both dating other people,
Busy moving blindly through adolescents,
As kids will do, with no real clue.   

After the train ride,
That ship on the Bay,
It was off to college,
And new friends with which to play,
Events and time took over, and
We both went our own ways.

For the first time, since that night,
I saw her some weeks ago.
And she still looks the same.
It’s been many years,
But she has not changed.
Lovely as ever and still my friend.
Both of us laughed as we talked,
Fondly recalled that night on the train.
She now a widow and me on my own.

Living 600 miles apart,
We email back and forth,
Pen Pals we tell ourselves,
And each other.

What was I thinking?
Back in those days.
How did I let her get away?
I suppose “Stuff” and something,
Called Life merely got in the way.

Now every day,
The first thing I do,
After I let out the dogs,
And brew a cup of Joe,
Is open my Email files,
To see if she is there.
So pleased when she is,
A little sad when she’s not.

She was done not fully being herself.
She realized she was the only self she could be—and not being unapologetically true to herself was a disservice to her soul and the world.
She was done listening to the noise of the world. She realized the quiet voice of her own soul was the most beautiful sound.
She was done questioning her motives, her intentions, the call of her soul. She realized questions seek answers, and maybe she already knew the answers.
She was done striving, forcing, pushing through and staying on the hard path. She realized toughing things out might be a sign to pick another path.
She was done with friends that admonished her to be more light and breezy. She realized they didn’t understand she swam in the deep waters of life, she felt at home in their dark depths and died if she lived on the surface.
She was done with the distractions, the denials, the small addictions that pulled her away from the true desires of her soul. She realized that strength of character came from focus and commitment.
She was done not following the desires that yelled out in her soul every day. She realized if she did nothing about them, they died a quiet death that took a piece of her soul with them.
She was done with dinner parties and cocktail hours where conversations skimmed the surface of life. She realized the beverages created distortion and a temporary happiness that wasn’t real and disappeared in the light of the day.
She was done trying to please everyone. She realized it could never be done.
She was done questioning herself. She realized her heart knew the truth and she needed to follow it.
She was done analyzing all the options, weighing the pros and cons and trying to figure everything out before leaping. She realized that taking a leap implied not fully seeing where she landed.
She was done battling with herself, trying to change who she knew herself to be. She realized the world made it hard enough to fully be herself, so why add to the challenge.
She was done worrying, as if worry was the price she had to pay to make it all turn out okay. She realized worry didn’t need to be part of the process.
She was done apologizing and playing small to make others feel comfortable and fit in. She realized fitting in was overrated and shining her light made others brave enough to do the same.
She was done with the should’s, ought to’s and have to’s of the world. She realized the only must’s in her life came from things that beat so strong in her soul, she couldn’t not do them.
She was done with remorse and could have’s. She realized hindsight never applies because circumstances always look different in the rearview mirror and you experience life looking through the front window.
She was done with friendships based on shared history and past experiences. She realized if friends couldn’t grow together, or were no longer following the same path, it was okay to let them go.
She was done trying to fit in—be part of the popular crowd. She realized the price she had to pay to be included was too high and betrayed her soul.
She was done not trusting. She realized she had placed her trust in people that were untrustworthy—so she would start with the person she could trust the most—herself.
She was done being tired. She realized it came from spending her time doing things that didn’t bring her joy or feed her soul.
She was done trying to figure it all out, know the answers, plan everything and see all the possibilities before she began. She realized life was unfolding and that the detours and unexpected moments were some of the best parts.
She was done needing to be understood by anyone but herself. She realized she was the only person she would spend her whole with and understanding herself was more important than being understood by others.
She was done looking for love. She realized loving and accepting herself was the best kind of love and the seed from which all other love started.
She was done fighting, trying to change or not her accepting her body. She realized the body she came into the world with was the only one she had—there were no exchanges or returns—so love and acceptance was the only way.
She was done being tuned in, connected and up-to-date all the time. She realized the news and noise of the world was always there—a cacophony that never slowed or fell quiet and that listening to the silence of her soul was a better station to tune into.
She was done beating herself up and being so ******* herself as if either of these things led to changes or made her feel better. She realized kindness and compassion towards herself and others accomplished more.
She was done comparing and looking at other people’s lives as a mirror for her own. She realized holding her own mirror cast her in the best, most beautiful light.
She was done being quiet, unemotional and holding her tongue. She realized her voice and her emotions could be traced back to her deepest desires and longings. if she only followed their thread.
She was done having to be right. She realized everyone’s truth was relative and personal to themselves, so the only right that was required was the one that felt true for her.
She was done not feeling at home in the world. She realized she might never feel at home in the world, but that feeling at home in her soul was enough.
She was done being drained by others—by people who didn’t want to take the time for their own process and saw shortcuts though hers. She realized she could share her experience, but everyone needed to do the work themselves.
She was done thinking she had so much to learn. She realized she already knew so much, if she only listened.
She was done trying to change others or make them see things. She realized she could only lead by example and whether they saw or followed was up to them.
She was done with the inner critic. She realized its voice was not her own.
She was done racing and being discontent with where she was. She realized the present moment held all it needed to get her to the next moment. It wasn’t out there—it was right here.
She was done seeing hurt as something to be avoided, foreseen or somehow her fault. She realized hurt shaped her as much as joy and she needed both to learn and grow.
She was done judging. She realized judging assumed the presence of right and wrong—and that there was a difference between using information to inform and making someone else wrong.
She was done jumping to conclusions. She realized she only needed to ask.
She was done with regrets. She realized if she had known better she would have done better.
She was done being angry. She realized anger was just a flashlight that showed her what she was most scared of and once it illuminated what she needed to see, she no longer needed to hold on to it.
She was done being sad. She realized sorrow arose when she betrayed her own soul and made choices that weren’t true to herself.
She was done playing small. She realized if others couldn’t handle her light, it was because they were afraid of their own.
She was done with the facades and the pretending. She realized masks were suffocating and claustrophobic.
She was done with others’ criticism and complaints. She realized they told her nothing about herself—only informed her of their perspective.
She was done yelling above the noise of the world. She realized living out loud could be done quietly.
She was done needing permission, validation or the authority. She realized she was her her own authority.
She was done being something she was not. She realized the purpose of life was to be truly, happily who she was born to be,and if she paused long enough to remember, she recognized herself.*

Adrienne Pieroth

.it's called pronoun usage focused upon the experience of claustrophobia, or rather, the lack of... hence: one thinks in order for one to be... unus, cogito, unus se, per ergo; these people went after grammar... not a good idea; i've had my doubts... but... i also have my... rigid beyond religious orthodoxy credos... infringed upon denials! grammar is one of them!


well...
if we're going to go about our
verbiage as we've done...

pronouns...

   sorry...
   i have to do this...

or rather...
   one has to resort to this...

one must think / hinge on such
matters...
  
    one must execute such...
"inconveniences"...
one must, press on such
matters...

        just so, one is able...
to counter the trans- pronoun usage...
with a royal,
pronoun usage;

happy?!
     go on... two is able...
two think...

figure it out... tow along;
as a Nascar wreck...

because started thinking...
is pluralism intact
pluralism... on the basis of
an isolated instance of
a disfranchised base within
the confines of He... or She?

no?
well... the royal pronoun
intervention...
  as one would expect...
or rather, as one would hope so...
  
  hello?!
    i think the lunatics have run
the asylum long enough...
their supposed asylum,
formerly known as society?
   not good enough...

call the guys in the white coats
that... everyone seems to fear.

So let's talk about love, shall we?
Let's talk about you and me,
And all of the possibilities,
The what ifs,
What could be,
Where would we be if I said yes,
Or if you actually asked;

Let's talk about love baby,
About your dreams and frustrations,
Which colour your mood is in today,
How music affects your ability to work and play,
Or if your passion matches your intention,
The way your words echo and resound in every little action,
Would I know it when I see it or do you have to point it out,
Spell it word for word one letter of the alphabet at a time so that I could read it for fear I've been blinded from past experience where my heart ripped out and stomped on as it was laid bare?

Please, could we talk about love honestly,
For we spend nights shouting into an abyss of trust issues,
As we're both too proud to realise how we doubt the other's words by straight up lying through gritted teeth,
Bit lips for me as I type my reply to counter each of your denials,
Only to fall back in tears steadily streaming like rivers carving lines of worry and fear through my aging face that no one could ever look at with pride and admiration,
As you and your youth talk to me about disappointing yourself for not trying to live life,
Forgetting that I too want the very same things you do which was why I fell for you and you knew,
But the thing was that we don't focus on what's in front of us thinking we have a future ahead where it's fixed that you're for me and I for you,
Having forgotten that our choices will pave, shape and build us both;

Can I just talk about love quickly,
Before these words slipped right through me,
As I fall asleep trying to forget the songs you sang one lonely evening,
When you were back in our city searching for company,
Only to find this lonely bitter soul whose heart has been broken to pieces that she can no longer fathom this puzzle,
Hoping you'd somehow help her figure out where the bits belong,
But that's the thing babe,
You never wanted to be a part of anyone but yourself even though you insist that I'm the one you need in your life,
Except maybe not right now,
For I'm slowly rotting away waiting for my time to pass,
And you've got a long journey ahead,
Winding through endless possibilities of romance and newfound fame in the company of young lovely bones,
Spoiled for choices you constantly take me for granted telling me I over-think when all I ask for is your honesty,
And a little bit of trust to let me in;

Now, tell me, do you still want to talk about love with me,
Or are you leaving already?

@byizn

The hills rolled and faded away
in an obscuring gray snowfall daze
and he doesn't want her

A pair of pairs of jeans and a
gray hoodie with thermals underneath
couldn't warm him up to her

His head, three hoods deep, dreams
coddled in disbelief at the time passed between
the last she had him and now

These months, years they may seem,
are minuscule minutes in the eyes of history
and he keeps breathing without her

With the snow now up to his knees
and a want to be buried beneath the damp gray
he hitches deep and coughs

I still can't clearly comprehend who my father was. The only way I can find him is by thinking of everything I refuse to be. I still have memories of my father that have never been extremely clear. I guess you could say it's as clear as the muddy glasses I put on every time I want to forget the loss. I lost the man I wanted him to be. A role model, someone to love my mother in every direction you could imagine, I wanted him to be a man. When I think of who you are I can't form solidified answers because to be honest I don't think we've ever met. Name's Jon. We share DNA but this isn't something I take pride in saying. The story maps of our denials are wonderful depictions of why we could never really talk about things. Things we can't fully understand. Like how I would deny things like how bad the weather is, that my tummy is a little to jiggly, or that I honestly can't say no to a good beer. Your denials are slightly different. You have denied leaving two boys for one wonder woman to raise. You still won't tell me you are sorry, because in your eyes it's the world against you and your disposition. You deny eye contact with those around you because we all know your soul is unorthodox and burns if you look into it for too long. You remind me of the inconsiderate ******* who leave their brights on driving down the highway, they leave me ******* and hard to see my future. As I reached deeper into the bucket of something inside me that feels, I realize we have a few similarities. We both don't know hot wot act in public situations. Running has always been our initial response when our hedonic treadmill starts. I don't want to start. So I cut out the pieces of my life that resemble the ***** smell of your presence. I use those moments for encouragement and to find power in the unforgettable.

Questions asked—
Answers evaded

Questions asked—
Churlish responses

Questions asked—
Reality revised

Questions asked—
Dangerous denials

Questions asked—
Squeaky clean!

Questions asked—
RED HERRING!!!

Questions asked—
Deny FBI

Questions asked—
AD HOMINEM!!!

Questions asked—
Boast, repost

Questions asked—
Uncivil snivel

Questions asked—
Snide asides

A question asked:
Where are we?

Scary judiciary?
End times?
Revolution?
Not in this Kansas.

I have washed my ****** hands      
in the hope colored stream
of my own karma;
a futile attempt.
The waters cleansed my hands
But stained my soul with
The leprous audience of
The singularity of my being.

I have waded souldeep
Into the stained waters
Of my own karma;
A quantum baptism.
My sins and triumphs
My denials and truths lain bare,
Visions which burn into the circle
Of all that I was, am, and yet to be.

I have become the hope colored water
Of my own floundering fate.
I am the circle, the enigma;
I stand within and without.
I encompass myself
And wait to be born
Into a new solitude
Of radiant wonder.

When I woke up to my sobriety, I found the people drunk
I tried to love and be romantic, I appeared as a punk
They say there are many fish in the sea, maybe the ship has sunk
Maybe the wine spread all over and left them all drunk...

And now to eat fish you have to drown it, submerge it into alcohol
Having no money to purchase alcohol leaves you in a dark cage; without sol
In this cage you attempt to distill yourself so to love again but no one comes along
You are left with melodies blue; lonely songs...

Sing your heart out until the tears gush
You are alone, no one there to brush
The tears fall down on the hard ground with vehement boiling touch
And you see yourself, pitiful and wounded hoping for lightning
Praying for the hope to grow like flowers of spring

But you cannot wait, you must get laid
So you find a means to an end and get paid
Only to have them laid
Trying to play on both sides of the fence to find the balance
But you lose a sense of purity, you've been played
You were falling in line with the rest of the herd
But this doesn't heal the places where you've been hurt
But sail on, you go for there is no one to hold
You try not to think about your broken heart or blackened soul
You submerge yourself in the loudness nonsensical and girls coiling poles
Wherever you look you find the hollow
you feel alive only when asleep for dreams reel you in the deep
You try your luck at hotties and find them shallow
You are stuck, half fastened and cuffed
So you begin to investigate the truth
you find myth and evil facts
you search for magic you see long-bearded men with pointed hats
you learn that the participants of the game are unaware of the game
And in time you identify the source
Where the strings of rivers are
where the squashes and foams of waterfalls reach
as you witness manipulation down the coral reef
who are these men, malevolent men or thieves?
Stealing pure bliss and romance
Denying the chance for love to soar to mountain top and have chieftain stance
and then you're back at the mirror...
You see the dirt on your hands
that you aren't as innocent as righteousness demands
so you think back to when you've been wrong
All the lies you've told, the people you've robbed
the hesitations, the sudden stops
The denials, delusions and proud decisions
And you find comfort in the fact that there is no perfection
Only moments just, and bonds of trust
overshadowing the appeals to heal when bowing to lust...

And that's when you know that you continue to journey to the beautiful
Cowards would have no claws, to hold on, the fake perfect people no flaws, to hide their true nature
At the center of it all, ****** and coarse artefacts, all you think of -
is what you've seen. You must be mad if it's not a dream.

You row with oars, on a small humble boat, you start anew
knowing that the wise can be fools
and that the minds of fools can be liberated with learning tools.

By: Cedric McClester,

As long as we remain
Unbending
It’s as if we’re simply
Pretending
That the world as we know it
Isn’t ending
From a desperate need
Of friending

The world as we know it
Is changing
Slowly the elements are
Rearranging
When we consider
The inherent danger
Of our repeated denials
It gets stranger

As long as we continue
To deny
What is clear
To the naked eye
Our planet
Will continue to die
And we are the main reason
Why

The world as we know it
Is changing
Slowly the elements are
Rearranging
When we consider
The inherent danger
Of our repeated denials
It gets stranger

The world as we know it
Won’t last
Cos we’re destroying it
Too fast
The ozone is thinning
From emissions of gas
And the pundit
Are showing us their ***

Nature has reached
A decision
In spite of the critics
Derision
Though we all wanna
Keep on living
The fire next time
Is a given

The world as we know it
Is changing
Slowly the elements are
Rearranging
When we consider
The inherent danger
Of our repeated denials
It gets stranger




















Cedric McClester Copyright (c) 2015.  All rights reserved.(082615cm)