woke the woman at 7:00am Sabbath morning to save my life for overnight,  my body had ripped ribbed crack’d apart,
no spider web sized stains but cracks of crater size on both legs heading up northwards, gut and muscle revealing, spreading,
renting apart my chest and head and forecasting that
my twin two’s, eyes ears arms and nostrils,
destined half to the east and half to the west,
leaving the leftovers for the basement temple altar furnace burning
for the divorce division so rapid, death’s relief nearby

begging her to hold me despite my body
unwashed and face three day unshaven,
my body stink-stanking stench decaying,
so parched my chords, my eyes my beseechers,
for a stammering pus yellowed whisper barely could I issue

if she held me tight perhaps
the spreadsheet cataloguing my cracks divisible
would cease expanding, halting my perishment inevitable

summoned surgeons three but were so excited to see my
own red sea splitting and my ultimatum of egyptian drowning fast approaching, spellbound and helpless, all they did
was take cell phone videos to show on the doctor **** channel for $12.99

and she said,

*holding you now too late, the man flesh-eating disease
can be defeated if you know the cause;
all night I hear you pace and tread the boundaries of our
tiny shelter, needing the resting that comes when you note the hour, the sign of writ and done, for all I hear is you
struggle-seeking to release the words disordered,
hurricane hail haunting the caverns of you,
depositories of misrouted, mis-sorted sounds and the thunderous cracking now is their sound of their desperation
at your failure to form them, all they seek is the wholeness of formation and are force fleeing your leaking containership
through the cracks of their desperation

I will pack your body in ice, lay upon it all day, melting the water
into every orifice new and old, hydraulic hydrating then sealing
the apertures and lead you to your own promised land,
to thy Jerusalem capitol, where you may sing new songs,
teaching the Kohanim and the Levites new prayers

promise you the sleep of exhaustion with the sounds of
Canon in D to soothe, and when the night-frights
have passed, will feed you with writing utensils,
to teach that inspiration comes even by daylight, even to you

your best dreams of dying will be your best writing schemes,
when you awake, the sky cracks of inspiration come unfiltered lean,
and for heaven’s sake, for our sake, for your words sake,
then, chest will freely open and fully formed, thy poems will emerge
content and complete

and when you hear them sing:

“And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had”^

you will knowingly, be laughing, unafraid

Up and over walls and weeds,
ever-towards the tower did we climb
wrapped about with anxiety and anger,
isolated ahead of the herd
alone, we lead,
a mob edging closer
to storm-filled skies.

A bed of rocks, debris of cans,
sky-touch achieved:
we'd been first
to reach the roof.
Lightning storm to the east,
fog to the fore
and soon, somewhere nearby,
a stereo, playing the music of my youth
framing the sound of people laughing,
people drinking
men climbing too high
but mercifully, never falling.

A green gasmask, a black bandanna,
two flashlights and two bodies, pale of skin:
we again set out apart from the mob,
lost ourselves in computer crypts,
lamp graveyards,
uniform-chair depositories,
a ghost-floor filled with superstition and cauldrons.

Varieties of folder,
both manila and hanging,
bound across your back -
you got what you came for.

So did I.

On a date which is altogether known
In the billfolds of bankers
And the abutting hearts of lovers,
And thoroughly logged in the appropriate
Depositories under appropriate covers,
An event of some moment occurred.

The boroughs stood stock-still that day.
While bureaus of such things raced.
Reports came in the usual state-
Filed with numbers and subsetting letters
And screened through machines
To assure their congruence.

On the import of this the West has agreed
And suits of several cuts conferred-
Their message: “Not bereft of status
Past but graced by status wholly present,
Marked by Trojan Hector's tragic
Fall we come to budding Rome.”

******, the edifice mark'd the change:
Neighbors bowed in novel commune.
Seers took to foment rapture
And obfuscated pictures lent
Their turn to Hells hereafter.
Evoked again King Pyrrhus' loss.

The brazen poet took to this,
Formed a certain sense, a catch
Collecting parallels- change a liquid:
Afloat the wicked buoys of politic.
Ashore the masses- sheep- insipid.
Abroad the falling, downy snow
To rust the marble shrines of old.

But how keen the poet's blade?
Her wit dulls at the thick:
All the rest were just the same.
Homer and Hesiod, through to Hughes
Seek their crises to be the rare
One-off of guilt and bold reform.
But want for change- a timeless sore.

                    -c. c. Condry

As a man who has devoted his whole life to the most clear headed science, to the study of matter, I can tell you as a result of my research about atoms this much: There is no matter as such. All matter originates and exists only by virtue of a force which brings the particle of an atom to vibration and holds this most minute solar system of the atom together. We must assume behind this force the existence of a conscious and intelligent Mind. This Mind is the matrix of all matter.
— Max Planck, Das Wesen der Materie, 1944

A single atom, the god particle, matter or anti matter it is a micro exponential point of every cell within us. We, people are in fact a galactic micro system by design.
The infinite mind, the all seeing eye, the matrix of cross over systems our human anatomy is structured with valves, ventricles, veins, arteries, pumps, liken to refineries, distilleries, depositories, disposal centers, we are a micro-engineered inner-planetary system. Bio chemically producing everything our physical world needs to exist.
Intricately if not divinely flowing in mass with an even greater gargantuan outer limit system of heavens and universes.
We play our part in a much grander idealism then mere earthly beings. We are gods and goddesses. Heavenly tribal guardians of infinite space and time. Triggers like cogs in a finely balanced spiral of life and death on a symbiotic evolution. All without giving our bodies much thought it moves forwards onward to that new place in times continuum.
We devote ourselves to gain understanding. To learn new disciplines. To live long and prosper. To co exist with nature or have you our organic materialism. This paradox is the enigma of fantasy and spiritualism.

For what it's worth I've come to find that people and things ****** over make like lead pockets. Old business is just old business and yet the mouth stays sour, curdles at its ends like milk left out. I wash my hair and wash it again.

How do you **** a city? Not a short-change of ideas or institutions. A city. People, granite columns. Street lamps. Long lines of wooden benches. Car horns.

Bags and bags of bug-out gear: drop point knife; feather-stuffed bedroll; one dozen pouches, depositories. The **** is the escape.

The drop point.

Some thing in all of us wants a way out. It aches for freedom. Messy, nasty freedom, sweet as it is.

Do we use the glossary when searching the back pages of our lives  follow the indexes when something perplexes
Motions making sounds ,representing actions & reactions ,lessons forming curiosity ,constantly seeking answers
Surrounding ourselves with sounds ,breaking into syllables ,basics as a beginning then hopefully turning us into detectives
Now lessons become narratives not always with a heart moving title ,but open feelings harder to bridle, days forming chapters

As new breaths begin in a nursery, mysteries are awaiting within the walls & halls ,nooks & books of  depositories
From embryo to a first cleansing ,protection is constant ,warmth of blankets envelop similar to bindings encasing the fruits comprised on papyrus.
Opening the world through the first window ,light ,sky, flowing forms taken in with a healthy grin,integral parts of out future stories
The main doors as a cover  ,silence is golden while the words are screaming ,what is first? a daily rag ,twirling of the mighty globe?
facts or fiction now lay  fractured

Fondly absorbing phonics ,tasting the clicks or ticks & annunciations  still samples for future refining
Labeled as language or merely absorbed as sound forming ,trying to become an individual expression
Flashcards as roots into an inner corridor, signals separated with commas dots or dashes ,awaiting future defining
Roads or paths laid out like aisles, alphabetized such as street names shelves as floors of buildings ,books as unopened doors to a new lesson

A long life search no longer monotonous as a Dewey decimal offered ,but click or a flick ,automated corrections leaving many clueless
Even building faith often based within bindings ,factors of fame or items for blame made best by those who clearly see the text
Holidays as often as book of the month ,b.m.i. becomes t.m.i. , forever offering lessons in hindsight ,many offerings to amuse
A mind akin to a vault taking in all offerings  by default ,endless it seems for storage capacity ,Librarians or doctors can off a new zest.R.C.

The empires of the world collapse and unleash hegira of instigation, the dynasties become obfuscated and lost among the instigated themselves. Vernarth was still intertwined with the figures of light that were reflected in the personal back tent after the expansions and debits of faith, looking for the limbs that vanished in the exotic stubbornness of everything from now on being only his dimensional air that would continue after infinity that marks lines that freeze at the end of the Vóreios, and are scalding in the average of the Mediterranean, later when the Kassotide is the environment of Helleniká transhumating the resistances that were from the shady gap of the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi. This Ellipsis would mark the final epilogue of Alexander the Great who would now be in spectral form with Vernarth. They were going to face the sequence of this parapsychological ellipsis from 326 BC. In the Battle of the environment and stonework of the river that resembled spirits of sooty ignition such as Bumodos, but being the Hydaspes who managed to notice this duality of parapsychology as the serum that pretended to be divine blood, for a fortuitous exhaustion of the physicalities that crossed in true existentiality through rivers of final blood, as it would be in the Hí Emphasis to volatilize with the ethereal mixture of blood that ran through the rivers escaping from a forced destiny, which was only based on colonization of areas that would burn like Carmania or Bactriana, being now Grikos and Skalá between latitudes that would laud in regulas and helmets, collapsing on rings in how many lives of beings that could hardly bring the biosphere of expedited death or euthanasia in the Katabasis, where the decline and redemption of successive struggles would be definitively marked, to fall in the dizziness of the fumaroles of the eruptions that carry him unscathed in the psychic depositories of a messiah a going to the true Messiah, in addition to an early biological dysfunction to later be reborn in an agitated spiritual life where empires of antiquity are founded to give the first ideological falsehoods that would change the climatic atmosphere, since the Kassotide source was extinguished, quantumly uniting the An ancient period with the ipso facto moment of the sacred word that gives glorification to its roots, to understand that the heights of the Thuellai and all its genetics will bring the new vigor, lato and the prefigured that all blood that spews a dejection or a geyser, which is the homeostatic sublimated of the colossal body of the world, which resists by all its extremities, when its scriptural postulates are concluded or disallowed from flaming among the dissipated lineage of a ****, bordering on the projection of the opinion when it dies alone, the body also and a piece of that extensive mind that becomes part of the rotating mist of all that in covers the existence of a Hoplite, further away than the elegies of Saint John the Apostle, which would appear considerably real to avoid any unconscious gradation or destruction of the Hellenic patrimonial, discarding all vulnerability of beheaded frustrated genes, for whoever was a Hoplite with all that he conserves and cultivate, if you can treasure it? It would be the symbolic significance of the transient wandering in all its echoes and screams in unison through the shouting of the Kidron Valley, where the antichrist looks at the stream seeing that it had blue eyebolts, in its feverish fiery ardor on the upper metacarpal end, remaining in the opacity of the light that soaked immortals and that at the same time was a hindrance or utopia of a refutation of the dawn that never had the origin or destination of its transient sunrise. The holy complacency of the sanctity of their thoughts has the tendency to be ruined in the middle of the city of Jericho, or in an ugly situation in parallel that would bring it to those who amplify their tonnage of immanence in the face of a particle collision situation that they had alone. The target of the omega blade was instantiated in the omega storehouse.

Says Vernarth: "Because if the Anemoi extends north all humanity follows ...? because mercy rushes to where someone ponders the latch of the lazaret when whoever brings salvation cannot wait without holiness ...? Because the immaculate is multi-sacrificed with the life of an unborn if the passing of the millennia is who should do it? Why does writing travel thousands of light-years from the celestial pretenses without hesitation or stopping, bringing writings that renew the heart that sets the scene that a writer can progressively revive in the word and the body that is the essence of God ...? Because centuries pass in a second, and fewer and fewer centuries remain without being able to tell what someone omitted in any of them if the light or ink that should be stolen from the night is scarce, what the secret of her and only her could testify that a Being of Light can write with the light of its lights, as it would be then and perhaps before, fleeing and forgetting or not dare to take the fountain pen or an eyebolt, which surrounds him while the figures from the unforeseen they inspire the being who writes ...? "

Everything that glittered in Vernarth's Epiphany and Linkage shop was summed up in the finesse of the memorial, traversing the neuronal Katabasis of the emotional subclavian, exterminating emotions that carried no greater weight than an artery capable of penetrating all its bearing, where the light shone. adds as in a cruet on the table of Apollo, and no more than writing that should do it for him, since it is exempt from having emotional extremities that replace everything that comes from the darkness opposite to the Light, being written with calamus and with living blood.