Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.

Father's Way: Tell me a story, Dad

What power we possess,
when the innocent demand,
at the time of cozy bed and sandman,
"Tell me a story,"

To gentle the monsters
in the closet of their heads,
grant them a peace naive that's lost after
they learn the D words, disappointment, death,
Till then, promises unfettered, the best yet to come.

The story, you, grantor, they, grantees,
Scent their dreams,
perfume their dreams,
sprinkle their safety net, blanky, rag doll:
- scent with mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam, gasoline and body odor

- scent with cherrywood falsehoods to caress,
till morning's burnished glory ascends,
thru window, tenderize the cheeks of my babes,
prep them for the truths to be learned that day.

In tones most imploring,
glances fawning,
tis us, they do deceive,    
for adult arrogance demands
in God we Trust, that they,
will believe our words,
will indeed, make them rest
till new day's slow and subtle dawning

Tis the same tomfoolery that leads us
to drink repeatedly from the trough of
best laid plans and self-deception

You believed your own narrative
will be the one he scripted,
while standing day-dreaming,
sweating on subway platform,
admiring beaches and beauties
from station walls lifted,
waiting for the train
that only eventually comes,

that train, that station, whose smell reminds you
of mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam and motor oil, and body odor,
a ******* reminder of dreams yet uncrystallized,
and stories your father told, unrealized,
tho train has come, they have not

Write me a narrative, Dad,
and please advise
if tinker or tailor will be my trade,
fix my details, dear pater, par example,
pick my institution of higher learning,
my future alma mater, on my day of birth,
promise me gentility, no harm no foul, mirth,
All the days of my life.

Please advise if I shall be a
wife abuser, communist, or a ****
****** poet/user,
word rich and pocket poor,
stealing ideas from everyone,
red blooded or blue~green,
a true believer, a born again,
an agnostic, my own truths, to disabuse

tell me father, will I die warmed,
surrounded by generations of my progeny
or in pauper's grave, a life long ward of
one true mate, in loco parentis all of my days,
a child, a dependent, of noster paternal state?

Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...


June 11, 2011
Updated on Father's Day 2013

I stand here today
alone, brokenhearted,
to say
I do not understand Love.
No, not at all.
Its easy when new,
or newly unparted,
when the flame of desire outshines every flaw.

But, when seen through the eyes
of three decades behind us,
it doesn't seem all that thrilling,
that new
or that grand.
It wears like a harness with the weight of forever.
So tell me,
then why is it in so much demand?

I've been told,
while its true,
that your heart is a muscle;
it doesn't get stronger, but weaker from use.
I thought I knew better.
I thought I was Rustle.
But that granite presumption
she did disabuse.

You stand at the crossroads,
You thought you had it all.
Now that you've been brought low
You see the story's whole.
Left with your heart - no soul -
Wasted time while you've grown old.

Your whole world is face based.
Whatever you hoped to gain
And all that you've laid to waste,
Is due to the fact that
You thought you could get by with a pretty face.

Now since it's the path you chose,
Please, don't let me disabuse you,
As you enjoy the cause and effect.
Be it the pleasantries
Or if it's all the pain.

You made your way through life,
You did it all.
Men, money, mansions, more -
You had no wants,
You had the world on hold
While you held your court.

Riding around, one guy to another
From rags to riches, and then back to rags.
Riding your fortunes as a swell on the seas.
Walking the streets for money,
And sitting sweet on Daddy's dollar.

In time, the years wore on:
The parties went, a storied song,
The nights were long with drinks aplenty,
Debauchery and fun, so was your motto,
And when the party was over,
You, the only, not left sober.

Left to feel your pain,
Left with all you squandered
As you wear that eye-shadow - I believe the color is called regret,
Something that is so unbecoming on you,
Only eclipsed by that scowl,
Remembering days when you were stunning.

I swing the torch from side to side
The visionary light by which I abide
Basks me in resplendent glow
As I go dreaming, rocking to and fro
Embarked on magic ride

This is the dance. It tells a truth
A kind of vision rare, forsooth
I canter round soul's shire on enchanted hoof
A siren of iridescent youth

The knowledge of my path does sooth
And to my sullied brain it does amuse
In it's form I have faith and trust
Stoking, kindling my spiritual lust
To disabuse the ruse

Excuse me if my words cut deep
when the lines were meant to *****
the conscience sleeping down below
slumbering while a world drowned
I'll lean into the ****
asking for the next few minutes
long enough to read the text
a poem's reflection of your soul.

The slash draws red upon the skin
this is the color shared by all
reminder of the liquid shared
crimson base below gold threads
yet still the colors are confused
gold leads to silver, then to green
imagining reality where none should be
if caring is for the fellow man.

What is the measure for your charge
dictation of what comes before?
all things aligned, in their time done
something's first, the highest goal
expectations writ to book's pages
the clink of coin in a purse
comfort gained, never lost
these are the gild some have lost.

It's fine to stand on the tall hill
until the winds carries the screams
from the eddies below the perch
writhe the sinners of your mind
they are not lesser than your idols
specifically yourself in mirror's frame
blessed by a god you only see
perhaps it's your image you embrace.

Ivory towers with lone residents
fortunates seek the frosty air
with no taint by the lost
drifting up from hell's domain
the stench is scattered by money's breeze
the hurricane that lifts the boats
to a shore that few should see
shared disaster seen as reprieve.

When red is ocean's hue
my words seek to disabuse
those with skin too thick to feel
with images from the other world
when red is spilled at time's course
no matter how remote a life became
I hope my words found a place
to be considered before the end.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170512.

Awake! Awake! Thy sleeping spirit shake
Rapt in throe of evil's dancing mistake
We're bewitched and hexed by hell
And the sounds of its princeling knell
To above from underworld's lake

We can arise. It will come true
A warm and enlivening breeze will through us blow
Our spiritual sleep we'll come to rue
And we'll plump our seat on truth's pews

The awakening will disabuse
The awful and offensive ruse
Our torch will swing in front of evils' face
And shine light on evil's hate and disgrace
For cosmic justice, we take our cues

I see you and you see me
But together we just can't be
You said you want to be just friends
But how long will that last till it ends?
Your holding on to the past to decide your future
I'm letting go of mine because I use to be a loser
We where happy when we where together
To me there was no feeling better
I made you laugh I made you smile
You gave me a feeling I haven't felt in a while
You became my muse
I became your disabuse
I showed you something that no other man did
I brought out that person in you that you always hid
You had me talking about my secrets I've kept
I don't know how you did it but my safe you cracked
But I know who you are too
And for your son there's nothing you won't do
I admire your motive to give him your all
Believe me when I say I'll be there to never let you fall
But you said you want to be just friends
How long will that last till it ends?
Still I get lost in your eyes
To you I just can't lie
You took my pain away
I thought about you everyday
Your mind is so intriguing
I just want to kiss you under the stars shining
And you where happy every time I came around
I had you feeling like you where floating off the ground
I just wanted to let you know that you are special
I wanted to show you that you're full of potential
I wanted you to feel like a queen
I was ready to be your king
And whenever you where feeling down
I was the one you'd call to come around
I hated seeing you without a smile on your face
I'd hold you and tell you let me take you away from this place
Let me show you that everything will be okay
Because come tomorrow with me, it'll be a better day
But maybe I used you as a distraction
To block the pain from my past actions
Then you said you wanted to be just friends
How long will that last till it ends?
Because just friends I can't be

I thought she was my greatest love.

For more than half a century
I’ve nursed and cherished
a memory that haunted me.
My tinnitus and hearing loss
dating back to that bitter,
cruel and hateful
time,
has always been
attributed
to that recollected period
when I sat huddled and lonely
upon the vastness of
that couch in Antibes
and sobbed and sobbed,
and sobbed until I thought
I might expire.

And now . . .
having suffered a loss
that demonstrates how trivial
was that earlier experience . . .
and now . . .
having truly the need
to express my pain
in overtly demonstrable ways,
I find myself
unable to shed a single tear.
The pain is cutting me up
inside,
but no sign is visible
to others
and no physical relief
presents itself
to me.

Bite back pity.
Bite back pain.
Bite back remorse.
Disabuse myself
of trivia.
Embrace the exigent
and shed the
nugatory.
And then perhaps,
just perhaps,
I will learn the truth
about myself and others.
Perhaps I will learn
to accept my innocence
and place the guilt
where it truly belongs.
Perhaps after fifty years
I will finally see her
as the faithless creature
she truly was.

And then . . .
and then, perhaps,
I will be able to dispose
my grief where it truly
belongs.
And then, perhaps,
I will shed those tears.

Leaving the sanctuary of you,
My heart turns cold from red to blue,
Through my heart a warm breeze blew,
For having seen a soul so true,
But then you sauntered out of view,
And your departure my soul rues,
Leaving the sanctuary of you,
My heart turns cold, from red to blue,

And now I have to start anew,
Bereft of Love's iridescent hue,
But I still search it's all that's true,
You cry slander, well you can sue,
I'm entitled to feel, my spirit brews,
So treat it like it's gossip, news,
Whilst I'm STUCK trying to start anew,
Bereft of Love's iridescent hue,

I lust for you and sing the blues,
I don't know why, you were a ruse,
You've broken me and blown my fuse,
I loved for you but you pay no dues,
I plump my rear on passion's pews,
So judge me, size me up, accuse,
I lust for you and sing the blues,
But I don't know why, you were a ruse,

I guess you've never taken cues,
From Love you just like to amuse,
Yourself with me, but I am contused,
For clumsy touch, you left me bruised,
Towards your spirit I had cruised,
In vain, you cried, wanting to see me lose,
You love to disabuse,
Because you're cynical as ****,
Well you can sue.

Words by: Cedric McClester

From his conception
Donald Trump was a zero
While General Colin Powell
Was a natural born hero
And much like the Roman Emperor
Nero
Or Vice President Agnew - Spiro
Donald Trump is a villian an antihero

Trump is not fit to shine
General Powell’s shoes
Or stand in his shadow
Which he’ll disabuse
But that’s only because
He’s convinced or confused
That he’s the only one worthy
Of headlining the news

Trump is the devil
Without a disguise
A clear and present danger
Word to the wise
A threat to democracy
Which we should realize
Who remains as dangerous
As the crow flies

Now General Powell
Has finally transitioned
Having achieved
His every ambition
While Donald Trump
Remains on a mission
To recapture what he lost
So he’s still fishing







Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2021. All rights reserved.

By: Cedric McClester

Whites have always had
Their black apologists
And South Carolina’s Tim Scott
Fits nicely into this
He’s a prime example of why
They say ignorance is bliss
If he truly believes
That America is not racist

He sites a few examples of
Him being stopped
By white police officers
That was over the top
But this notwithstanding
His world wasn’t rocked
He was quite accepting
And so he wasn’t shocked

He’d do anything to stay
Inside his master’s house
Where he could eat crumbs
Off the table and not even grouse
In fact he’d stay as quiet as
A  proverbial church mouse
Articulating the master’s virtues
That he’s so quick to espouse

He has no qualms at all
About being used
He stands six feet tall
But he must be confused
And if this notion is one
That he would disabuse
I wouldn’t be surprised at al
I’d simply be amused


Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2021.  All rights reserved.

Retreading the amphitheater steps
To my accustomed contemplative space
To see myself again in the eyes of the Fates,
Who spin and measure and snip.

Instead of Oedipus and Iocasta,
Arthur Miller is the Muse whose Loman
Must my aging sense abuse and disabuse
If I but can.

Erikson sits here beside me, taking me along
The 8 staged declension or ascension of aging
And looks me square and says, "Integrity or Despair?"
While I am sitting here.

My students, nearing 20 years of age
See Hoffman's Loman strut and rage his memories,
Bemused they turn away as if to say this dreaming
Is for older men.

I am an older man, and I cannot deny the meaning
Of old Miller's play packs much more punch
Today than just a decade back, but I am driven
Once again to this assay.

I know the old hymn, "O When I Come to the End
Of My Journey," and I long to die in peace,
Hands folded in an easy rest, content in every thought,
At seeing God's own Hand.
In His integrity, I'll stand.

Disabuse yourself of the notion
She needs saving
You guys get that stuck in your mind
She is not a damsel in distress
She is a bored badd *****
She’s the one a
Who’s a gonna
Save you
You silly fool

Apart at me in a latitude
Cross with the seams
Nostrum of commands, chartered
Owning for tomorrow, quid ad
Tully portentous of penmanship, questioning
If I had more battlecry moratorium felt lighter than the sword, but, took to the ethicism, to write it with serried disabuse
The revival of the crimson tide pegged for the trident of sorts from Martian landmasses, criminal smooth as the craters
Please open, the probes to the ice of the closest countries first, make global anarcho stuff our moral precedent
Aiming for life, you tend to lose sight of it all, along with the opportunity to make amends.
Sorry, the germane nature went out of nature, this is specifically directed at the single simpletons in the simplicity of laying out
Words in the degree of simple logical statements, which can neither be passive or active
Passionate really isn't that our motives are both not driven by passion and ambition
Curious, isn't I look intolerable in the promising outlook
Carelessness isn't it that I know love is growing a par two with my liveliness
Comeliness, truantly nuanced underbellied, becoming or bellied or becoming in the transcendence of the existential crafty wiz of nihilism that feels like your
Furr it's relaxed by its poetry, somehow we die off too young like some poet at our age
Polymaths and opsimaths might be alike, in some time
I've hope I've found a place in the line
Clever and quick climbing through the snakes on the lazing sun of the ladder come from the tinted passive line
Sunset horizon mindful of your mindreading crimson tide
Placid of the mature of the maternal greed, beyond the, claiming the doors
Of the possibilities, probabilities of the fraught lives among the cosmos of the karmic lives
Of the obliqueness of the strychnine streets that can be moonlit in the daydream of the sonic youth

Ask the memories why they stay
especially in the realm of dreams
reminders of long lost times
forever gone come to the mind

those revenants from the graves
laid to rest in distant days
were thought to be in slumbered rest
now disabuse the present state

peace would reign without the voice
carried from the interned throats
now rising to share their wails
to cast aside forgetting veils

those curtains let in the distress
once thought dead and left behind
demand an answer for the reply
the buried past will be revived.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20191215.

Drive-bys on the road
**** your darlings
I will put sunshine your shoals
Be on the shore of doubt, as we move to seas
The crossing distance between the hiatus and cars
Trailer park homes seem welcoming, in this jungle of fire
My heart's one and only desire is to love you
I hope I don't get lost in the wrong pyromania
Maniacal as it may seem, I want your conscious mind for me
To make my important decisions, relatable if it is
We will breathe with the breeze that freezes in between
Lost at the heralds of the emerald sea, shining like cerulean waters
I'm not sure, I want the fire of desire or the waters of peregrination
Journeyman follow my command, I guess I asked too much of you
Or of your lost hope, in this drowning breeze that flows in eddies and currents
Love is just a flowing desire, fluid like water and sordid like fire
The feeling is on fire, and the desire's the only real thing
I can't generalize really, you make the conclusive evidence of my lovely concepts
You're sure, that's me or you, in this world of roundabout cities and largest dreams
Circumference of this ring of fire is which is perfectly wrapped around my ring finger
Is this the old me, or am I looking for old ways
Passing through stores, and running looking for summer kool-aid
This summer smells nice, so does the stagnant dreams
Waiting to flower like blossoming buds, in a collection of hanging things
I'd list these thesis items down, but, they're too educated for my taste
It's my light, and shining it on the wrong people, is pretty much how a broken flashlight works
Words rhyme inadvertently with some intention, insane isn't it
That you agree with others and tell children to sit down
Might and dry winds change these crossing starry-eyed loner stoners
I base myself to disabuse the **** out of every situation
But, it's not in my purchasable items
Looking for weights to carry, and burdens too run away with
No machine, am I, I am dead just like the onus that can be apolitical at times
Love them two times
Love them three times
They just seem to fade with the count, like natural numbers
Patterned and woven like dreadlocks of legendary pathos
Little did I know, to do what I say as the money keeps me awake
That's the logic I follow, it's a statement without purpose
Bridling pots, I can't relate
The time's changing, so that's what they say?
This **** is cooked and raw, at the same time
Like woks on earth's water and fire, fiefdom asks for too much
Pertinently I ask for their grace
With petulance, I ask for favors
These aren't a few of my favorite things, at least they are temporary

you can be a doctor
of letters

and never crack a book

just read what it says
in the think bubbles

many will tell you I'm crazy
because

I am here to smash
all those sacred statues and break
the most forbidden of taboos

just free your mind before it goes
flaccid

and please believe me when I try to
disabuse you

that it is possible to become Atlas
on a diet of bubblegum

and ding dongs

my aim is to show you how

Whit Howland © 2020