The darkness, now descending, floods the city as it dies
while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye.
Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries,
denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky.

One’s inner thoughts are well descried before they’ve passed one’s lips
and cruelly crushed with grim contempt twixt despots’ fingertips;
but if no taboo-idea’s found, with which to come to grips,
the stymied Eye dispenses pus as fabrication drips.

The Eye peers down upon us now, to conquer and control,
and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole
or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole.
Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not the goal.

While phantoms fade, then reappear within the urban sprawl,
the gloom (adorned with Evil Eyes which pierce the livid pall)
pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl
of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall.

And should the herd dare whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom
or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom,
the Evil Eye will squint a bit at those who so presume,
condemning nascent unchained thoughts to wither in the womb.

The Evil Eye bores everywhere, a tattletale to Kings,
who scrutinize their puppet people, strumming on their strings,
extracting secrets of their souls like spiders plucking wings
that flutter with the hangman’s knot as the corpse of freedom swings.

Yes, Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam
and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb
while peons (stripped of mind and soul) stray never far from home,
with faces 'neath the iron boot, ****** deep below the loam.

And peasants pass, parading by to fill the golden urn
with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn,
though screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern
to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold and taciturn.

To hide the pains of purgatory, far-flung distant shores
(on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors
and inquisition water-boards that buoy their holy wars,
while sandmen drape our eyes with dust, with rainbow metaphors.

We’ll know the party's over when there's little left to eat
and all the learned scholars, lean, stay silent when they meet -
the Eye, withal, will spawn distrust on matters indiscreet.
The signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat.

                        Epilogue
One sightless seer scans the skies and mourns the heretofore.
Nine limbless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor.
Eight tongueless women babble, telling tales of nevermore.
Four earless children drown within the ocean's muted roar.

When hope becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive?
Will doves appear above us all? Or drones to guard the hive
while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive
to gut the gale below them? Will we let the Eye survive?

In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast Savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.

Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.

Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.

If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.

Come on now,
Look at the buttercups,
So yellow, so yellow!
There's no happier colour than yellow,
It dispenses joy like an ice cream man,
Mr Whippy, Mr Softie, Mr Buttercuppy.
I love the smell of your skin,
Not your perfume, your skin,
Your arms are the sky,
A galaxy map of freckles and I'm going to press my face against them all,
I'm going to burn my nose and then cover it in cream,
Scratch my legs with thorns and brambles  and then cover them in cream,
I'm going to sneeze so much, seeds swelling my eyes,
Jugs of cold squash and sticky fingers and verdant footpaths,
I'm going to cycle with my eyes shut and the sun on my face,
Is there a better word than butter?
Bread and butter and buttercups,
Come on now, look at the buttercups.

National mindsets self interested suffer
forms of dementia as the order all confessed,
demands of each a concentration of self worth,
you bet your soul, but only in the spirit,
step into the fray, say, let me lead you,
say let me take elected office,
democratic to the edges, being your voice
in a popularity contest, not an intellectual joust.
Tutelary deontology 101.
Governing is managing the labor. Ask the king.
Any flock in the system, governs itself.
Business is business.
Some arrangements are always secret. All
grown ups are in the business of war supplies.
Let your children's minds be at ease.
Trust the checks and balances history proves,
have never worked on balance, for the poor.
Get rich quick as one can imagine, on a bet.
War meets Peace, like it is the storm
that left Greenland, a legend until now.

Easily intreated innocense, who could know.
Prosaic first morning pizz to prime the pump.

How deep is the generational debt due to war?
How many bonds have been sold to pay interest?
How many times has the national debt ceiling failed?
You know.
Every time.
"Each major conflict in U.S. history
has been accompanied
by a sharp rise
in debt as the government raises funds
to pay for the fighting."

But laws do exist…
"Without a declaration of war
to put the country on a wartime economy,
Congress paid for Vietnam
by increasing the national debt.
Over the course of the conflict,
America's debt nearly doubled, growing
from approximately $317 billion in 1965
to $620 billion in 1976."

Now the debt is rising
on interest alone. No need for another war.

And America's trade balance is hinged,
on the point of war.
The ideal centermost irritant, war's hate pump,
pain expanded by generational trespass acts
likened unto the pea
under the stack of feathered beds,
or the bit of grit forcing oyster stress
that has made the misshapen pearl sold
to sovreign entities, those colors on the map,
these mental aggregations called nations,
by nationalist mind frame riveters,
foundational eye beams, remove before demoting,
ah, slow, riveted beams spanning ferro-concrete tech- think.
Building a reasoning trap, children,
ask your fathers to whom we owe our national debt.
Ask also who sells the weapons to the world at war.
Semper fi,
no offence, but… holy hate is as crazy as hungry hate.

A voice from a song, from nowhere,
you just could rethink, or did, that first time think
a bridge over troubled waters being a truly old good idea,
come to rescue you,

in the early days of Boomer parenthood… being grown ups,
we never missed a Disney Movie, though by then,
they were losing the gnostalgia, old knowns to be like so,
were no longer even imaginably so.
Old Yeller,
Childhood's end, the separation
from hearth felt comfort,
to the class rooms and hallways
of massive cold concrete schools… where on day one,
the child pledges with its cohort of coeducatables,
the ancient bond of aliegiance...
I pledged mine first in 1954, the year "under God" was added.

In the just now settling down towns along the great freeways,
there has been no peace on earth in my generation,
at the level of military minds in conflict caused by stories,
boys bred with old hates just waiting for a sigh-psignal
sci-revealed to those willing to become Jason Bourne,
to the best of your abilities, ring the bell, any time.  

Welcome to the front. Sanity is on the line.
There is no conspiracy, we sell our souls for what money
can be demonstratively proven to allow and even augment.

War is all we sell. There is another game, it's a liar's game.
Many famous authorities have filled the space at the table.

Take your hat off, Bartholowmew, she does not understand you.

------------
Daily communication with myself,
one person, with no power to use
save the early cultural confidence;
sworn to tell the whole truth,
so help me, God. Yes, your honor.

Except we reactivate the curious why,
functionally suppressed during the standard
test taking by the proximate others
diligently filling in the blanks,
with graphite rounded just right, one swipe.

Except we see that hanging senselessly realized.
Each problem, one answer, not one option.
Only select correct answer.
Tell the child learning the pledge,
God is on our side, emphasize
how exceptional those who know so are,
extremely discriminatingly,
arranging the economy around
the great decussation at the air gap,
at the back of our national neck.

In this time,
thoughts and prayers, we hear
spoken of as easily done,
almost without thoughts, who
responds?, who, has ever responded
to the said to be going out constantly
thoughts and prayers, asking truth
to intervene and call the liars liars?

God is not angry, nor without resources,
according to the cultures now at war--
¿
Whose mortgage was not paid with earnings
from war readiness industrial complexes?

Whose talent was left with the userers,
because the Bible says y'sposed to earn interest?

Whose 401K deflated to oops?

Business begins with informed agreements.
Let's make a deal.
No killing, stealing nor needless destruction.

Minds join eye to eye, one mindwise agreed,
we become an entity, a being essential
to the parts, a mind in harmony, rank and file.

Greedy men with no agreement. Hmm, who loses?

Line up, not by rank, single file, fall in,
first and following, get in on the end,
and wait for the circle to close,
re done dances, life going wild as
we celebrate our circle, we sing of it
being unbroken in the sweet by and by…

The land of those who talk back to El,
yes, yes, we do, to honor Iyobe,
who first called for the Daysman,
who first
told reality, with all it's evil potential,
you cannot not be true, you know, in form
as spirit and truth containable in words, logos,
logos of all o-logies,
so powerful as to allow, in fact, cause, new mindforms,
species of thoughts that function as a system to make
sense, discernible, bits of valuation determinable in agreement.
--------------
Contractual obligations religiously adhered to
just between us, we take advantage for the nation's sake.
Madrassahs and aliegiance pledges set habits hard to break.

Set the cost of goods, lower than replacement cost of the price.
What does it cost a state to rear a warrior class individual
that self replenishes?

What does it cost me to scatter confusion in profuse create-ifity?
So, add a proper tip,
and pay the cost to ride this line to the next re-entering angle.
Middle east,
cauldron of all the holy empires thus far into the age
of entertainment so vast,
wise men can imagine, some day
there will be a war, and no parents will have
offered children to the infantry or made
righteous indignation acceptable national pride to k-ill for.

There Hamas, holy brainwashed haters of hatefulness.
Repents and perishes the very thought of peace.
Repay in kind, here, swear undying obediance,
fear not death, this is Allah's Promise, die killing Jews,
turns on the monstrous virgins awaiting you…
in post mortal walled places,
where the oldest civilizations occurred,
as God's great idea, I'll
empty the center of me, and seep
back in through fractured rationality
along trade routes between Africa and
the forested north above the desert.

Me, there, in mental efforting, thinking
thoughts, not prayers, but wishes, hopes,
thoughts that prayers attach to, as evidence.

"Ask and ye shall receive."
Love those who call you enemy, can you?

Face me, Mr. Nobody, the essence of other,
I declare peace, where none is, and you laugh.

No ritual, no enchantments with promise,
no sacred making of secular deaths, just
just just adjust the justice aspect, blame
the holy haters whose God dispenses vengeance,
at the behest of warriors fitted with military minds.

As when holy Americans gather to offer military aid,
blessed by the congregations alerted to intercede,
on the side that denies Jesus was God,--- ah, both sides,
in this case…
whither turn we, do we face Mecca, or Jerusalem,
or Petra or … Sol or Luna, all our enculturated faith,

blinks, a lense clarifying effort, rub the crust
of sleep fallen into while mourning, unsealing eyes
to see again, a war between two national identities,
both with warrior glory emulation traditions,
one with money as first de-fence, the other with hate,
nothing less than pure hatred, Cain to Able, sorry bro.

Old mean spirits.
If the hate can live in any man, wombed or un, it will.

Willingness to hate enough to k-ill a stranger, will
manifest as holy terror… enough to make Jesus weep.

--- and those were a few of the local thoughts made prayer,
seemingly automatically, as mysterious as most final secrets.

Part three, deeper, faster, harder… or not

Doings in the dark, are done by feel.
One, you or I, or some other sapien
augmented with the messiah's mind, feels the need for the deed.
Take the message from Garcia.

Mystic experience in story realms,
holding all the visions taken raw,
as revealed… as when a curtained
entry way is opened for inspection,

are we ideas in bodies?
are all ideas spirit in form?

Inhale an intuited absence of evil,
breathe the air of answered prayer.

Imagine that, let fly the idea of you,
beloved individuated potential saint.

Here is your sentimental inner edge,
your gnosis pressed flat as you see in.

The edge of this bubble, is distant
only to the holy cloaked in asceticism,
twisting wicks
for someday light in someday night,
circulate one way then the other,
rethinking perfected emptiness,
there are no others, up or down,
to and fro, vectors tie targeted states,
spider kites form single ray classic webbing,
slim banner, a flag unraveled long since.

Follow me, I say to me, follow me,
I say to you, saying back, I am not you.

My option.
Turn on, sit back and watch,
evolving cave wall interesting hooks,

look around, nothing intersting, eh?
Television as imagined by petrified apes,
during the peak preserved in history,
when men like Franklin and Voltaire,
met to share secret meanings of things.

Previous to any whole story that remains, as when any mind mistakes
tzimtzum inside as first occurrence,

total emptiness, pre space, one time
this instant accepted as audience

in true gaseous we form, auto informing
the vegetable phaze passed eons ago, life
tells tales too esoteric for novices
to notice, in the ideal state, active
imagining, as with a child's mind, yours
since ever was, so far as you may wish
to remember,
a time when the state was deemed
comforting and beauty filled, chaotic
process of floating lipids, in form of air,
light has not dawned on us, we are
night scene setters of settings, nodes
of potential anything you can imagine,

level with me, even, straight, right… yes it
is the optional meandering mind engine,
an idol, or a daimon, madness of sorted
degrees, a little bit off the charts, sorted
out.
Not in, the bubble being becomes,
when one emerges in a self…

subtle is good, right, we agree?
Jesus, before Christianity, as a kid,
instructed with his cousin John,
likely by his temple servant uncle.

That can be imagined, projected
on the outerwall of this bubble we be in. At the moment, on an Earth wired

for sound, elephants agreeing to meet,
to follow the pilgrimage, pilgrim beings
activated by stark necessity successful
to this degree…

by the reader's time's at tension, pull
release
snap back, at what ifery, at once, push

most bottom centered point once sitting
in raw time thought processing, in
and out, efforting
- slightly off, not fully on
uncomfortable impression of holy
you better get better or else. Holy

blank slate, bubble pop, soft wow

Now, we're in the swirl, in the spin
toward, froward lips sealed, golden
silence,
subtler than any beast, creature,
living thing in the ruliad, am I? No.

BUT, you know, those penance prayers,
given you as a child, enchantments,
as with all your renouncements of evil
and pledges under God, in your child mind.

Look. To your own self, be true.
You still have private interpretation access
to your child mind.

If you put your worried mind to work
on some thought too deep to ponder then,

The idea of punishment by the Creator
of all that is not God, but was deemed good,
by God, because I said so, said the father,
in the child mind.

To know good and evil knowledge,
that talent, initial mark on our blank slate,
to know, not what you know, but ask
your child mind, how does it feel,

flat on your back gasping as others laugh,
and your child mind blooms an entire eon
- just to catch a breath takes for ever
and there were others, the whole family
of mankind of your kind, to your child mind,
stood laughing at your attempt to perform

a first flight, from an edged bet with an
I think I can virus perpetuated in ever after,

since mind made time make sense in chaos.
Instantly, things start to take shapes, in mind.
Non sense. Since. Processing time. Go.
Instants out of mind, in atari.
Fog of unknowns. I used to play the game.
Not really, only, one off thought forms,
cloudlike in symmetry, no clear tongue
and groove, fitting our pro-posed… pose

supposed, to listen and while listening,
learn the use of any knowing, can be
taken as granted possibility by your self.
- distant sound of light sabers actuation
Your blame and shame catcher, out front,
as we steam ahead across the gap,
thoughts made prayers must leap.

Keep your eyes on the prize, three
walnuts and a split pea with a hair, fine
infant hair, see it there, your old minds eye.

The unveiling of an artifice, an angle
greater than straight, from this point…
a re-entrant angle, like a point, banked shot.

in

Mom "Don't go outside it's raining"
Our great thinkers used to go out in the rain
Why must I be contained during such a spectacle?
What has changed? Let's see...
Mom " You'll get sick"
So our faucet dispenses a fluid purer than what freely falls from the clouds?
What leaks through our ceiling isn't just a sign to fix our roof
Maybe it's trying to drip back into our lives
How do I know the rain doesn't miss me?
What if the rain longs to sweep down my skin?
I won't know
Because "common sense" is overshadowing any piece, any connection we have to becoming a TRUE BEING
alive
Mom "Don't go outside its raining"
Child "Okay"
*I miss you too rain

I am pretty sure my love will be leaving me soon
for a woman whose skirt does not lift in the zephyr of her sadness:
we kiss and we tie
maraschino cherry stems with our tongues. The
same labyrinth puts rosy skin in our teeth, here is his ***** hair
knotted with saliva. When I think I have everything,
it just means that we are stuck together –
I realize it does not mean that we are happy together. I think
someone poisoned the water
with glue, and it is I who dispenses more to let my love escape me.
He is as happy as a child who has finished a puzzle
except for a single missing piece, repeating the movements
again and again. That has got to bring it back.
For seven months, we have been handed the gift of pretending I
can feel the inner-workings of who he is and why he is
and I am pretty sure he knows he never has
to pretend again. It is there in the silences: across the room,
across the ocean where hundreds of babies have died,
babes with mothers and fathers and parents who weren’t divorced.
All I hear is my love toying with a Rubik’s cube
he never learned to complete. I have a Magic 8 ball saying
I should let him go. I mostly worry about telling my mom, who will
tell my therapist and then we will have to
close too many doors. As long as I am sad, they are locked. A
key is stuck in the mud or in someone’s molars –
my room is empty, the air is quiet, and he has not even left me yet.

Complete madness
settles upon the masses
leaving ***** exposed to
the unadulterated *******
of society’s collective wit.
Christianity’s **** will hit
the fan before man awakens
and dispenses with the mistaken
notion of this delusional existence.
The metaphorical distance between
life and death is but the breadth of
a hair in the universal cosmic order
we call reality.

Box Off
The black box that tells of approaching enemy missiles is turned off
The black box that jams enemy missiles it turned off
The black box that dispenses radar jamming chaff is turned off
The black box that launches infra-red flares is turned off
The black box that gives out false position locations is turned off
The black box that plots enemy defence locations is turned off
The black box that steers a course round enemy radars is turned off
The black box that sees enemy anti-aircraft guns is turned off
The black box that should save our jet and our lives is turned off
We are now dead and our warplane is now destroyed
The black box should’ve been turned on

Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.

Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.

We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.

ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.

When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.

PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.

CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).

HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.

DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.

You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps…  back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.

Grafted birds in uproar—
And grey moorlands a fog,
The cacophony of orders,
Even turned earth a slog.

Highest heavens, all one,
Seeing with truthful eyes,
Black and white eagle—
Dispenses the blue skies.

The road to the funeral home
was plagued by
brown Cadillacs stretched
out on overgrown lawns,
and cats lounging lazily
on splintered planks.

Eleven people sat scattered
around dozens of expectant
chairs laid out in long rows,
hairlines moistened by a
lackluster air unit wheezing
in the one window.

The Reverend approached
the pew and began his
assault of sentences--
they spewed from
his lips like careless
bullets, and they stung.

He shook his hands at us and
promised that she had
been delivered to God…

I wonder if he meant
delivered like her
neighborcare packages
containing the familiar numbing
glory of ****** that got her
through cancer after cancer,
limbs and eyesight failing,
decades old and stewing
in her stomach.

He sputtered out syllables
like bouts of fumes-
they filled the air and I
swear I could smell them,
the stench
of stale cologne
and stale culture.

I could taste the
disgust coming up from
my esophagus,
that bitterness the brain
dispenses when anger
can only be expressed in
a tapping foot and sourly
sagging lips.

I sat there, silent, as that
ancient man
with his West Virginia
draw clumsily
stumbled over a list of
relatives “Marge” would
meet in heaven.

He forgot my father,
skipped his name and
my heart began to pump
faster, my cheeks burning.

He did not know that she
was Margie and we would
remember her soft yellow curls
and infinite knowledge of
antique dolls,
hundreds of pristine replicas
beaming in glass cases.

He did not know that
her lips were electric;
she shocked our cheeks
with each hello
and goodbye.

I wish he knew her like I did,
the young woman who sat
stiffly in this plastic chair,
her little girl all grown up.

I wish I could have pushed
him off the stage and
made up for the seven years
I missed of kisses and
old stories and support.

But I sat there, silent
and stared at the cracked ceiling
tiles and fake flowers
on the front folding table,
yearning for the pounding in my
temples to stop.

June 6th 1944 was D-Day.

an ordinary Tuesday,
delightful divided into an ordinary gamut,
a potpourri of Earth-Ordinaries,
with me doing my very best job ever,
bus stop eavesdropping.

Buses are for everyone,
but ever since they taught the
city buses to kneel to the elderly
and gave them an additional limb,
an elevator for wheelchairs,
they seem more majoritized by those
who have earned
the discounted fare of senior citizenry.

two prim and rose blushed ladies await the M31,
to head uptown on York Avenue,
where the many hospitals
have elected to build edifices
side by side, to more easily share illness,
and rise far as the Babel elevators can climb.

prime material for a bus stop poet,
and sure enough, these two, mid-eighties,
I reckon, provide me rich veins of
words, matériel, to cross under the arches.

What is the proper way to put in toilet paper so it dispenses
properly, which somehow is super fascinating.

who has had their hips replaced and who passed,
because they did not.

the deterioration of bus service under the new mayor who seems always to be out of town, or late.

a few blocks before bus approached Sloan Kettering,
where one was to be scanned precautionary,
while the other was due an intravenous cocktail of poison,
the more aged of the two changed the subject extraordinarily.

do you know what day this is?

the other replied,
oh yes,
the day your older brother died upon a French beach,
the brother but eight years older than us,
the brother your adored and that I loved, even at age ten,
was to be my shy one, betrothed unto me

for seventy years my darling, we have together remembered,
even in the years that my abusive husband wrested me away
to California, and forbade my seeing your countenance,
and the second, a good man of proud Missouri stock,
poorer than an interdenominational  lmouse,
who wished but could not afford our joining,
have we not always chattered on this day,
of this and that,
so you could ask as if by chance,

do you know what day this is?

this is the day
they chose to name with scarlet ****** letter,
not an A but a black and bold
D,
and redirected our lives,
its tremors and
remembrances,
its directed chances and luck of the draw, and diminishing memories,
knowing that we shall never again be separated till we have word
choice
stripped from our vocabulary.

now our stop has come so let us alight and delight
that we defeat yet again, that deathful enemy,
and even when he must win the day,
we three will be reunited in a victory,
in a victory so patiently awaited.  

missed my stop by ten blocks,
and was thinking maybe
being an eavesdropping bus poet stop
was a more dangerous profession than I could handle.

Hello in-built shell,
how shell-fish of me to think
I could avoid your beckoning
bell, of self pity.
Let us welcome in Sin-City.

Here is every bad thought you've
ever had.
Every signal sad wander
clad in bleak black memory.
The goodness drifting away
in a puddle of ink,
removing my ability to think
clearly.
No matter how dearly I cling to
the loved ones.

Look to your right and there's the
childhood.
Which you would not change even
if you could.
Because, detested as it seems, I still
feel a gleam of familiarity and
clarity
from my gloriously ****** up family.

Look to your left and you'll see yourself,
bereft of all emotion,
going through the motions of
life,
burning cold, rife
with emptiness.
Positively cesspit.

Look down, not straight ahead,
and you'll see all of the relationships
left dead on the highway of life.
The ghosts of what you said
pinning them anchored to drown,
stapled further by words
you regretted typing down.

Look up, far up in the sky,
endless arch of black,
dark harpies shrilly whispering
all that you lack.
The only crack of light, lightning,
allowing further attack
on your senses.
It dispenses quickly with
the pleasantries.

You're a regular here.

Now look sharp straight ahead,
stop stooping with dread.
Look up to the light, and fight
for the figure you see.
Look past the debris, and into her
eyes,
whose blue offers glimpses of less
stormy skies.
They speak of cold coffee, and
too milky tea.

Pedal your boat faster

She's where you're meant to be.

Think Positivity.

please read http://hellopoetry.com/poem/629931/in-the-beginning/
before you indulge in this :-) *

DAD'S DREAMS

The Sandman and I have an agreement:
     I will use his grains sparingly,
In return,
     He dispenses my prescription in
Nearly lethal doses.
Deep,
Extravagant,
Peaceful
Sleep
          Where only contented dreams live
                    In abbreviated hours
                    Too succinct
To allow anything unpleasant.

Wrinkled
Sheet-faced
Creases
          Trail skippingly through
                              ****** worlds
                              Utopian neighbors
                              Calorically absent banquets
Sharing property lines with
Idyllic, passionate women
                  Who peer over their
                   See-through fences
                   Teasing unbridled desire
          Of covering me in a favorite topping.

                                            (Dutifully,­ I double check
                                            Nocturnal filters
                                            To be sure I have prevented
Broadcasting of past names
To my present wife
                                  Half-dozing on the pillow
                                  Taken from my side of the bed.)

A mist sets then rises, a new act begins,
        Transporting near the river
        On the banks of my hometown.
         I am Tom Sawyer,
Lounging proudly with
My Huckleberry friends,
         Fishing line on my toe,
                                Bobber and stink bait
                                Mimicking ***** waves
                                On the Muddy Miss.

The string draws taut bending my stubby digit.
          It’s a big one hanging on
          Pulling so hard
          I'm driven from slumber.
There at my feet I can see I have
Reeled in the finest catch of my life.
                                          A blue eyed,
                                          Small mouth offspring
                                          With panting gills
                           Mumbling something about falling....

Then I remember,
        The only thing
        Better than my dreams
        Is waking to a son
                                 Who believes I am bigger
Than all of his.

When will the paramedics come?
I lost my finger in a midnight rave,
****** to the bone and drunk as hell.

I think the doctor is trying to **** me.
She dispenses pills like a Pez-Head,
to send me to sleep,
to miss out on poetry,
but at least I'll catch the bus to work.

Cap and gown dreams keep visiting me.
I don't know what it means when she
lifts her blouse to reveal old scars,
when she delivers my life
in a steel-framed certificate.

When will the politicians come?
I lost my faith in freedom, when I was
clothed to the bone in distraction.

Wherever the drum is sounded
There will his feet and ego lead him
For there's none so adept as he
At fouling the mood with a few
                home truths
when the village brew is frothy and virile
There too will his keen appetite him drive
For there's none so deferred to as he among
Folk hungry for forgivable misdemeanor
                and some home truths
He's the inimitable village drunk
Endowed with a surfeit of expletives
For there's none so free as he here
To douse all and sundry in invective ubiquitous
               laced with a few home truths
This village drunk is high on the power granted him
By a grateful captive audience that's allowed him
Freedom to free them of secrets and all
When he dons his invisble crown and dispenses
              a few home truths 'bout everyone

the ****** dispenser at the mall
that now dispenses
children's toys

The scratch of pencil to paper takes over my senses,
And I'm completely immersed in what my brain dispenses:

A turn of phrase.

I'm feeling poetic
And a bit chaotic;
Kinda frantic,
Somewhat hypnotic,

Paralyzed by this single thought:

Oh heavens what to do?

My tears have been cried,
My cheeks have dried,
Oh how I've tried,
But my hands are tied.

Paralyzed by this single thought:

What if I did the wrong thing?

You, blue-eyed boy with a once heavy-metal heart,
Who mimed slitting the throats of boys we now deem heartless,
Who suffocated under thick blankets of smoke in hot-boxed rooms,
Who gave beds and beer and ancient guitar picks to all who you loved

Who have you become?

You, once so full of joy,
have left your old heart behind,
crafted a new one out of felt,
and it is your darling who creates its cavities

Have you given up?

You, the boy with sad eyes,
shedding angel tears,
Who cares not for himself,
Who runs for his love,
Who dispenses coins from his mouth,
Who knows not the meaning of courage,
Whose friends left him like milk teeth

Sometimes I think I may pity you
But then I remember there's an exit door not far away
But you pass it by every Friday

And if I have one thing left to say,
It's that my heart is made from felt too,
Only I never let anyone tear it apart

While he was in the alchemical session with Valekiria with the ***** lushness in the veins of his beloved, he felt instantly the arrival of some mounts. Etréstles, goes out and looks around the store and makes sure that Alexander the Great's entourage was there. I brought him a letter. Etréstles alerts Mardiath and the others. As the General pulls out his Leonatus, he dismounts and approaches the tent where his chief commander Vernarth was. He sees him surrounded by probes, which were like branches inserted by his right pectoral and his main veins.

Alexander the Great says:

Khaire, "I wish you joy" my great Commander Vernarth ...!!. He raises his hands, clicking with his hands to scatter some tiny earrings, to grind them on his face, they were sent by the Falangists, paying homage to him. They were like pieces of the horse's leashes with gold fillets that they ripped with the hooves of the cavalry from the armor of the bruised containers. With the tips of his fingers up his face and his hands up he appealed the presence of Zeus, and then bowed.

The last time I saw your individual, we had alternated to see the enormous over-proportioned bravery that Vernarth imposed on the battle. Here you arranged your army so that we could face everywhere, forming a large rectangle that we could face attacks from anywhere. I saw millions of Arrows fall on our army, I paid attention to you, your Lord Vernarth, who went with your wounded right breastplate, also semi hanging your Hoplite breastplate. You had legs and shoulders with impostor arrows that did not detract you from continuing with the ****** ramming of the enemy infants who were incapable of you. You mounted Alikanto and with all the momentum in an act of extreme madness you ravaged the insistent enemy ranks. There was the last great moment that I could see about your great courage and bravery to decapitate the enemy troops. Today we have defeated and I will go after Darío after his flight, which is what the world did behind him who should never have dared against our alliance with our army.

Vernarth replies:
All plunged into the Dorus and Xiphos with their multiple ****** edges, like a new blood alliance that must provide us with a new life beyond our deaths. In the hand of the blacksmith forger will reside the new lands where we have to implement new expeditions.

Brisehal, my Dog of Lut, embarrassed his ambitions to tarnish our designs. Now on the plain there are signs of panic, that only He infused on the bodies unscathed by the Falangists, they are witnesses of our daring and of the wild rebellion that caused the flight of the Achaemenides. On the glory that I do not stop aspiring, I will go to my hopes of meeting my ancestors in paradise, I have to gratify my great brotherhood to the kingdom of creation that boils through the great chimneys of the universe separating the own faculties from the power of true love , that make us coexist with our arms and legs without it being anything clearer than the footprint of the shadows, more exceptional than the same that others must thank with love to represent under all the limits that exceed the upper limits.
Alexander the Great embraces him and honors him with his battalion. His comrade Hephaestion dispenses the liturgy and dedicates a war song chanted by one hundred Hoplites plus the inclusion of his figure on the Hellenic banner to always be part of the military emblem arc of all the Greek armies and the coming social class. The Liturgy begins for a great commander and a good soldier who inherited new lands. Not only because the greed of the enemies could not be hidden, but mainly because he worked the land, which was a school of virtue for the veteran, in which he acquired the qualities of vigilance, strength and justice that form the basis of the military spirit with honors.

Hoplites say: with the General's voice in unison Khaire !!, “We wish you joy”. Our lord Vernarth eternal life. He will never forget, and he will remain enrolled in this life and the other all this feat, as a great soldier and comrade, who will also be the father of our family, out of concern to preserve the freedom of all of us, who will now be ours in the good reason to fight.

Hephaestion proclaims: Same nation and age with my lord Alexander the Great. As a Macedonian aristocrat and a Macedonian general noble. I do not see another certainty when we know your greatest skill in all the works that will be sculpted in our monuments. Today we must before your divine figure, of our credit to compensate all those who will swallow history before the same people as their own bite. Aristotle will grant volumes to refer to Vernarth in his history as a contribution of Helenofilo hero and all the jargon involving the new and unpublished diet of the poetics of the Greek world.


In the third part of the noon, when a voluminous day the most underlined epithets of the homage to the greatest commander of Alexander the Great increased; all would leave to continue the investigation of Darío III. In the store were Mardiath and Etréstles faithfully accompanying them along with his wife Valekiria.


The Parapsychological session resumes:

While Vernarth was in the hands of the Medical Medium, they kept their narrations attentive, which his assistant recorded and took note of the most relevant. To know more about his incessant chronicles. Countless journalists and people in the field of information were already stationed there near the building, all shocked by the reputation that this unusual parapsychological event had taken, before the clinical, political, cultural and news media.

Ellipsis Vernarth in Berlin, Germany - April 16, 1945:

Vernarth was paying attention to Reichstag defenders April 16, 1945. As he walked between the cross-shootings of the Wehrmacht and Allied sides. He walked in between the Battle of Berlin, which was the last major battle in Europe during World War II. It began on April 16, 1945 after the start of a major Soviet Union offensive on the capital city of the Third *****, and ended on May 2, 1945, when German defenders surrendered in the city to the Red Army. That full ability allowed Vernarth to interrelate inter-war situations of a political / warlike nature, as for this stage that remained to be reported. Now it was already in Germany occupied by the Soviet army. And to be able to continue living intensely in this way the marks and vestiges of the bullets of heavy caliber, which would be of great historical boast for future civilizations and their socio-political criticism, which still follow these marks of bullets in all the generations of this great Nation.

"On January 12, 1945, the Red Army entered German territory during the Vistula-Oder offensive and advanced westward at great speed, up to forty kilometers a day, entering Eastern Prussia, Lower and Upper Silesia and Eastern Pomerania, to a stop sixty kilometers east of Berlin, on a German defensive line along the Oder River. When the offensive resumed, two Soviet fronts - army groups - attacked Berlin from positions to the east and south, while a third attacked German positions to the north of the city. The first preparations to defend the outskirts of Berlin began on March 20, when the newly appointed commander of Army Group Vistula, General Gotthard Heinrici, correctly anticipated that the bulk of Soviet troops would cross the Oder River. Before the start of the battle of Berlin, the Soviets managed to surround the city thanks to their victories in the battles of the Seelow and Halbe hills. On April 16, 1945, the First Belarusian Front led by Marshal of the Soviet Union Gueorgui Zhúkov began to bombard central Berlin, while the First Ukrainian Front led by Marshal Ivan Kónev, pushed south to the remains of the Army Group Center. The German defenders were led primarily by Helmuth Weidling, and consisted of exhausted, ill-equipped, and disorganized divisions of the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS, to which many joined. Thousands of Russian cannons bombed day and night, air control Russian was total, the avenues were at the expense of fanatical Waffen SS, totally Blocked ”.

Vernarth, was crossed by means of the Reichstag, and was parapet taking a German machine gun to harass Soviet soldiers, who only used it to protect himself, limiting that he was neutral. Then he disappeared into the hills and kept his distance, only seeing the immense fires that were trying to take over a dominated city. The Reichstag building was located in the already abandoned Tiergarten district, in the Mitte district of Berlin, the capital of Germany. Where he was just interned with the combatants, and in order not to be captured he served the side that received him unequivocally.

Thousands of Russian cannon bombed day and night, Russian air control was complete, the avenues were at the expense of Waffen SS fanatics and blocked. Vernarth was crossed by means of heavy transport vehicles and mortar and cannon bombs, until cornered in some skirmishes and colossal ruins. Where he manages to escape and heads to the Hotel Adlon, a great palace of kaiseres and authorities of the great bourgeoisie. Here he manages to reside and finally escape crossing borders without knowing, thinking about going to Munich and crossing other borders, perhaps disdain to join the allied side and serve as a spy.

To be continued, under edition

Grafted birds in uproar—
And grey moorlands a fog,
The cacophony of orders,
Even turned earth a slog.

Highest heavens, all one,
Seeing with truthful eyes,
Black and white eagle—
Dispenses the blue skies.

when suffering's luster loses glow,
when overcoming is never known,
what dreams may come from fire below,
lonesome moments, ever-boding,
misery imposed, for evermore,
glorious warnings from sordid war,
of freedom imploring,
indifference ignoring,
and discontent exploring our stratosphere...
measly metamorphs,
wearily forcing inaction forward,
desperately sourcing mortality,
fallacy after fallacy fall to their knees,
umpteen deviations,
outlandish iterations, exhausted,
accost me no more, mister consciousness,
for I've already given in,
just when my sin uncovers itself,
befuddled and bereft, at the gates of hell,
the self dispenses its painful beliefs:
that nothing comes without leaving,
remains we bequeath only provide what's conceded,
so seek what is needed,
impede not the other,
and love will muster from such healthy souls.

Grafted birds in uproar—
And grey moorlands a fog,
The cacophony of orders,
Even turned earth a slog.

Highest heavens, all one,
Seeing with truthful eyes,
Black and white eagle—
Dispenses the blue skies.

apt at spilling forth
a load of *******
his tongue
dispenses
volumes  
of it

one wonders who
he's targeting now
more than likely
she is an unaware
and ignorant sow

over the course of time
she'll wise up to his *******  
and realize
he's so full of it

many lines of crap
he spun me
all of them were
unbelievable
in degree

If I bled words
What a beautiful tragedy my death would be.
The bloodiness of murderous verse
Slowly coursing from still veins,
Fascination ensued by the deep redness of my shade
Read me like the deadliest novella.
My corpse dispenses rhyme after rhyme
Slowly seeping into oblivion as time flows by
Smearing the floor with my everlasting essence
The sincerity of my words permanently staining the carpet
Frozen over gaze as you capture the look in my eyes
Holding on to seconds of life as time drifts by
Alone but leaving behind trails of divinity
A beautiful death as I lie, I die bleeding profound poetry.

There is a fine line between enabler and friend,
my bed sheets are always covered with ash.
But this story only works for about a month
after that I’m just repeating myself.
My eulogy said I donated my organs
the day I was born, the day and died and…nothing
so she wouldn’t be ashamed of my wretched life.
But I’ve been feeding flies with embalming fluid for years
we’re all born with a death sentence, baby
I am not the first, and at least I made it interesting.
Hidden among chairs filled with the saved
are the tatted, strung out and pierced people
and three angry women in the front row, boldly
Loud enough to tell my mom it’s her fault
Loud enough to tell homophobes that I was bi-******
Loud enough to tell the church that I think god is *******
That preacher talked faster and over them
but I wanted a scene
because if anyone ******* really cared
they would want to know the truth that
my worth was not singularly seen in my art, and
that deathbed conversion was merely fiction.
Funny how my last hurrah on earth was yours, mom
my life story told by the uncle who
dispenses guilt dissolving pellets
and the born again preacher whom I never even met.
While my true friends raged and cried in their seats
waiting for an invitation that never came.
Was that song part of this big distraction?
Half the heads nodded in approval
but the few clenched their fists and shook,
and I love them for that
and for all the times they had my back.
For the time they tried to get me into re-hab
and the time they pulled my car out of the ditch in the rain.
Thank you for not pretending I was something you wanted me to be
for loving the good beneath my ****** scented brilliance
***-up passed out in the bathroom
crawling into strange beds.
Let that preacher say whatever makes you feel better, mom
with the message that talks about Jesus instead of  me.
There was more oxygen in the needle than in your womb
and we both know one air bubble can spell disaster
so save your breath for someone who doesn’t
hang crosses
around
already hung necklines.

A present
of citrus flames and gorgeous warmth
wrapped up in ribbons
of thick gray trimming
nicely disguise her demon-like temperament.
Callused digits and snapping embers
snarling a ferocious alarm,
her gnashing luminous teeth
latch on to unprotected areas and leave a bite
that kills all
curiosity  
behind her
ravenous energy.
Charring and blistering the helpless prey,
her malevolent laughter torments from afar
while she quickly retreats
to her den,
nibbling her bedtime snack.
She dispenses poison like a teenage lover leaves hickeys,
even the most common and revered remedies scarcely pacify the
scars.
And yet she is unapologetically herself,
brazen,
raw.
She is magnetic.
And untouchable.

Hey someone, in charge, I’m talking to you
across a vast ocean of errors numbered 502.

Please, put a quarter in the little slot that dispenses the feed,
so, the little gray squirrel gets what he needs,
to spin the little aluminum wheel that generates
the Susie-Bake oven light which facilitates
the solar cells powering the 1984 Tandy desktop,
that’s the Hello Poetry server - it’s ground to a stop.

We love that squirrel, and if we sound cloying,
it’s because we find the constant 502 errors annoying.

The vessel that is set to carry out its mission,
Is the very utensil the architect uses to craft the map,
My the courses it charts with swift motions and firm strokes,
It dispenses the virtue of possibilities onto the surface,
Opening doors to a world beyond comprehension,
How the mind wanders to conceive dreams the heart can only fathom,
Endless is its creation aiding all who heed its call.

I was looking at shoes, as I was two and a half years ago
Off to mark a milestone, as I am now,
And somehow, as before, the shop owner becomes my advisor,
Sagely dispenses wisdom, asks sage questions, a sagesse that I
Do not know, though I feel older than the hills - the lies for
A true veteran to realise, though I will never be older, we can't deny
Than I am now, yet also never younger, in this moment.
It is easy for one that has seen many to guess the torment
Of a young soul - My life is decided in my teens, and I stick with it -
Or not, as they keep telling me - the door isn't closed - I am young;
It doesn't feel that way - it isn't long I was a babe, it isn't long
I have to live, I lie to myself, savouring little and nothing
Except the wine that dulls me further; It doesn't fit;
Nothing fits, into the time-frame I have constructed from something,
A rate, that isn't constant - the change in the perception of time:
There was a time that hours were days, and now days are hours;
And one day, they will be seconds, and soon will years.
It's all too fast, even when I complain it is too slow; where's the rhyme
And reason and rhythm to all of this? I was conceived; the die was cast;
I'm not going somewhere slowly: I'm going nowhere, fast.

My perturbed being paid huge negligence to my pen and paper meant to write a sonnet
For I'm drown in my own thoughts as I watch the sunset.
Thinking, how can I bring down this Jericho wall when I can't even blow my own trumpet

From afar,a chick called for its mother
Children taking turns to skip a gutter

I shifted my gaze upward pondering on the sky and it calligraphy
But there was more on my mind other than topography

Gone where the days when all we had were prophecies and signs
Now we have the proofs- earthquake, war, diseases , high rate in crime

Human uses human for nefarious and bohemian mischief
Acquiring a high decree in insalubrious acts and call it prestige

****** masochism,******,homosexuality,best iality,and with many severe strokes,
we've axed,hewn down and fall our hardest ethical timbered-oak

Immorality is now human right,transgender speciation is now technology.
Ostensibly, compartmentalize values and virtues are now seen as folk

Culminating this malady is 'Spurious Pentecostalism'-an acute locution for the aggrandize ecclesiastical new age religion loosely espy as ' born again ' movements

Which beget an avalanche of licentious sermons of grace extremists,
stealthily engaging in the defamatory of the Scripture.
The only exception is the law of tithing and offering.

As clerical entities,sharply dressed,suave,bogus televangelist
dispenses false miracles and prophesies of untold wealth to there flock
in return for their votive offerings

Take heed that no man deceive you (Matthew 24:4)

I Emmanuel sound it loud and clear
CHRIST JESUS IS COMING VERY SOON !

a kingdom wholesale, loose strings of coupons;
a throne of pepsi cartons amidst the concrete
lights shine over the infinite rows of freezers
so sample the pork and pass by the petunias
dream of the electronics display let the
laptops regard visions of the self inside which
empty bubbles where words should go but don't
flutter across up blue and white.
to buy mulch is to regard the manure as
nothing but what it claims to be.
i ordered a hotdog after checking out and i sat and ate
and there is a vending machine here that only
dispenses water bottles.

loving you is driving into circles,
far beyond the speed limit, like when
you hit 108 on the highway, before you know it,
you’re ending up smashed against the
hardest brick wall in town
nobody ever told me I needed insurance
the rates aren’t going down
**** I’ve invested in you and only you but see
talking to you is talking to the blank page
ive been staring at for far too long
you are my writers block some weeks and
others, you, the only
picture my pen ink paints when scratching surface
of empty paper, my mind dispenses nothing more.
maybe if I drink too much coffee I’ll become
emotionally vacant to the point where I forget
your name, see
i try to write about the sky,
sometimes recovery,
sometimes something. but
your initials float through
the thoughts in my head and
I see you in words, I feel you in the back
of my throat
youre gone, I left before closure
could concur but for some reason
youre still the spitting image of the word
home when I hear it