There was once a girl who had her peers’ approval: skin like silk and her eyes could be compared to a freshly polished wooden floor, her laugh could light up a whole town - the hearts of the broken. This girl’s heart was said to be golden – the kind of gold used to build the streets of Heaven, the kind the kings yearned for; delicate and sweet too, that heart of gold. The way this angel walked wasn’t **** nor was it seducing; the way this Mona Lisa walked: dumbfounding. The way this Mona Lisa walked: beautiful. The way this Mona Lisa walked: full of grace. Grace. She spoke of this word: grace. Grace to this girl was more than just a word, it was a lifestyle. She spoke of the grace of God and God’s grace descending upon His children. This wonderful girl – who spoke of God’s grace – had her peers’ approval, yet not her family’s. This dumbfounding girl, who did not have her family’s approval, started giving up on the grace of God. This girl whose laugh could bring life to the dead souls couldn’t find life in her own, couldn’t light up her own heart not made of gold, but of cheap metal, and it was rusting faster than God’s grace could find her. This graceless girl got tired of waiting for God’s grace to arrive. This graceless girl was yearning for the same gold the kings did. This graceless girl wanted to turn her heart to gold. This graceless girl wanted to touch the golden streets of Heaven. This graceless girl wanted to be one of “His children”. This graceless girl wanted to find the grace of God on her own terms.
Twenty four hours later.
There was once a girl who had her peers’ handkerchiefs and flowers. Her skin of silk was almost colder than her family’s hearts, not made of gold nor metal, but of ice. They would not go to her wedding (if she had one, they said).
She didn’t.
Instead, this girl who had her peers’ flowers in respect laid there exactly like a carcass: dead.

FIRST

Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.

SECOND

Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.

Mystical Fire

God is fire holy without equal then you have glory boy that burns with every despicable evil in his favor
Our make up by fallen nature is in the same area and has a willing bent that favors signals that come
From Satan so the need that came about through the cross for the great alignment it works only when
You are truly engaged indentified by actual action of dying to that enemy of your own self then you find
What I will try to convey in this piece giving you the two pictures of this glorious burning then the awful
Burning only hell can stoke and purposely mix among the tender of ready to burn substance found in human nature

A wonderful place to draw this contrast is Los Angeles called the city of angels but the most beautiful is
Its Spanish interoperation Low hovering angels this loses if we say it but let a Mexican say it with his
Inflection most perfect if he is saying it from love. Is there a seriousness here our blessing is not being in
That crucible even New York is called the big apple but those in the know call it the volcano with all its
Eruptions and pressures so does L A fall into this category in fact if you live on Pico Ave it’s a category
Five tornado this is one of the most fought out streets in the turf war for space to sell the Bain to all
Society drugs see the flame it consumes the guilty and the innocent view this common occurrence way
To common how many small neighborhood chapels were filling with caskets instead of wedding
Ceremonies look and listen a Mac Ten pistol grease gun thirty round capacity it has just started its
Deadly chatter laying down a withering fire this isn’t battle ground conditions this is a neighborhood
Strafing a car the widow’s blow out the shooter keeps the fire steady it starts plinking metal as it moves
To the front of the car off the car into a white small picked fence wood matching the spray of bullets as
It Flys in all directions Chicago revisited instead of the Tommy gun chopper of probation you got a
Crazed dope fiend punk without emotions the sight of fourteen year old Maria standing on the side walk
Never registered or didn’t matter three red dots appeared on her bright blouse across her back the
Center spot stopped her heart forever now these precious Spanish eyes closed never to see her rightful
Future instead of one day walking the Church isle in a wedding gown now she would lie in repose in
White with the flowers not in a bouquet but neatly fixed in her hair. So robbed of youth and life her
Budding life so filled with promise where angels hover no more demons work overtime however evil is
Carried and delivered believe me they have it more together than the sleeping church self satisfied the
God of mercy and love restricts himself to mans efforts the Devil endlessly prowls about seeking who he
May devour

In the Christian life death is the pivotal point only through this experience can success be found this is
Dumbfounding to our fallen nature I want to show through the natural death of two precious teens it
Seems a stretch but you can disagree but you didn’t see what I saw I don’t desire to take you on a
Journey that disappoints you but just listen to my accounting I didn’t ask to see this scene it was shoved
In front of me by an L A fireman his story deserves telling at a later time the picture to me it seems God
Himself finally said enough is enough the killing of Maria and others have occurred hundreds of times
These teens died and then fire consumed their natural bodies but an intervention the light of heaven
Had to bathe them and in that light fine particles of gold had to enter our world forming this thinnest
Sheen enveloping them in a golden cocoon their spirits ushered into the father’s presence their bodies
Would not be marred disfigured no they would pass from clay to immortal gold comparable to king tut I
Viewed both subjects through the record afforded by photography these two youthful companions in
Life now side by side they are cast in breathless beauty to me one instance of death being over ruled the
Promise given for future times in this case the promise inserted in real time that will be common in the
Heavenly tomorrows the beauty of God had to have a hand in what I saw those precious children went
Beyond the earthly outcome were transformed they had the shinning of a vision that one day will be our
Common experience glorified bodies are the language God who cannot lie says will be everyone’s
reality.

~one more for the r man~

almost Monday
and its weighty five day oppressive lead poisoning on the horizon,
is but a thirsty thirty six minutes away from its fortified Sumter, first shot to be fired at midnight, how we love to mark the commencement of hostilities and killing

but I am already wounded, a casualty of having spent evening with pleading, pleasing timer eating, reading of your work,
r

the sounds of inestimable admiration and infectious jealousy
make this old man eager to discard a lifetimes work and
begin fresh, but only as a copyist of you,
r

I know you’re thinking "what in the hell is he blubbering about?"

so I willingly will my confessional offering in the dark of the
holy bedroom; for you make me eat my words, and
spit them out as wastage, in dumbfounding humility

god you and yours, make me frail and blessed that I stumbled
upon your abbreviations of the human life,
r

shut up and accept my three r’s
reading ‘riting and rising
up to sing hymns of praise
for a man with a historical perspective and
whose few occasionals
are carved in the granite bench
of what makes my life
worthy of load bearing;

more than bearable,
all are soul-enlightened by
baring our humility, our admiration

11:24pm 4/15/18
nyc

I favour the deep, impenetrable truth of the jungle
Over the smooth ride over sleek black rubber;
The *****, disturbing, demented disorder;
The distortions of the lights we bathe on,
Over outward alignments and the staleness of systems.

I favour the cheap, rugged, bittersweet taste
Of a late night's substandard drink,
In the midst of true lights and shadows
And the uncertainty they cast upon us,
Over the orderly and satisfactory--
The dead pleasures and securities that
Exist nowhere but in feeble projections.

I favour the basic, primeval, animal grunt--
The dirt, the dizziness of true treading
Across the muddy shallows--,
Over the clattering of an overflowed,
Certain mind.

I favour doubt, earnest doubt,
Unpalatable doubt, inescapable doubt--
A smile in a pitch-black room,
A journey on a lukewarm air balloon,
A half-finished sentence in a half-serious gloom--,
Over hasty conclusions and tainted allusions.

I favour the endearing messiness of reality;
The chaos of light and dreams;
The mystery, so out of reach,
Of you and me and the space in-between;
The stained, torn, shattered, burnt,
Twisted texture we find ourselves upon,
Over the smooth, marble-white,
Sterile surface where false certainties
Slide, grinning, before they find themselves
On an impending collision with the infectious hesitation of the ground.

I favour the acknowledging look
Straight into the eye;
A ladder with one step;
A race with no competitors;
A contentment without resentment;
A bread on your table that's good enough,
That doesn't tease you and promise you more,
And more,
And more,
So that you forget what you should really care for,
What lies deep under your skin,
What stirs up the dormant contents of your guts--
You climb to the hilltop
Which finally allows you to have
A peek at the next one.

I favour uncertainty and risk,
And walking too close to the edge;
I favour barely enough,
And cutting it too close;
I favour throwing all excess over the board,
And lowering standards;
I favour the taste of imminent failure
And the adrenaline of a heart-wakening sprint;
I favour meagre means
And big dreams, free of currencies;
For they all remind me what the world
Really looks like,
Who I really am,
And what the winter-night winds
Really feel like.

I favour the ways of nature, often erratic,
*****, ugly and convoluted,
Often dumbfounding,
Unintentionally intelligent and mysterious,
Over the ways of fear-ridden constructions,
For there is no such thing
As a straight line.

I experience solitude
Because I act rude
The effect is compounding
The effect is dumbfounding
I'm stuck in a trend
That will never end
My rudeness they return
So my bridges I burn
My life takes a turn
For connection I yearn
All I feel are the spurs

I live a life sheltered
To avoid being peltered
By the wailing welter
My walls block hate
Which is great
But I also miss love
That travels above

My feet are growing weary from the emptiness I stand
And I can count all of my friends on half of my hand
The half with no fingers
That's a real stinger
Not hearing the ringer
I become a feces flinger
Instead of a beautiful singer
The silence is deafening
My mentality it's threatening
With pain that's resounding
Of the drain I'm rounding
And the lingering loneliness
When I am my only guest
My mind is put to the test
By a solitude that infests

The great unbreakable and unscalable walls of yore are not broken.

They just ceased to be walls.
Now just a slightly dumbfounding mist.

You pass through them like a bad smell
because they were never really there.
And those that built them
With ignorance and shame
Are long dead.

They are only an obscure memory of pain, oppression or struggle.

I do not want an old man God sat in a throne,
Judging from afar with sceptre and gold
riding on a cloud, sombre and haloed,
stern faced, woolly warm beard stroking,
Michelangelo-esque nighty clad, run of the mill deity.

I do not want a Sunday morning liturgy reference God,
inhabiting musty buildings, documented within dusty books, out dated, out rated, out of duty once a week
(twice if you include the mid-week bible study),
appeasing a sick relative, reluctant, habit God.

I do not want a jolly nodding head back shelf of the car job, kitsch icon, only when it suits me, pocket amenity,
fashion accessory, hobby gimmick God; a God modelled
from routine and agenda and TV evangelism, a convenience style digestible man made allusion.

I don’t want a controlling egomaniac parent God, bent on
setting us unattainable goals and tasks then throwing
a tantrum when the model train set breaks; or a God
who is distant, self-righteous, passive and out of touch,
an elusive, reclusive, exclusive God,

I want an ‘I Am who I Am’ God, whose boundaries are so
immense that to trace them would destroy you. A God
who is completely indefinable, that every brushstroke
put to canvas, every conceivable melody whistled, that
every imaginable word uttered, would barely compare.

I want a God who to stand before would burn my eyes out, make my heart explode; that I would be totally devastated. Yet, a God who is approachable and approaches, a God who is in the here and now, surrounding, dumbfounding, astounding, a God with promise and hope you can taste.

A God who breaks all the boundaries and exceeds every
human expectation and limitation, a God who hears and feels every longing, every desire and creates opportunity,
empowering the heart that cries out, stilling the soul when it aches, a God of promise and hope and deliverance.

I want a God unlike any parent, friend, lover, sovereign, reckless in compassion and filthy with goodness, available and ever there. So dangerously loving, so excessively wise and firm, yet tender, knowing, emotive, compassionate, A God who takes my grief. A God asking to be found and worth being sought.

Calm*

That's definitely a word that I wouldn't expect to come up right now,
but it does.
I am relaxed.
A serene nature spills over me,
dumbfounding.
I know it works out either way,
and I think that's why I remain calm.
My heart knows I can be happy either way,
and that makes me happy.
Look at how far I have come,
you helped me with so much.
I can go out in the world,
and not ever be afraid again.
You taught me good things,
and bad.

You let me realize I am more than this,
I am more than the notch in the back of that truck,
I am more than a drunken plea from a pathetic loser,
I am more than a drunk car drive home.

I am worth more than I ever imagined,
and I can finally see it.
That light at the end of the tunnel.
I am unsure of the ending,
but I know that it is good.

There's no anger,
there's no more tears,
just a sure grip on reality and my worth as a person.
And it won't be the same for a while,
but it's okay.
It'll always be okay in the end.

This definitely isn't a sad sob story at all,
it was never meant to be one.
Just a simple crossing of paths,
for lessons sake.
Positive thoughts and positive feelings,
that's what I have in my heart.

No matter what does happen,
I got this big chunk of me back.
It was lost for such a long time,
but I just found it in myself.

You can break and shatter a vase,
with all of the pieces of it broken and scattered,
and you can glue all of the pieces back,
missing or not,
and it'll still be a vase.
It may not work,
or be pretty,
or stand up straight,
but it is still the vase that was before it was broken.

Thank you for everything,
because all of this,
it wasn't for nothing,
it was definitely something more.

you love her, don't you?   
because she's beautiful; 
she's exciting; 
she's empyreal.  
because she kisses like these are her final moments of life  
and she wants to spend them only with you. 
 
but be careful who you trust (the devil was once an angel, you know). 
she makes your heart flutter, but  
anyone'll tell you that really,  
arrhythmia isn't a good thing.  
 
she's a disguise, grief wrapped up like a gift. 
oh, darling, she's a pretty war. ****** in her veins.  
 
(but) 
 
let's go from the start. 
 
your bones don't fit  
you feel as though your throat is all sandpaperandnails 
you're alone. you've been ohsolonely.
 
then you meet her and she's all chocolateandcinnamon and     
    perfectly 
                aligned. 
 
you look into her eyes. you see a nebula.  
an interstellar cloud but made up of something you should know but don't.  
she's  dumbfounding; 
it's refreshing.  
you like mysteries.  
 
she’s  everything  you’ve  ever wanted (probably) and she pulls you out of that hole. 
that one with the festering thoughts  
and the dark spaces where you could go for days at a time. 
your heart was heavy, a sky full of rain.  
but she was a tempest. your saving grace. 
 
this is a story about love, but it's not a love story.  
not really. 
this is a story about the human condition, 
about how, though the heart isn’t the *****  
that makes us feel, 
it still hurts the most. 
and more importantly, this is an open letter 
to the skies, 
to whichever deity decided that you couldn’t 
be with her forever. 
 
you're a house with empty rooms and 
there's a storm teasing the windows; 
an aggressive ballet. 
looking back, 
you suppose you should have noticed the leak 
before it got the chance to flood 
 
and you remember the look in her eyes when you said  
"even though I did geography at school, it didn't teach me  
the difference between an earthquake 
and you" 
and she said she didn't understand  
and you said * that's the point, neither do I.*

for to love someone 
is to give them your heart on a platter 
and hand over the cutlery, too. 
but you remember just thinking oh,  
if she makes you giddy like this then  
what could be wrong? 
 
you know that "gravitation is not responsible 
for people falling in love" 
but the force with which you feel the desire 
to present your heart like a gift, to 
open yourself to the possibility of hurt and break 
must be greater than yourself 
 
and you never knew why they called it  
"heartbreak" until the day she left 
and you realised after, that the difference  
between you and humpty dumpty 
is that his friends thought he was worth trying to  
put back together again. 
 
the thing is that 
empty rooms echo, and now 
so do you. 
 
and after that, 
after the fallout 
and the body count of all your past selves 
they'll say to you: 
you're young 
it's not the end of the world.
but 
when someone makes flowers grow in your lungs  
and then makes you choke on them 
it feels like it is. 
 
you know what? 
you notice empty spaces more 
once your chest becomes one. 
 
a house of cards 
imagine matchsticks; 
burning love but 
singeing your fingers, 
and she never asked why you flinched 
 
her palms, eden. 
her kiss of death, 
her purgatory embrace. 
she, aokigahara, suicide forest. 
you were born to die in her arms. 
 
and if you ever wondered
why they name tornadoes after girls, 
you don't now. 
 
you, lacklustre lazarus­. 
you know you're no phoenix; 
the ashes consume. 
 
so here you are. 
and ode to you, 
because words shouldn't be like bullets, 
staccato, and 
vowels shouldn’t have sharp edges- 
but they do. 
 
you see, 
poetry is the place love goes when it dies, 
the place where heartbreak is framed with metaphors 
and mounted on the wall as art. 
a library of all the things left unsaid. 
 
the psychiatrist takes lots of notes. 
about how you thought she was your   
deus ex machina, 
about how you remembered too late that this is real life  
and really, all of this is just a periphrasis. 
 
you think 
sticks and stones, sticks and stones 
but the truth is that words 
are like bullets, 
and her tongue the gun; 
her “goodbye” ricocheting against her teeth. 
 
now, today, it’s you with the weapon;  
taking control the way god never did. 
cold metal and clammy hands. 
cleaning up the mess left behind 
by a tornado named her. 
 
b a n g.

There comes a time when all good efforts render our souls wounds laid bare.

there comes in our lives, a moment so long lasting and ever never failing to stretch on for an eternity, that one finds each minute second a lifetime for which to wollow and contort in our self abuse and humiliating pains.

In these moments of seeming endless script that dictate that we find everything wrong with the world of our making, we seem to realize the saddest value of self being remanded to the simplest of sensations , sensations devoid of gratification yet sweet and addictive in some parts as to understand what it is we are doing in such dismal environments of self.

These times when all of our best laid plans and stumbling prized findings, of unfolding adherence to what we perceive, as the world in its synchronic and dumbfounding way of expanding all we thought we knew of this place for which we act like we are the masters of.

and we find we feel like failures no matter what we find about us, supporting us, within us, without us, and opposing us.

Yet even in this seeming depressed and down trodden state as one would think to find the feelings too be, we find rebelliousness a constant even when dealing with ones self.

See, though I find myself a failure to many differing and inconsistent degrees in life and all I tried to accomplish, I found myself far more willing to lash out and strike the world with my own sense of abandonment, accusation and bewilderment, though knowing that it be justified and unjustified at times in its quantum 1,0, and both degree, I realized that I felt this way to myself as a constant.

See the truth is , I never failed in anything I was trying to do, yet feel that I failed everyone by even attempting to do anything. I knew nothing and know even less these days to some important point of reference lost ages ago, while seeing clearly the confusion cast like a net over the world and the confoundment over us all, though my intent was for all others to see what I could not.

Seems that I some how could never edit myself as diligently as others ensured to edit all that is of me that the world would ultimately see.

Seems when I would speak of things and venture out of the box and attempt to render a graphic image of mental consideration so as to convey and extrapolate what is vague and blurry to ones self for it to become a vast painting that could be envisioned and embraced for you and the world to expound upon, I was seen far less accurately and far more foolishly than I figured motivating to anyone, much-less to the soul of any matter for which we water the hearts of all good people to find a well spring to matter the most as to find the best avenue of approach, and thus solve in resolute that which we failed to consider raising up a flag pole to salute.

So do consider that even when I dash about all rash stricken and dashing the best efforts of mine enemy and supporters alike, I truly have attempted to cast a complete and rounded full spectrum light upon the very flaws and perfections of the you in me, as if to ask you to hold strong and truly the deepest regard for yourself and those you might not have found worth in before bumping into this nobody of me.

I am no hero, I am no wonder of the world to gave upon, nor am I a waste of time or effort to see the beauty in me, see, no matter what you feel you find in me, I know I find it in you as well as me, and I am truly doing all I can to see past all of my failings, so I can be reminded of all the good things of you in me.

Soon I will raise and be less broken and beat to a ****** pulp, and you just might be proud to see the you of me, and till then, please remind your self, you were worth it to me, to stand fearless in front of the world and all of the overwhelming things that opposed us in this endless and confusing happenings that make up this unending situation unfolding before us all.

I am a King, and I know this because I know you are as well and I can see that in the me in you, question is, can you see that in the you in me.

You were and are worth all this pain and cost that has defiled all I have ever held sacred.  SO try and not give up on what you think is worth it.

Chin Up, I am still here and working on it all, just reeling from some serious blows to the soul. smile, you are still beautiful you know.

You were always quiet. Reserved. Cool and collected.

All that went out the window when someone learned who you truly were.

I feel lucky to have learned a fraction of it.
Your writing abilities make me wonder what website you're ripping these from because holy s**t nobody's that good. It always leaves me wanting more.

All good things come to an end, of course. Including my time knowing you.
But I'm going to leave with a lot of regrets from last year.
If I hadn't been so **** stupid, maybe I would've gotten to know you better.
I wish I could have.


Your piano skills are dumbfounding. I think my mouth dropped open and remained that way the entire duration of your song during the talent show.
It makes me sad that you don't play more.

You have given me a fresh set of memories to enjoy. I will cherish them.
And I will remember you. I promise you this. As much as I've broken every other promise, I will keep this one.
I will remember you.
Always.

Hold my hand, I feel
like we're jumping off a cliff,
now we know it's real,
and what can happen if

you hold me tight
and don't let go
at least not 'till
the moon stops being full;

there was a fog
but now it's clear
and it's quite obvious,
to me over this beer

we're sharing something
that if lost cannot be
found and it's dumbfounding
how you lose me

in a place where only you can go,
when you pick up my hand,
we drop our guards down low
enough to finally understand

all the passion in a kiss
in a moonlit country night
with barely any lights on in this
town that's never felt so right.

painfully sore free
adventurer squirms, raw calm
dogs clash, dumbfounding

Atlas makes me wonder sometimes about what true struggle is. A never ending hell, carrying the world and the sky apart, so two ancient lovers never again experience the joy of a child who could be their advocate. They bore thousands just to shed their blight upon this world and purge all the divergent paths. Should I release  Atlas from his ******* and tell the two ancient lovers to love again so that the paths between us never again diverge? Or are you terrified in the idea of a path that converges like I am? I know Atlas would be more that joyful to be relieved, but what catastrophe would come from Gaia and Uranus giving birth to their next harbinger of death? This fear is so dumbfounding  and beyond my reasoning. I suppose, my love, that it's because we have no idea where our paths lead. But in the end, words are like the paths we take, ever flowing from the distance we make them out to be. So let's see where these paths lead so we will one day be able to converge at last without the fears of a lonely man. Atlas, begone! We've made our decision. Good day! And goodmorning my love. Let's now have the greatest talk about nothing at all ever and make those paths larger than ever thought to be.

covert for: bandana, with a touch of marquis de sade's discretion, i.e.: gentlemen! let's make it clear, we're not here for the candy, for the thrill of chasing three ****-naked piglets... we're here for the oysters, for the tartar steaks... for everything that deserves the definition of: decadent! and its oozing pus filled porous rivers of, thrill: take it as you make - there will always be people, who toy with words; but at least these people are not the rigid ******* of lawmakers, who see lawmaking, who deem jurisprudence, law itself, as nothing short of a thesaurus, which is, evidently, their sacred text.

with the verse i write -
upon inspecting the "efforts"
of others -
   seems to translate into: a hospital
for anemics,
and that's very much
irritable -
    given that people take more
effort into disliking complicated
phrasing of a lack of effort
to match a deed -
      than people taking the least
amount of effort of disliking
the most complicated turn of events,
say, a ******, or a robbery...
      the perpetuated history of
the individual has always been
the dumbfounding "awe" at
the masses - without a theological zoo
to keep them less investigated
by the individual -
        i dare not turn to investigating
the universe,
     what's feeding my apprehension
is more on the plateau,
on the summary of man -
less the trigonometric tangent graph,
and more the sine / cosine variations,
and this beyond good & evil?
both graphs retain an indistinguishable
optical illusion, beginning
at the coordinate centrism of 0,
i.e. denial... most of human history
has been written upon the face of
grimacing denial, while telling a bad joke;
i still can't believe that i'm trapped
in egypt, whereby i now live in the times
where the pyramids are no longer
3 dimensional, but 2 dimensional!
pyramids unto trinities,
   the 3 posits of origin - always with the 3s!
if *daesh could do anything useful,
they'd blow up the pyramids...
rather than buddhist monuments,
or any other babylonian feat of culture;
i still can't believe that the supposed
  "evolution" of man has stopped at
the triangle, the pyramid,
                            the, whatever.

Similar to scrutinizing
an abstract painting,
this author begetting, canvassing
entreating... obscure words dumbfounding
readers (himself included), he eludes
(shading tree fore rest)
clear cut discerning,
yet oft times his woods
garner reviews raving
esoteric word choice,

how mind boggling
to this logophile despite
more than one reading
brow (sir) rendering furrowed -
cognitive region scrunching,
no matter intent concentration
utter futility attempting
bedeviled comprehension, whether
literary master (me? ha...
not yet), among pantheon partying,

but nonetheless birthing
present day profoundly thought provoking,
undoubtedly tirelessly expending
mental energy eventually exhausting
effort in futility understanding,
asper mine stymied
linkedin attention getting
(then just as quickly losing)
registering resignation defeat alluding
to challenge physical prowess daunting

engagement well matched savvy sparring
partner, or possibly life
and death battling
against unwittingly aggressive brutal questing
archenemy, sans toward all living
species wretched nemesis ultimately deciding
mortality tacitly accepted proffering
transient longevity refusing
to compromise, haggle, negotiate,
et cetera casting

deadened demise of victor or villain
all thru civilization starring
as unopposable tour
de force quietly biding
end date, versus indiscriminately snatching
hero, heroine, coward,
et cetera requiring
impossible mission redeeming
ransom while donning
mask of Melpomene

(Tragedy), or trumpeting
Thalia (Comedy), no exit stage door left
only joie de vivre
until last second ticking
unbeknownst unexpected, and uninviting
deathly hallows ringtone alarming
anonymous (oh Henry)
words worth struggling
to hash meaningfulness, viz
finite existence germinating

since birth, yet
terminal realization pressing
with greater frequency when aging,
and deafeningly ear splitting
amplitude bite the bullet clamoring
to tread welcome matt acquiescing
unavoidable phase of dying
devoid of any bargain, but requiring
unconditionally punishingly suffering
silent non binding

resolution, no exemption decrying
unfair contractual obligation, nor unionizing
worth a fig yore of
speech as cosmic arbiter
blithely doth shear - pruning,
grafting without rhyme nor reason meeting
identical fate toward everyone
even posthumous destiny yours truly awaiting,
where soul spirited into the sky
linkedin with cosmic consciousness

humming with universal sound;
'Om,' 'Ohm' or 'Aum'
according to Hinduism and other religions
chiefly of India,
a sacred syllable considered to be
greatest of all mantras, or sacred formulas
called the seed sound (bija),
the original sound from
which all other sounds and worlds come from,
hence 'Om,' 'Ohm' or 'Aum' represents:
God, Brahman, Source, Universal Consciousness.

Aftermath of war: onerous task...

to salvage flotsam and jetsam
of human wreckage
amidst a sea where triage
witnessed courtesy scattered corpses
populating the Gaza strip
more'n pound of cold flesh
forced sacrifice appeasing
vengeance usurped quarterage
tendered for countless generations
predominantly innocent victims
hostages held at staggering price
non-negotiable exorbitant nonwage
blinding, deafening, frightening kilowattage
courtesy blitzkrieg annihilating,
obliterating, pulverizing... heritage
sporting military equipage
analogous to Humpty Dumpty
where all the king's men
and all the the king's horses
severing peace pact irretrievable brokerage.

Present violent conflict resolution
as brutal modus operandi
spells woebegone webbed wide world ache
a lamentable recourse to break
vicious cycle on par
with death and destruction
analogous to an earthquake
indiscriminate enfiladed innocent
mortally wounded victims
the zealous militants did forsake
leaving him/her to gasp
as he/she did intake

their last dying breath
while just desserts served
when recalcitrant misfits of the state
staged a successful jailbreak
joining spunky and the gang
to wreak collateral damage
upon heads of oppressors,
who sought courtesy
Benjamin Netanyahu how to make
inveterate Pro Israel/anti Palestinian
whereby his once sterling
now tarnished namesake

linkedin to butchery, demagoguery,
fiery rhetoric meant to cause
Allah, Arabic Allāh (“God”) quake:
The name's origin can be traced
to the earliest Semitic writings
in which the word for god
was il, el, or eloah, the latter
two used in the Hebrew Bible
(Old Testament) cutthroat
religionists unafraid to bare fangs
and releasing deadly venom,
when transformed into a rattlesnake.

Poison infiltrates the body electric
think scorpion puncturing stinging
sundering wounding Leviathan
in present context antagonizing Israeli
bashing defense forces hazarding
triggering constellation of neighboring states
to arouse home grown insurgents
housing hotbed of militant activism
ready to explode across the webbed wide world.

Oh brother Grimm tales not so far away
pitting flesh and blood kindred folks
melded from earthen clay
no holds barred loosing terror to reign
forcing me to question
posed liked Rodin's The Thinker
dumbfounding mine sixty shades of gray,
where self extinction of **** sapiens
sharply heading oneway.

I wince with distress and tragedy wrought
how peaceful conflict resolution
infrequently said methodology sought
one subsequent generation after
harbors hatred decreasing opportunities
for babies (violently decapitated)
to experience life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness naught
to whit ruthlessness running rampant
murdering rampage haught
cannibalistic cuisine till survivors total aught.