For more information, including the origin of Honku, please visit the official website:
www.honku.org



Clogging traffic flow
twin, brake riders in the lane,
they're really a pain.



America's love -
Unsupervised car racing
on our new highways.



Rubbernecking state:
Welcome to Connecticut,
spend more time on road.



Suggestion only?
Painted lines are optional
for lane straddlers.



Forget the roadkill!
Rubberneckers demonstrate...
Lust for dead bodies.

De las Casas records in stark numbers the genocide that took place under Columbus and the Spaniards, writing that when he first came to Hispaniola in 1508, "there were 60,000 people living on this island, including the Indians; so that from 1494 to 1508, over three million people had perished from war, slavery, and the mines. Who in future generations will believe this? I myself writing it as a knowledgeable eyewitness can hardly believe it...."[80]

Columbus and his brothers lingered in jail for six weeks before busy King Ferdinand ordered their release. Not long after, the king and queen summoned the Columbus brothers to the Alhambra palace in Granada. There the royal couple heard the brothers' pleas; restored their freedom and wealth; and, after much persuasion, agreed to fund Columbus's fourth voyage. But the door was firmly shut on Columbus's role as governor. Henceforth Nicolás de Ovando y Cáceres was to be the new governor of the West Indies

Cool flowing waters
cater me with plenty of…
Aquatic playmates.

Smallmouth and largemouth –
Either kind acceptable,
if they are landed.

Get them in the boat!
Fishing stories without proof
are just plain-faced lies.

Imitating bugs?
Fishing is an art form of…
Posing as insects.

The splashing fishes
are vying for attention
during school’s recess.


Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2009, All rights reserved.

Hasta la pasta?
Annoying filament knots
of spaghetti spools.


The squeals of delight
flow from all fishing children
with uncontained joy.


Sounds of spinning spools
always brings me much comfort,
for I’m not at work.


Floating down the stream?
Not a dream, after dropping…
A bag of bobbers.


In early morning
anxious fish are awaiting
the autumn school bells.



Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.

Lures, flies and spinners
provide variety for
multiple techniques.


Casting carefree lines
the sportsmen and women look…
For fishy hook-ups.


Moonlight over pines –
Adds a touch of elegance
to nighttime fishing.


Daytime sea trollers
combine leisure travel
and hands-free fishing.


The ignorant fish –
Unaware of keepers of…
Life’s aquarium.


Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2009, All rights reserved.

Breaching the surface
largemouth jumps up to see if…
It can hold its breath.


The pregnant fishes
lounge upon the riverbed
waiting to give birth.


Dancing smallmouth bass
pirouettes around boat
looking for handouts.


Learning never ends!
For even the fish will stay…
Forever in school.


Protective coating:
Slimy perspective to us;
Life saving to them.




Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken *****, and tom- cats, and all of them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most any thing and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n you could wink, he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightforward as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.


Mark Twain

eyes are the first thing I notice when I look at you, but that's not all I look at.

From your beatifully tamed strands of black hair, to the bottoms of your sneakers. However, your eyes are what captivate me the way they do.

Beautifully dark brown, round as diameter, staring through my soul the way they stare at open books dedicated to you, the novels of poetry made in your honor even before you were born.

Eyes

the cells that my heart is chained in.

Your eyes

the attention grabbing, free roaming palace where I intend to stay. Swimming in your eyes as if around a pool, and you know I stare, because you always look back.

They say if you look at the sun too long,
An image of it is burned in your eyes,
Well, I must have looked at you too long,
‘Cause your image is a 3rd degree burn,
And every second I spend breathing,
I see you.
I feel you.
I ache you.
I bleed you.
I need you.
I gauge you.

But I run.
I run from you.
And I hate myself.
Every length of my being.
I hate myself because,
You are me.


-April 21st 2013

Sat in the window seat
of the olde English cottage.
The open bow window
providing natures salted
air conditioning from the sea.
Breaking waves below the cliffs.
the only noise in the starlit night.
I turned to see your face
the one that takes
my breath away and
Fills my heart
with hopes and dreams.
Your lips open slightly
the words
I love you
are on the tip of your tongue.
They have no need to be spoken.
Because I can feel your heart
beating with mine and I know it.
You found me and rosebud cottage.
I know one day your memory
may return
that you may have
a wife and children.
And the loss of you
will be too much
for me to bear.
So we sat there
with the sea below us
and the stars above us.
I whispered
I love you darling.
But for now for this moment
I was happy once again.

and he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd think he wan's worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully- rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson which was the name of the pup Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze on it not chew, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they thronged up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a ****** for his pet bolt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peered sur- prised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take bolt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.


Mark Twain

“Ye—yes, s—sir,” Alex stuttered, sitting up and backing against the sofa.

“Well..” Mr. Joyce clutched the knife tightly in his fist, his knuckles turning white from intense anger. He could feel his son’s eyes growing wider and drops of sweat dwindling down the side of his face. He could hear his son’s heart rate and breathing quicken, and could feel the transfer of cower make the couch shake in unison to his son, on his leg. Mr. Joyce grinned. He moved quickly and pinned Alexander against the back of the couch with his forearm across his neck. Mr. Joyce could feel his son struggling to breathe. He smiled spitefully. Mr. Joyce slowly brought the knife to his son’s face, making sure he could see it.

“Now,” Mr. Joyce whispered maliciously. Alexander’s pupils dilated at the sight of the knife, tears rolling down his face and landing on his father’s arm. He brought the knife closer to his son’s neck, gently poking his delicate skin to see him tremble in fear. “You’ll be an even better son.” He pressed down, carefully breaking his elusive skin and watched in delight as the first trickles of blood broke free. Overcome with fury, Mr. Joyce plunged the blade into him deeper, watching in satisfaction while the crimson blood soaked into the boy’s soccer uniform, poured onto his arm, and onto the couch. Mr. Joyce dragged the knife slowly across his throat, reveling in the slight struggle the boy attempted in putting up. Gurgling sounds escaped Alexander’s mouth, but he was soon silent and still. The blood of Mr. Joyce’s failure of a son darkened the cream colored sofa with every drop that fell from his neck, drying to a deep, disappointing brown.

Mr. Joyce looked to his wife, still gripping the blood-stained knife in his hand and breathing deeply. Krystine peered up to him from the magazine in nonchalance, “After everyone’s finished with dinner, I’ll call to order a new sofa.” She sat up to retrieve the plates of blood-touched sandwiches on the table.

“Aw,” Krystine sighed, looking down at the dishes, then to her husband, “these were my mother's nice plates.”

In the middle of June, we wake up to the light peering through the blinds, it's 10 am
I squint my eyes just enough to map out where you are
I remember I am wearing your white t-shirt and smile
You are already awake, lying there looking at me
"How long have you been up?" I ask
"Just a few minutes, not too long. How'd you sleep?"
"Wonderful, as always with you," I mumble the last part, "Breakfast?"
He smiles and sits up on his elbow, facing me
"I got it, you just make coffee. Deal?"
He gleams with a smile that could give a blind man sight and all I can manage is a nod.
He kisses my forehead and throws the sheets off his body
I sit there, gazing at him, trying not to fall more in love with him than I already am
I check my phone and my mother called, but I decide to call her later and succumb to following the trail of french toast coming from the kitchen
I hear him humming and walk towards the record player
Digging through out box of records, I choose our favorite, Work Song
I look over at him and his skin almost glows at the melody flowing through the walls
"French toast?"
"Problem?"
"None at all," I grin, "How do you want your coffee?"
He gives me a stern look as if I am serious
"I'm joking, two sugars, one and a half creams," I say kissing his cheek
The thing about love is it can be playful and sweet and reckless all at the same time. We have managed a perfect balance between them all. Love wears dark blue pajama pants. Love has burnt caramel hair and candlelight skin. Utmost of all, love makes the best french toast.

She found him outside her small flat
he was in the bloom of the old lamplight.
she noticed the grey flecks in his beautiful eyes.
Hi!
he whispered softly like honey falling from a spoon.
She flashed her prettiest smile
And tossed her hair back like she used to.
You look as beautiful as I remember.
She looked at him for some small signal of remorse
but she could not see it.
He wanted her
she felt his need even in the cold night air.
There’s a hole in my existence he said.
His mouth almost smiling.
The smile that had her undress
for him a thousand times.
Why me?
I was never enough before she retorted.
Wanting to hurt him as badly as he had hurt her.
I did not know I loved you
until you were not there he said.
A sadness glowed in his eyes.
And if you remember
it was you that left me.
Why did you leave? He asked
Because you never asked me to stay
she said quietly.
I am asking now he  answered.
She let him into her flat
They undressed and made love.
When she awoke she heard
the click of her door as he left her.
She knew her heart would ache
Just as it had before.
And she knew he would be back again.
And she would let him in once more.

Sat in the window seat
of the olde English cottage.
The open bow window
providing natures salted
air conditioning from the sea.
Breaking waves below the cliffs.
the only noise in the starlit night.
I turned to see your face
the one that takes
my breath away and
Fills my heart
with hopes and dreams.
Your lips open slightly
the words
I love you
are on the tip of your tongue.
They have no need to be spoken.
Because I can feel your heart
beating with mine and I know it.
You found me and rosebud cottage.
I know one day your memory
may return
that you may have
a wife and children.
And the loss of you
will be too much
for me to bear.
So we sat there
with the sea below us
and the stars above us.
I whispered
I love you darling.
And for now
for this moment
I am happy once again.

An excerpt from a love story I am too lazy to write

She found him outside her small flat
he was in the bloom of the old lamplight.
she noticed the grey flecks in his beautiful eyes.
Hi!
he whispered
softly like honey falling from a spoon.
She flashed her prettiest smile
And tossed her hair back like she used to.
You look as beautiful as I remember.
She looked at him for some small signal of remorse
but she could not see it.
He wanted her
she felt his need even in the cold night air.
There’s a hole in my existence he said.
His mouth almost smiling.
The smile that had her undress
for him a thousand times.
Why me?
I was never enough before she retorted.
Wanting to hurt him as badly as he had hurt her.
I did not know I loved you
until you were not there he said.
A sadness glowed in his eyes.
And if you remember
it was you that left me.
Why did you leave? He asked
Because you never asked me to stay
she said quietly.
I am asking now he answered.
She let him into her flat
They undressed and made love.
When she awoke she heard
the click of her door as he left her.
She knew her heart would ache
Just as it had before.
And she knew he would be back again.
And she would let him in once more

“Hey whats your favorite color? I mean you're blind so do you not have one? or can you image it?”
“I dont have a favorite color, that “blind thing” means i can't see them, so i never really choose a favorite.”
“Thats sad, imma help you see colors.”
“I dont understa-”
“shhh” he said as he put his soft finger to her lips and made her forget her question.
“Remember when we felt the sun? The warmth and the the feeling of pure life we got from it?”
He traces his fingers up her arms and says” The covering of it, and the pringling feeling we get on our skin when we feel it?”
She loses herself in his touch. “Yeah it was beautiful.”
“Well yes, that was what people say is yellow. Some people say it is overwhelming, but i think its refreshing and reassuring.”
Georgia nods and leans into his shoulder.
“Now red, red is strong.”
“There is this song by Tyler Ford, and its literally the only way i can explain red.” He reaches over her, his arm across her stomach, and pulls the guitar on his lap. He puts his arm around her shoulder and reaches back to the guitar. He started to play, and sing in the worse voice Georgia has ever heard. She smiled and tried to focus on the words, and not the feeling of yellow she feels from his arm around her shoulders.

I don't know how to write about you anymore. The words that used to flow seemed so right, so beautiful.
But now there remains only a vague hope, a fleeting scent of oranges and the sea.
You are the place my Heart goes when I am broken open.
You are the Home I long for in the early morning quiet.
You are all good things to me, a symbol now of what once was fair.
No matter how I try, you always evade my Love, and my Longing.
You whisper to me in the night breeze, yet no longer reveal yourself to my tired soul. I can no longer touch you, or see you;
I can only feel you somewhere in the deserts and mountains within.
All the time I am searching, searching for you, though I do not know how I may find you.
There is no chart of your endless seas, nor is there a path to your home in the old Blue Mountains.
Here in this Garden I write for you, and my Heart........
My Heart cries for you.
Perhaps one day, you will hear it.

So, in darkness,
and in foreign land,
we plotted our invasion.
Cleaning sand from our effects,
we readied for the occasion.
The air seemed to cool,
and build anticipation,
but of life, or of death?
The wind's exhortations
were a giant's dying breath:
Fitful in expectation
of whatever comes next,
forgiveness or damnation,
or an endless, empty depth,
lacking sense or explanation,
like this chasm filled with darkness,
awaiting our exploration.

...so I tell myself that I'm just tired, I didn't sleep well last night.
I nod a few times trying to convince myself of that lie
Because I know that I really slept fine last night
I just feel lonely and I don't know how to cope.

Thish-yer Smiley had a mare the boys called her the fifteen- minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the ***-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate- like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.


Mark Twain

Whenever you speak
Hours pass as if seconds
Yet each second is eternity

I can't help but direct my gaze
To your eyes set ablaze
With passion enough to raze
Me in entirety

My responses are nothing but dumb
But your smile punctuates each one
So we keep up this game of fun
Pretending to not notice
This conversations time has come
And our little party must now be done

We stand to leave and I'm unsure of quite what to say
I mean of course it was nice seeing you today
And I know you don't feel the same way
All I want to do is relay
The fact that I fall for you a little more everyday

i just bought
a gramaphone,
and i have
about 20 vinyls
to spare...
the world
can *******:
the lynchmobs
the crucifixions
and the
messiahs
and their subsequent
quasis...
and just enough
whiskey
to drown a whale...
i'd love to exfoliate
in the art,
but, come sober
to the bacon slap-easy
reality of what
reality is: mundane
as a ghost-limb
prosthetic annex...
i'd love to call
this silence
a brain-custard /
-fudge...
edward the confessor
will remain
my favorite
       English king...
i guess i cower...
but i also
   want to forget...
and i want to forget
what would
never erode my
memory...
   i want to
learn the h. p. lovecraft's
ability to dream,
this anglo-saxon
theatre-to-go-to-place...
i dream so little,
that i'd simply love
to dream the dreams
of an outcast...
let me entertain
a day or two...
towing behind me
the murky waters
of Westminster bridge,
and a Dickens
1850 edition of a book,
to say,
nothing worthwhile
about Shakespeare...
tomorrow i'll
put on a record,
drink a coffee
and eat a muffin...
and play
   amnesia friendly...
i just want
to gorge on the primitive
heaving
of: the remains of
culture...
  even this exerpt
of an allowance is
not worth it...
           i wish upon
a stammer,
buckle and fall...
          receiving neither /
or applause to govern
a compensation with...
what does it matter,
does it, does it?
   no...
come to think of it...
not really...
just a highlighted
retrosception
for the insurrection
of Wicker Man...
died the death
of the antagonism
of solipsism:
a **** in a confined
public space:
namely a carriage
of the tube.

life, currently... shouldn't be about...
a problem with the internet connection...
or how:
there's no satellite conncetion to the t.v. -
because of "snow"... and "hurricanes"...
but under the prescription of
the government...
  where is... where is indeed:
the replacement fireplace and a druid storyteller?
to keep up with the mr. and mrs. smith
enclosed in:
a quarantine zoo where only the virus
gets... to window-shop: concerning
what next to "wear"?

      trivial details: is anything but so grand
as to gain poetic traction from...
trans-gender activists and those teen
with premature depression antics of:
haiku... not yet a haiku etc.

but my post-soviet laptop works just fine...
it's all these delta korean "smart" whizz-kid
analogies of tablet that are...
feeding the bug of: forgot the cables...

last time i heard that the t.v. box needed
to be connected to the "dial-up" box-of-boxes...
the modem... sprinting to "evolve":
zee hub...
              smart as: the old soviet
manifesto concerning technology...
  if it ain't broke: don't even think about
spaghetti fixing it... sunshine...
and what happened? they went along
and "fixed" it...

                   like they went about fixing
the original... thesaurus rex algorithm of
youtube: that once great platitude of all other
jukeboxes...
   no chance in hell seeing these john peel
suggestion "crop up"...

i had the "audacity" to scribble them down...
once upon a time...

       band / album

beehoover / heavy zoo
        nord skin / secrets of the words
black elephant / cosmic blues
     swamp sessions / a lifesize swamp
1000mods / super van vacation
           ruby the hatchet / aurum
                  greenleaf / trails & passes
  the silver seas / catch yer own train
        sleep / leagues beneath
          spaceslug / lemanis
witch / s.t. (self-titled)
          elder / dead roots stirring
red scalp / rituals
                   castle / welcome to the graveyard
broken bells / s.t.
                        place of skulls / with vision
naxatras / (ep s.t.)
                       UNV nation / s.t.
                 the heavy minds / treasure coast
roma / s.t.
                   fabricantes / la selva incrustada...
savannah / deep shades...
mystic sons / s.t.
          sun of man / s.t.
  weird owl / nuclear psychology
       elbrus / s.t.
                   stonehenge / bunch of bisons
gin lady / electric earth
hey satan / s.t.
                   d d  blood / s.t.
               sonora ritual / dust moment
gnome / father of time
                                       godsleep / coming of age
ordos / house of the dead
mountainwolf / the silk road
               buffalo fuzz / s.t.
                                 black dust / s.t.
                may the fuzz be with you / vol. I
transpanda / goats against humanity
earthless / black heaven
           gorilla pulp / heavy lips
    black willows / samsara
   stone age mammoth / earth born... etc....

what a bullet bite... two short of ******-do'h shucks
when you come back home...
drunk and sober at the same time screaming:
some little ****** of a squinting eye...
****** up the jukebox: now i can't sing...
now i can't dance!

my t.v. needs to be smashed...
and my internet connection is tone deaf
and stone-age to boot...
i'm no trucker and i'm no christian
evangelist minder... for the "ummah"...
or whatever it's called...
i don't bet, yes ma'am...
i pay my dues to the tele-evangelical
god's son: the preacher ma'am...
yis i' 'ere owe...
  the scrutiny of a stamp-collector's
lick a slick and shove it up
the queue into heaven's ear...

         my most mediocre complaints...
a girl sent me a poem and a sketch...
and i'm just... hanging onto sanity's blockers...
steroids... and all those other
goof-*****... and i still want
to make it listening to the La's because...
the Beatles never made it to...
London Calling...
by... the stain... no... wait...
i don't know of a band known as the stain...
perhaps i should...

bad internet access and bad t.v.:
because winnie the p'ooh shot down a satellite
thinking it was: an asteroid heading
to hit Beijing...
the two: must be given a space-trap
of confusing intelligence officer:
blah-blah traps...

       i guess my mother should be dying...
my neighbour should be...
doing something...
dinosaur jr.., should be seeing
a revival... and a wish to dislodged nirvana
in the grundge charts... along with sonic youth...

but my post-warsaw pact...
this heap of "junk"... this soviety spy of a laptop...
if i wanted... i could probably synonym it
with a ******* microwave oven!
all this proto-plastic toys of...
   better heave: *******'s worth of the edit...
in capitalism: plastic is the new iron!
and all the more clueless...
call-center jihadis who will have you believe...
cables are involved...
connecting the view box for the t.v. to
the modem... the hub...
the "dial-up"...

because... the old octopus of walking about...
with syringes and makeshift veins
and arteries... to the great big brain
of "Omnia"...
                    omni-potent...
    omni-present...
omni-... yes... that litany of the prefixes...
culminating in: Islam Inc. and the female
deity of Omnia...

   wouldn't want to pluck those diamonds
out from their sockets: would we know...
then again... i'd rather see the mouth...
those niqab bound eyes are too filthy...

they pretend to cry i too pretend to see a waterfall...
and then the crocodile comes snappy
right at me...
and... i have to...
pretend he's a pig and a sort of leather belt
that can goes well with any choicest choice
of fine linen: and that not so fine kind...
you can hide pork in leather...
the belt, the shoes...
eh... crocodile crocks are too...
too **** obvious... for "hiding"...

stay inside they said...
  but the t.v. is the new fireplace...
                 and if there's not t.v...
   can life take toward... or rather... can poetry become
this surrogate for petty concerns being
answered in a democratic manner?
what's being love or not being loved...
guarded by a disparity of age:
does it matter whether you're 34 or 74?

i just want to know...
   why i'd pay circa 20 quid a week...
for a t.v. with a license...
and... nothing to watch...
     ol' lore of love is gone...
   very pressing... or hardly... practical
devaluations of that once...
formidable willing-pull-&-tug for impetus
sensation are long gone...
the crass economics of...
              heaven... i will forbid myself
to staging a cart-boot sale...
practical i: who still doesn't have a car...
and never will:
horses auctioned: yes...
            
   i had a dream that i was a motorbike...
i had the life of: roulette roundabouts of "chance"...
and that paid off...
   but what didn't pay off:
the peddling... easy-grip and whiff of
a tensed up wrist to accelerate...
would have been... the better option...

horses: tighten the reins...
imprint a heel in the torso... turn left "he says",
is say: tighten the reins to the left...
dig a heel in the right canvas bracket of torso...

i would most certainly consider
the matter closed...
    if i was getting such a ****** detail of a provider
for free or for a bare minimum...
love... hate...
these can hitchhike to their own demise
and slouching shadows to escape with
metaphors or stockholm syndrome detainees...

this 1.4 liter of ms. amber was supposed to
last me for three days...
good luck... i want to drink a little...
and become angry at those call-center mouse-traps
of pseudo-peoples...
who will cite: cables not included!
i want to become angry with...
the paycheck brigade...
   who hardly solve anything but...
digress and cut you off...
and are most likely to... over-toast
those hot-cross buns...

                       love... hate... miasmas... both... alike!
"ranting ******* and turnovers"...
and sober... does it? yes?
       what did the sober man ever conjure up...
beside... the glue of bureaucracy?
i must beg: what of the minotaur...
the menacing... hardly a bull's head
on a man's torso...
the marching of the hammers...
the marching of the quills...
i have heard that one country has asked
for finger-prints just so they can issue
a passport...
      
         my signature is not enough...
nor is my hand-writing...
         but love can wait...
       there's no need to give it a status of wine...

drinking warm whiskey isn't so bad...
you just close your eyes...
swirl the glass and pretend it's cognac...
god forbid the sanitation pipes should
malfunction...

    i have no real time for love...
love can happen in a metaphysical dress of something:
that allows... as many pockets
as there are things to hide in them...
practical peacocks of attention...

turns out: i can't fathom any ability to doodle out
a rook...
there seems to be no archetypal architect
to mind it...
there is one for an elephant...
a kamikaze giraffe that's most probably
a Nessy spin-off of a leopard: print for
a leather chair...

        is it a hybrid stork?
           best bet is: return to sender...
at least she will have an address on the readily
available... but at least i'm not hustling back
bathwater... or... i could have been...
sending her a packet of oats...

hour 'promptu...
       i'll sober up will i never...
talking to these whizz-kids about...
the internet connection and "missing satellites"...
because love should be by... "ripe old
prime concern"...
whether i am 34 or... 70 year ol' ++++...
   i can't draw a crow...
i can draw an elephant in doodle-sketch
stenography...
but i shouldn't... "technically"...
the crow is more... is more...
blatant...

show me crow: with letters!
         no... i don't imply: ᚴᚱᚨᚴᛖ....
  i mean... show me a crow...
all i see is a litany base...
of: ᚠᚨᚴᛚᛉ... this is what a crow looks like
to me...
                      "faklz"...
         you can't change my mind concerning
this...
nor can you: what sisyphus looks
like: RO...
               who needs to insert the pitch-fork
stopper of a H in the... omicron and...
what implies rolling: or rather... trilling
the R... for the rattlesnake exerpt?

   what's a snake?                           ᛊ...
it's not... ᛋ-ᛚᚨᚾᚷᛖ...
                            but for me...
a crow is... ᚠᚨᚴᛚᛉ: faklz...
                        
                                       the snake and it's...
spine... and the brain in the pickling-jar...
the winding details of signatures in
desert sands... the left-over dinosaur branch
of: by now... aeons have passed...
let alone but one... of those...
heavily culprit... tabloid newspapers...

i should have my "missing eye"
deemed the noun worthy of: faklz...
    tribulations by the:
-klz                   dolls scenting:
skip "the middle ground"...
all the latex in the world... and none
of the ******...

where is the love: it's most certainly no here...
it's with the engineers...
and not: with the call centers...

satellites and google earth and i'm still
bound to: fire! awe!
stick... friction! stones! hay fever!
ooh! aah!
   bronze age man: necklace!
harem in the waiting!
     verb + noun! elevator!
      did two nouns give birth to:
worth keeping...
i.e. pro-noun? and then that
turned into decomposition of...
chair... via... minus ch-a-r into i!?
                  no... of course not...

       of a "thing" too alive to be yet called
dead...
   just ploughing the field...
just... one of those infinitely biased
circumstance of this particular instance...
and: there's no need to peacock with
any answer: esp. if it's the "right" one...
no autodidactic when...
of a lineage... the offspring were...
supposed to be taught by people of personage...
and... scribble scribble mcdonald does doodled...
because: hey... "bruce"!
how's that york of ours: the rime
of... jack! how's that?!

    no need for tallent... no need for...
in the ethereal: of particulars...
monkey does what monkey ought...
and ought not...
with as much trouble as plasying smart...
as playing double...
and no smart or ever double...
plays out into the luck of the dumb...
you'd almost wish to be a cattle related
work of glut from a ******* & herd
perspective...
        i have to conclude...
this world for all this... beauty...
no... not when the half-imbeciles are involved
in... ruining the worth of copper...
the worth of crown...
and the worth of intellect...
for the sake of...

                a pinch of a bitter pint of a tad
bit of banter...
                   for me...
death... is a postman...
and i am... most certainly...
having to assure myself...
with a delayed send-off date...
this life and the world within in...
can or rather... would never allow me...
to feel inclined to be:
somehow... resting: even then moving...
on the bargain argument of:
being assured...
pretty much... yes...
a bargain... a bargain when asleep even...
most assured... a falling sensation...
or an ice-cream cone of licked...
morals and conscience...

and if not dabbled in?
        well... if not... dabbled in.