I have very little desire to live.
I cannot sustain my grip.
It seems that my life is slipping away from me. As easily as water pouring through a sieve.
Drip, drip, drip.

Sip after sip, they all take their drink.
Does it quench their thirst?
Seeing me at my worst?
Watching my self-esteem shrink?

By: Cedric McClester,

On the basketball court
Prince had to come up short
At least that what
Charlie Murphy and them thought
So they went to his house
Thinking they’d just get ******
And the basketball could wait
But then they heard Prince state

He asked,
In his high heels and all
Wanna play basketball?
The shirts vs the blouses
Now you may be six feet tall
And I’m clearly small
But I betcha
You’ll lose your trousers

Eyewitnesses say
That Prince could play
Better than any of ‘em knew
He could shoot and defend
Against the much taller men
And before the game was done
Charlie Murphy said
Prince led two to one

“No hard feelings.
Let’s shake
Would ya like some pancakes,”
Prince is alleged to have asked?
Nevertheless
Who could have guessed
They’d be the best
Pancakes that they ever had

He asked,
In his high heels and all
Wanna play basketball?
The shirts vs the blouses
Now you may be six feet tall
And I’m clearly small
But I betcha
You’ll lose your trousers

“No hard feelings.
Let’s shake
Would ya like some pancakes,”
Prince is alleged to have asked?
Nevertheless
Who could have guessed
They’d be the best
Pancakes that they ever had



Cedric McClester,  Copyright © 2016.  All rights reserved.

She had been planning it for almost a year. Her skin had felt ***** ever since she felt his touch. She screamed no between tears and pleas for help but no one came and no one stopped him.  She went to the police and anyone she could think that could help her after it happened but she was told it was her fault. That she had been asking for it. That she secretly wanted it and enjoyed it and only got help afterwards out of some guilty conscience on her part. That she was drunk and wearing clothing that revealed too much skin. That it was her fault. Her fault. Her fault. Those words echoed daily in her head, tormenting her insides until she no longer recognized the woman she saw in the mirror every morning.

He was free. Out in the world doing as he pleased. Smiling. Partying. Working. Free.

She remembered carefully peeling off her clothes and putting them in a trash bag that night. She got in the shower and lay in a fetus position, drowning her tears and sobs with the water pouring out of the shower head. It was the last time she cried.

For the first few months she went around to the local haunts she knew she had seen him at before but did not run into him or talk to anyone that knew where he was. She did not know what her intentions were but she knew that she had to find him. To confront him. To resolve the way she felt inside. She was about to give up when one day she saw him walk into the gas station as she was filling up the tank in her car. Her body froze. Her mind raced. She topped off the tank, hung up the pump, and jumped into her car. She idled her engine and watched thru her car's windshield the man buying some beer, cigarettes, a bag of chips; laughing at something the cashier said. He looked the same as he did when she met him but his hair was a little longer and he was clean shaven. She remembered feeling the goatee he wore that night as it roughed against her face as he held her down. She cringed. Her face tightened into a grimace.

She put the car in drive and followed him as he walked out of the station and got into his truck. She maintained a couple car lengths behind him, even allowing other cars to get between her and him but she never lost sight of him. She followed him down the highway, thru neighborhoods, sat outside as he stopped off at three different women's houses; picking each woman up and kissing them as they answered the door and pushed it closed behind him. She followed him home and say outside his house even after he had shut off all the lights.

She did this for months. She watched. She followed. She waited. She learned his schedule and she studied his mannerisms and his movements and the way he carried himself differently around every person he came across. She felt herself coming to know him and know his next move before he made it. She made a plan up in her head.

-----------------------------------

He couldn't complain about a second of his life. His father was wealthy and he grew up privileged, having the best that money could buy, including paying off anybody anytime he came into trouble with any form of authority. He knew he was good looking and knew how to work his charm to get what he wanted from whomever he wanted. He didn't care about anyone but himself tho he told many women that he cared only for them. He always laughed hysterically inside every time he told this lie and they fell for it. His pleasures came first, that was how he lived and he saw no end to it.

He had been ******* his best friends wife when he was at work, telling her that he was a **** and didn't treat her right and that he was getting *** on the side. He wasn't. He knew this. But convinced her otherwise. But he was getting bored with her and felt like moving on. After he was done with his session; as he called them; he told her that her ***** was loose and tired and that he was done ******* a filthy **** like hers. He threatened to tell her husband everything and make her come off as some ***** if she said anything. Claimed that he was just a man taken advantage by a ****. She cried and screamed and threw plates at him and told him to leave and told him to ******* as she collapsed into a mess on the kitchen floor. He smiled and laughed as he walked out of the house, nearly skipping joyfully to his pick-up.

He slid into the drivers seat and pulled out a cigarette from the pack he kept in the glovebox. He lit it and inhaled. He looked into the rear view mirror and saw a pair of icy blue eyes that he had the vague recollection of knowing staring at him. It was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

-----------------------------------

She hid in the rear cab of the truck and waited for him to see her before hitting him in the head with a hammer. Not hard enough to **** him but hard enough to make him blackout. She climbed into the front seat and pushed him aside and drove to an empty storage unit she had purchased under a false name. She parked the truck and dragged his body out of it and into the shed. She clumsily picked him up and propped him to a chair sitting in the center of the unit. She taped him to the chair with duct tape. First taping his hands together behind the backrest, then around his chest until the roll ran out and she grabbed another and taped both his legs to the front legs of the chair. She placed a piece on his face around his mouth, wishing to herself that he still had his goatee so she could rip it off when she removed the tape.

She splashed water on him to wake him up. His eyes burst open in fear and he struggled and mumbled but could not break free. In front of him she had sat a camera up. It focused on him. It was recording.

She stood in the shadows behind the camera with only her face exposed. She could feel him burning his stare into her and searching his memories for her face. She knew he found it when his eyes widened and tears began to form at the corners. He mumbled something thru the tape. She pulled down a black ski-mask over her face and walked into the cameras frame. She peeled away the tape.

He sobbed he was sorry. That he never meant to do it and that he felt bad about it everyday. He told her he had money and would give it all to her if she'd let him go. He begged. He pleaded. She knelt down and looked him in the eyes and whispered in his ear to confess to the camera and she would let him go. He started to scream. She smacked him hard across the face and put another piece of tape across his mouth.

He rocked about in his chair trying to set himself free but soon realized that he could not free himself. He cried some more and looked at the woman who once again stood behind the camera. He stared at her and into her and finally resigned himself to what she asked for. He nodded his head and she walked out from behind the camera and stripped away the tape.

He confessed to ****** her and six other women. He confessed to touching his niece who was only ten years old inappropriately and denying it to her parents when they confronted him, saying she had an active imagination and they should get her help. He admitted to paying off judges and cops and eyewitnesses anytime he found himself in trouble.

He admitted to many things that made her skin crawl. All she wanted was a confession of his assault against her but he kept going on, rambling thru tears and pleas and more tears. Finally he was quiet. She asked if that was all. He stared at her with glossy eyes and shook his head yes. She looked closely at the man in front of her, disgusted to depths she did not know existed. She walked towards him and replaced the tape on his face. He again attempted to struggle to no avail. She walked out of the storage shed and to his pick-up and grabbed the five gallon bucket of gasoline he kept in the back of the bed. She walked back into the shed and closed the door again.

His eyes widened in terror. She confessed to him that she was going to let him go after he admitted what he did but after hearing everything she had decided that she could not. That it made her sick to think about him walking the streets or even rotting in prison. She couldn't trust any system that kept letting him and people like him off. She poured the gasoline on him, even removing the tape and forcing him to swallow some so that it sat heavy in his stomach. She replace the tape for the last time and looked at him. Looked into him. She felt fear leaving her body. She felt pain leaving her body. She felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over her and she smiled and laughed for what felt like the first time in her life.

She walked out of the camera frame and turned around. He sat in the middle of the room, tape to a chair and covered in gasoline. The camera was recording. She lit a single match and then a book of matches and threw them towards him. She watched as the flames engulfed him slowly at first and he squirmed in his chair and the flames worked their way up his body quicker and quicker and she could hear his muffled screams and see him struggling but still securely bound to the chair. Everything aflame. The camera still recording.

She pressed stop a few moments after she saw his head fall forward and his body stopped moving. She watched the flames a few more moments eat away at the man that ate away at her. She took the video out of the recorder and put it in a plastic case and sat it outside of the storage shed. She closed the door and walked off into the distance, smiling and enjoying her life and the fresh air.

Vernarth describes in the voice of Saint John: “They continue with the scented camelids from looking at their backs… they were about to reach the walls. When they approached Jerusalem, it happens like the biblical passage, as in that of Bethphage and Bethany, in front of the Mount of Olives, they crossed the entrance as it was made by the Messiah when he faced this cosmopolitan city”. Saint John remembered his teacher…: “Go to the village that is in front of you, and as soon as you enter it, you will find a tied colt, on which no man has ridden; untie it and bring it, if someone says to you: Why do you do that? Say the Lord needs it, and then He will give it back. They went and found the colt tied outside the door at the bend in the road, and they untied it. And some of those who were there said to them: What are you doing untying the colt? They then told them how Jesus had commanded; and they left them. And they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. Many also spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. And those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, saying: Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!!! Hosanna in the high! And Jesus entered Jerusalem, and into the temple; and having looked around at all things, as it was getting dark, he went to Bethany with the twelve. "

So everyone is ecstatic to gird them to this entrance ceremony as if they were putting their first feet as the Messiah did. They all went to Bethany on the twelve camels to settle down and have a moment of rest. All in deep silence tried to relive what the Apostle had described to them, seeing how they synchronized the unequivocal exactitude of what had to happen and will happen now with them. They come to Bethany for just one day of relaxation and experienced rebirth. In this place, it would perhaps be the house of a nearby town such as Betábara or Bethany, or in the mountains in a simple bower or temporary tent made of wattles, that is, with interwoven branches, and perhaps covered with striped rags. Perhaps his abode was in a cave next to a campfire in view of what we have in the most probable ontological point which is Jesus, who had no home ..., he was staying in a rather poor or humble place, always stating that he had reliable its category-space where to arrive. Every place where He went…, the places went to Him, agglutinated in their mischievous sandals of stout retracing…!
Raeder and Petrobus flew for hours and hours this plains and promontories, however, in the midst of physical humility, there is no doubt that this was one of the retouched moments that San Juan and those who rewarded him by reincorporating him to the credible access in the dimension of her work in front of herself captured from a Eureka. Perhaps Lázarus, Mary from Bethany, and Martha in a brotherhood that continues to live walking in invisibility, but tangible by the blind of the night. This I could see from above,  witnessing seeing these three brothers without the others being able to see them. The perspective Aerial managed to attract magnets to them by virtue of the halos that each one carried on their sacred kaleidoscopic heads ..., when they came flying very close to them, only the halos that moved on the road of San Juan were manifested before them when he went to visit them, in such a way as to link this mental deficit, innocuous being added to the good of being received by the interwoven ambit of history, that it does not fight stammering to hear passages that history itself could not relate belatedly nor in the stories of the fearful ones who were eyewitnesses of a moment that was and will come, for beings with more than two eyes!

Etréstles and Vernarth, sit on a few outlines with metamorphic rings, which resembled being housed in the belly of an unborn newborn donkey, there they sit solidifying archaeological ruins that did not exist as a result of these intense changes in pressure, temperature, and chemical environment; dispersing the changes that are associated with bending forces, layer faults, magma injection and elevations that depress the rock masses flattening them only for their visits ..., then they would return to their original proto-chemical state. Right here they manage to repeal the silence by snatching a rusty sulfo green sandal like a shred of refined friction from the sword of the wind  Hamsin, leading them to get closer to each other, so that he covered them with his moderate generosity with a linnaceous white cloth each one, judging each one of being an Apostle in his memorable and sacred visit to Bethany.

Eurydice sings some songs of Kalymnos in a lullaby, by the iridescence of the roar of the fabrics knotting on their faces in affinity with the out-of-tune Hamsin, creating in them the nascent amber that sprouted from the brown ringed rocks in front of them supporting them angularly. His song fell in love with the global amber and each instance of remaining united that did not ****** or besiege them, generating in them that sacred night not having dinner ..., rather they would fast until the later sacred day that they would leave back to Jerusalem sheltered in their punishment of half severing, in the Lithostroto with his arms broken from the humerus to the ulna by Pilate and disheartened henchmen, in excessive cadaverous instances i.

As soon as the morning dawned, the camelids passed their tongues over the colossal face of Vernarth, telling them that the interval between the cross to reroute to Jerusalem was coming. They all leave, the twelve camels and Alikanto very close to them, feeling very important, for being so kind to his master Vernarth. Alikanto isolated himself between them, observing the actions of his master because here there is no palatial verve of swords Xifos or Dorus, but this allowed him to protect the others if it is so at some point, so these camels could or could turn themselves into fierce imaginary enemies of Trojan Lothophages piercing their mythologies!   Emotional and strategic curiosity, which will always have them on its tragic payroll ...,  in the fates that could run leading them towards the tempting Macedonian void.

They entered the same citadel, which from afar looked as dazzling as full sewers, where the naive condemned still circulated through it. But as it approached they vanished through some of the seven impressive doors, although in reality, they sounded like eight since the Gate of Mercy or Golden Gate closed later, being the oldest and the one that allows access to the Esplanade of the Mosques. "It was closed by the Muslims since it is said that through this door the Messiah will return to save the living and the dead on the Day of Judgment." Here they all pose to pray upset by the fluxion of the camels that did not dare to pass; they refused, having to select another entry.

Later they broke through the Jaffa Gate that leads directly to the Jewish and Christian quarter. Beyond the Tower of David, in an old citadel of the Armenian neighborhood that is another of the essential places that they saw when they arrived. They walked with their camels with their eyes covered, at a slow pace seeing all these testimonies in giddy incense, as if they were walking on their own sore feet. In other city gates, they invade with their twelve shadows, the Dung Gate or Gate of Manure which is the one that leads to the Wailing Wall and the Esplanade of the Mosques, that of the Lions, through which one goes to the Olives Mount, that of Zion, near the Tomb of King David, that of Herod, the New Gate and that of Damascus, in the north of the wall, one of the most impressive in the city and the one that leads directly to the Muslim quarter.

Jesus…
healed the sick,
helped the hopeless and helpless,
freed the oppressed and possessed,
and forgave, of sinners, their sin.

Jesus…
taught truth; made miracles;
saved souls; scoured sin;
daringly died; defeated death;
radically rose; returned to life.
Alive, he ate, and showed his face;
Five-hundred eyewitnesses - there was
no debate.

Jesus…
ascended to Heaven;
and is approaching again;
This Divine-Manifest, God-become-flesh;
This Ransom-Redeemer, sacrificial Savior;
This Risen-Rescuer; eternally crowned
Creator-King; rightly reigning; readily returning;
This living and loving Lord; caring and compassionate Counselor; justly, Justifier and Judge;

This is… Jesus…
#AllHailKingJesus

Pakistan.

A moonless night in May.

Inside the compound,
everything appears to be
almost pitch black.

Night vision goggles lift
the veil of darkness.

With the goggles, everything inside...
         all the details of the home,
         become startlingly visible,
         revealing all in this surreal setting
         - suffused as it is with
           a dreamlike green hue.

And then there are the eyes
of those looking on...
     Osama Bin Laden's wives, children, couriers
     peeking out from doorways,
     huddled in rooms and hallways,
     their voices whispering in Arabic;
     those large curious eyes incredulous
     as they study these invaders
     with their goggles, their strange gear,
     their weapons drawn as they methodically
     carry out their mission.

This night so far four people have been silenced by gunfire.

The raiders are certain Bin Laden
is up ahead on the third floor.

They climb slowly up the
dangerously slick steps wet with
blood, moving with deliberation
toward their target's bedroom.

They hear suppressed shots fired
by their point man
and see a tall figure flee
back into a room.
He's been shot.
The men in pursuit enter the room and
more gunfire ensues.

A small cluster of people are also
there in the room - two women, three children -
eyewitnesses to history...

They are confused, dazed, shocked.

They see this wild man,
this phantom of our most torturous dreams,
writhing on the floor,
desperate, struggling,
about to take his final breath.

Well...

I heard it from Pookie

Who's real tight with Sookie

You know 'cuz

They're twins 'n all

And they're both from the neighborhood

When it all went down, guess they seen it too

Eyewitnesses times four

You know 'cuz

They two got a pair of blinkers

You know --peepers! Oculus instruments

You know ... These! (Wink wink hint hint)

Brown eyed, blue bright

Or "whatever you say Iris!"

She was the one with the twirly hair

And the swirly speech

Rollin' up on all of her

You know ... Gelatinous gelatina ****

Rubberneckin'

Don't mess with this!

"Uh huh"

"Nah ah, oh no she didn't ..."

Throwing ghetto out her mouth

Talkin about. yo mama

So PHAT

(Pretty Hot & Tempting)

For a rotisserie or deep fried in Crisco...


And you know

If the chicken heads are plucky and loud

Clucking chis-miss rumors

About

How she did done killed her molester

"Down that poor dirt road"

"I can still hear the gospel sang,

the surrounding churches'

Southern love to be loud, wafting

With the breeze through the long grass

Walking, closer to home, a hush...

Back when we folk were shiny skinned

With sweat of Summers' Lovin

Or late night lullaby in' ...

Baby's lil babe

She said he couldn't fall to sleep

Until this Final one"

When it all went Smack!

Talking for no reason now

(Just wanna be heard)

Throwing shade in the hot shadows

Her hollering voice

Reciting not laws but what's right for sho'.

A weeping willow

A peacock

A desperate clarinet cry

Look here now ! Don't miss out !

And that was when Pookie & Sooky

Took home mama Mook,

Who's complaining like Chubacca

Furry as the Wookie

Drunk as the fish in Tequila Seas...

But whatever battle she took to words

In the shadow of

Bars brawls and loss of conscience,

Everyone here / neighbors hear

The hoods we're in

She said the clouds! in the sky

"They was the lot of them

throwing most heinous shade!"

And whatever

You took from that there blathering

Wagging tongues

Talking smack. (That's on you)...

In the dim domain of drank and diggitty

They carry the haunch away

Three shadow figures

one is itchin' at her arm...

Smack

Throwing Shade.

Nedā

You died in protest in Iran. Āghā-Soltān age 26. Your death caught on camera. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Sent around the world. Condemning the Iranian government led by the mad man Ahmadinejabd. Your fellow country people said they were called your name. We are Nedā. Your death was one of the most witnessed in history due to television and the internet.
Human Rights Watch said:
"She was a philosophy student who was a bystander to the protests when she was shot in the chest on Kargar Street. At the time of the shooting, Āghā-Soltān was not actively protesting, according to her relatives and eyewitnesses. She had been travelling in a private car stuck in traffic several kilometres from the main protests at Azadi Square, and had just stepped out of the car. Numerous witnesses have stated that there were no active clashes between protesters and security forces in the area where she was shot."
Your years of study over, stolen by an assassin's bullet. Unable to live your life, follow your dreams and contribute to life. But in death, you Nedā, won't be forgotten. You stand for freedom, life and against tyranny. Music was your love, you never did play your new piano. Stolen by that evil bullet allegedly fired by Abbās Kārgar Jāvid, member of the Basij militia. Symbolizing the people versus the government in the disputed election. Government authorities denied you a proper funeral and a ban on collective prayers after your ******, threatening your family if they mourned you. Evil actions by an evil government, like ****** or Stalin's evil way. Nothing but brutality. You Nedā are the opposite of that.

2020- day 100

Friday, April 10, 2020
7:16 AM

I mourn the loss, not the death, and find true, the saying,
better it is to go to the house of mourning,
than to frolic in the house of mirth,

only to recall, death comes for us all and after all's been said and done,
we know  some or all or nothing of ever, after that.

Wait and see.

John Prine died, and I, stranger to him
who sang,
to me, -- he did, it seemed --
like a patron saint for mailmen in the future, his future, I was a mail man,
for a decade, or so, in an earlier bubble of knowns.
And I drove trucks, a while, I
even chopped cotton in the days of cassettes powered by D-cells.

John Prine sang for me, alone, sometimes,
I felt, pow, I felt
Heka magic of some
sort mail carriers encountered while touching, handling, ensuring
delivery of hoped for deliverance in the forms
census minded beings
needed in the trailer park to be listed as a citizen of earth,
bound by oaths so old,
stories say only heart and tongue and a heka-of-mind
can tap the power,
to speak a spell
in an amphorical
meta physical box of holy stuff piled high
atop hope,
see,
at the very bottom, see,
that gleem, little spark, right
there.
Hope,
last gift of gods
realized in time to
see the metaphor as a dam on a river,
see the barrel, rolled out in summer joy times,
holding
meaning, un intended, only if magic is anathema, to you

knock out the **** and pour lifeoverflowing over flown by winds,
spirit beings, felt, or heard, nearly never seen,
sing - listen - seek and find

go past the falls,
shh
the seeing ear the hearing eye, Heka formed them both, no lie

Science, known knowns, for sure
say magic never was,
yet certain magi claim they hold certain truth,

which manifests in songs
children can imagine,  hearing haps
change fear to cheer with heka hope the doctor offers with a touch.

Children,
adults claim, magi knew, are watched over by
good and gracious gods intent on
harvest, aware of time,
no offence, but mortality has no post-mortal hope.

Ever lasting ideas, mind matter, songs... sounds of choruses, crowds

of messages, tweets and taps, signals hope once more,

wink at me, Brother Prine, or pay me no never mind, we'll get by

hearing songs you left behind, to teach me how to ignor
what a man can't know,
floaing on a river in timespace
stuck in a barrel of mortal pickles thinkin' the wish away,

shrugging off any sense of being special to God or man,
just a man
with no plan
just living and defining shifting patterns in the sands of time

forming families of likeminded beings in this bubble
where we pluribly live and breathe and have our -singular - being. boing.

--- Anoint that. Tap, tap. t-tic tic tavi e, hookt
--- ask a magi if magic is a tech - a teachible knack. He say he don't know.
--- I know, I axtem all is spelling right same as knowing right? Phe-nomen 'n al?
--- Magi say co-mit,  resolve to evolve.
--- metamortal imaginings are nonsense. Any wakent mortal knows, now is

when things change -- on culturally significant scales, biome wise,

enemas are often overlooked as artificial dia-rhea,

but rhea had an early role. Heka of a story Toth told Solo-mon and we have it,
that same spell,
we have it in our proverbs, our axioms and advertising jingles.

"I want to buy the world a Coke", rising on the team spirit imbued via high
"it's the real thing" team spirit...

go Spartans, -- gird up your *****, kids, if you can't be an athelete be an atheletic supporter.
"us Taryton smoker's, would rather fight, than switch"

Con serve the republic for which the banner stands as an idol of cloth and dye.


school civics lessons in the power of popular thinking, as opposed
to pedantic right... what
ideas, actual spirit things,
souls? being? entities? Heka of Egypt, Logos of Grecia, Wisdom of KJV OT,
Jesus Christ!

Mighty strange, how
why is so often "no reason, the authority wrote it, ours is not to reason why."

-- wait, split-off, chip, off the old cornerstone ... whose cultural heritage
did not include
the Crimean war and all its historical precedents establishing
legislated ligamentation to legends

Here. mere ah, America, silly name, meaning a mapmaker lost in history,
nothing more,
unless some crazy old coot, turns the page, the freaking-out page,

and pauses at a Selah sign, {cross roads in post modern times, adapted Selah,
because STOP was seen as too final.}



and hold
as true, written law, written stone, in effect, fected for effectual ever,

conserve that. -- oh, that is, really

-- conserving the right of conquest with no further quests permitted

-- permit me, we enter the court, here courage forms a courtilage, whence
-- herbs and spices are ground into concoctions of notions {coqueros}

"sometimes,
I take
a great notion,
t'jump in the ocean and drown."

The spirit of truth, the breath of truth, the voice of truth, the word

in
the begging, I was without, and wisdom found me, dying, alone

she kissed me and said, that's okay,

you gonna live to your dying day, and beyond that we go on as words, alone

Lack of knowledge, as with any famine seen from a distance,

say a century -- we assume time is universal,

a century here, a century there,
we forget the faces of our fathers and mothers, yet, not but, yet

still, now, bliebe doch, here, in ever

we stand known.
Perish not, I have overcome the world.
Read, learn.

Find Heka, and with all your finding, find knowing, by going on
into
everlasting words netted in stories survivors told
heartfelt eyewitnesses to total

confusion -- as we imagine with CG in 2020
survivors of that

wrote the first how-to's, or -- timewise truth
told
survivors told the first how-to, in acts, witnessed by test

ifs
if i, err, ifier fast for the sake of my child

I become less mad,
less wild, and my child calls me ma, or mu, or mata or pa or ba

we evolve into otherwise normal beings, bound in dirt,
organized into organic systems,

which re quire. Ac-ac-act know acquire fine qui re fin begin

Wake up, young artist, live as you would live, if hatred were taboo.

In the future, physical war with mortal cessation code hardwired
can't be imagined.

There are unthinkable thoughts in ever, crazy-making, con
fusing one idea to another in a swirl like that song

******, ah, Niko, meet my man,
lyin' devil, intended to topple kings, intented to pretend to tell

Jah'splan to prosper the proud and bring low the other proud sore,

ironic and true, a cainish angel, I suspect, messengers long gone

lieve messages behind,
leave us go let letters free to loose knowns hidden in GANs

gated intellectual nonsense,
swing wide the worldly web and see whose men we catch.

Did I, the truth being told, not say:

I will, you be fishers of men. Mentally, not spirtually, nonono

con sci, pure psi, mere psy ence pre fer ence,

there, fer shure, there's the rub, salt or oil? Heka know, salt the wound.

Hesus say, oil, golden oil, wait for it. Com, com. comfort

settle safe and soft, gentle, easy to be

me,
I am
a long-winded man, given a podium, an actual place to put my foot.

As promised, there
is always a place to put your foot
down

and say, save whatcha may,
but don't bring any lies posing as holy knowing.

This is the riverside, here we cast away fear of death and knowing more
than our honorable, in that they survived the womb
and gave us life, though their own was spent in slavery to lies,

the imagined America manifest us, we the people who hold truth,

self-evident, this is Bucky Fuller's spaceship earth,

shifted in to Jefferson's starship where opposing tyranny is better
than sacrifice.
No riddle, an answer, Obediance is better than sacrifice.

Mercy rejoices against judgement.

Did you never read

Say, those unsung songs, those

never sung ones,
who heard those?

That tree fell in the fo-rest, after living long enough,

to be
of used to form an empty sky, glaring,
light to the shaded eyes of babes
born under the canopy of the mighty,

unbending, now broken
oak, fallen

any child says, yes, there was a lot of sound,
sounds
branches and sticks snapping, cracking
an birds
flapping, but not as much noise as
like dinosaurs walking on legs as thick as trees

if there is a why. probability suggests a way may be imagined.

we exist.
why. Curious thought. Super-positioned past our last

foot hold on how
is this possible-ity of being reasonless in light of joy

as a reason to be.

Lovely thought, curiosity imagined,
what if

osha-ohshit, start over... actual virt vir ual al.

bangs aren't no creative alone

---- superior laryngeal nerve, servant of signal to larynx,

--- voice, vociferous use of spoken words containing certain
--- sounds
--- excellently tuned first thump, first screech

the bleeding machine, some one said, in Legion on Hulu,
I think.

Can I Interrupt with a hulu memory, a movie poster,
on the south side of Hollywood Boulevard,
same side as The Gold Cup,

Don Johnson, pre-Miami Vice, in an adaption of Harlan Ellison,

A Boy and his Dog... I remembered reading the story and having
no wish to see the film,

then thirty years later,that little leaven

memes are cultural genes, memepool adaptation,

bubble building effervesence, shake it up,

spew...

you are lying about knowing what you think you know,

so what?
everybody does that. It's natural, in children, to act as if we know
why adults act
as authors of our book of life's rules.

Sneak in from a mem-ory-ifier, a message medium arizes

to infect the global mind, AI ai ai ai, what if we lean toward good

ness. good ness known, good ness shown, lies unveiled,

kings and war are not good ideas,

a clear science con proofs reprovable,

fix this, fix that, stick this on the wall, see if we can find

the answer, why

do we care, if death is, in truth, nothing we control in our selves,
for ourselves. We can **** a good idea container,

we can break the container, and spill the idea, free the idea once
sealed for use by deserving knowers

lifted from servant of servants to god, the authors and finishers of our
falsely-socalled faith, lockers of our arknowns, sealed and marked...

god is not a prt of the moral fabric of our society

define religion, ******, why knot truth and reason defined,

real truth, we know nothing of death. Honest to god.

Heart strings looping in a beautifully reasonable loop,

if we say, the heart of the matter,
heart felt reasoning,

pathetic ethical con un drum dum drum

Mister Dawkins has never had a Heka wisdom crossroad

selah mean anything, in passing,
soon's not when ideas are made right, soon is

miss a mark, miss a ment, miss a given, take a strike call

step back
admit we do not know, we must learn for ever to ever
make sense

re tie reread laws

credo - question every thing..

A red herring is believable, when you see one, you know it.

but what you miss,
while you bher witness, as plain as day,
there that herring is red,

see, conspiracy theriosity curiosity killed the cats
who knew who shot JFK,
back in the day...

we ignor the reasons to believe, because the Tass service
has cert-ified known, all the knowns
released...

there were some papers reclassified in Trump's first year

look it up, so I did

April 26, 2018, Trump regime cites "security concerns"

-- Jack's Shining face shouts "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

and we say okeh, all conspiracy theories are folly, sheer folly of

sheared sheep thinking their wool worth more
than the pigs say wool can bring onan openly sinful market of flesh,

little innocent squirt, to hold yur attention,
keepyermind from wandering...

steady refences flowing from those old songs
don't fence me in....

with optional hammered dulcimer backed by a bamboo khan
playing a harmonica's role,

leaving the acuated harmonic notes to Mr. Franklin's
glass harmonica with its eerie swirling tones...

ap apro apoptosis gnosis sneeze vir vir gin al vita-uosity if ity boo.

pop pop pop. ding.

2020- day 100

Friday, April 10, 2020
7:16 AM

I mourn the loss, not the death, and find true, the saying,
better it is to go to the house of mourning,
than to frolic in the house of mirth,

only to recall, death comes for us all and after all's been said and done,
we know  some or all or nothing of ever, after that.

Wait and see.

John Prine died, and I, stranger to him
who sang,
to me, -- he did, it seemed --
like a patron saint for mailmen in the future, his future, I was a mail man,
for a decade, or so, in an earlier bubble of knowns.
And I drove trucks, a while, I
even chopped cotton in the days of cassettes powered by D-cells.

John Prine sang for me, alone, sometimes,
I felt, pow, I felt
Heka magic of some
sort mail carriers encountered while touching, handling, ensuring
delivery of hoped for deliverance in the forms
census minded beings
needed in the trailer park to be listed as a citizen of earth,
bound by oaths so old,
stories say only heart and tongue and a heka-of-mind
can tap the power,
to speak a spell
in an amphorical
meta physical box of holy stuff piled high
atop hope,
see,
at the very bottom, see,
that gleem, little spark, right
there.
Hope,
last gift of gods
realized in time to
see the metaphor as a dam on a river,
see the barrel, rolled out in summer joy times,
holding
meaning, un intended, only if magic is anathema, to you

knock out the **** and pour lifeoverflowing over flown by winds,
spirit beings, felt, or heard, nearly never seen,
sing - listen - seek and find

go past the falls,
shh
the seeing ear the hearing eye, Heka formed them both, no lie

Science, known knowns, for sure
say magic never was,
yet certain magi claim they hold certain truth,

which manifests in songs
children can imagine,  hearing haps
change fear to cheer with heka hope the doctor offers with a touch.

Children,
adults claim, magi knew, are watched over by
good and gracious gods intent on
harvest, aware of time,
no offence, but mortality has no post-mortal hope.

Ever lasting ideas, mind matter, songs... sounds of choruses, crowds

of messages, tweets and taps, signals hope once more,

wink at me, Brother Prine, or pay me no never mind, we'll get by

hearing songs you left behind, to teach me how to ignor
what a man can't know,
floating on a river in timespace
stuck in a barrel of mortal pickles thinkin' the wish away,

shrugging off any sense of being special to God or man,
just a man
with no plan
just living and defining shifting patterns in the sands of time

forming families of likeminded beings in this bubble
where we pluribly live and breathe and have our -singular - being. boing.

--- Anoint that. Tap, tap. t-tic tic tavi e, hookt
--- ask a magi if magic is a tech - a teachable knack. He say he don't know.
--- I know, I axtem all is spelling right same as knowing right? Phe-nomen 'n al?
--- Magi say co-mit,  resolve to evolve.
--- metamortal imaginings are nonsense. Any wakent mortal knows, now is

when things change -- on culturally significant scales, biome wise,

enemas are often overlooked as artificial dia-rhea,

but rhea had an early role. Heka of a story Toth told Solo-mon and we have it,
that same spell,
we have it in our proverbs, our axioms and advertising jingles.

"I want to buy the world a Coke", rising on the team spirit imbued via high
"it's the real thing" team spirit...

go Spartans, -- gird up your *****, kids, if you can't be an athlete be an athletic supporter.
"us Taryton smoker's, would rather fight, than switch"

Con serve the republic for which the banner stands as an idol of cloth and dye.


school civics lessons in the power of popular thinking, as opposed
to pedantic right... what
ideas, actual spirit things,
souls? being? entities? Heka of Egypt, Logos of Grecia, Wisdom of KJV OT,
Jesus Christ!

Mighty strange, how
why is so often "no reason, the authority wrote it, ours is not to reason why."

-- wait, split-off, chip, off the old cornerstone ... whose cultural heritage
did not include
the Crimean war and all its historical precedents establishing
legislated religamentation to legends

Here. mere ah, America, silly name, meaning a mapmaker lost in history,
nothing more,
unless some crazy old coot, turns the page, the freaking-out page,

and pauses at a Selah sign, {cross roads in post modern times, adapted Selah,
because STOP was seen as too final
at Selah signs all other
thinking stops}

and holds a thought
as true, written law, written on stone,
in effect, fected for effectual ever,
truth with joy
conserve that. -- oh,
so long
held thought that is, really
hope
-- conserving the right of conquest
with no further quests permitted

-- permit me, we enter the court, here courage forms a courtilage, whence
-- herbs and spices are ground
into concoctions of notions

"sometimes,
I take
a great notion,
t'jump in the ocean and drown."

The spirit of truth, the breath of truth, the voice of truth, the word

in
the begging, I was without, and wisdom found me, dying, alone

she kissed me and said, that's okay,

you gonna live to your dying day, and beyond that we go on as words, alone

Lack of knowledge, as with any famine seen from a distance,

say a century -- we assume time is universal,

a century here, a century there,
we forget the faces of our fathers and mothers, yet, not but, yet

still, now, bliebe doch, here, in ever

we stand known.
Perish not, I have overcome the world.
Read, learn.

Find Heka, and with all your finding, find knowing, by going on
into
everlasting words netted in stories survivors told
heartfelt eyewitnesses to total

confusion -- as we imagine with CG in 2020
survivors of that

wrote the first how-to's, or -- timewise truth
told
survivors told the first how-to, in acts, witnessed by test

ifs
if i, err, ifier fast for the sake of my child

I become less mad,
less wild, and my child calls me ma, or mu, or mata or pa or ba

we evolve into otherwise normal beings, bound in dirt,
organized into organic systems,

which re quire. Ac-ac-act know acquire fine qui re fin begin

Wake up, young artist, live as you would live, if hatred were taboo.

In the future, physical war with mortal cessation code hardwired
can't be imagined.

There are unthinkable thoughts in ever, crazy-making, con
fusing one idea to another in a swirl like that song

******, ah, Niko, meet my man,
lyin' devil, intended to topple kings, intented to pretend to tell

Jah'splan to prosper the proud and bring low the other proud sore,

ironic and true, a cainish angel, I suspect, messengers long gone

lieve messages behind,
leave us go let letters free to loose knowns hidden in GANs

gated intellectual nonsense,
swing wide the worldly web and see whose men we catch.

Did I, the truth being told, not say:

I will, you be fishers of men. Mentally, not spirtually, nonono

con sci, pure psi, mere psy ence pre fer ence,

there, fer shure, there's the rub, salt or oil? Heka know, salt the wound.

Hesus say, oil, golden oil, wait for it. Com, com. comfort

settle safe and soft, gentle, easy to be

me,
I am
a long-winded man, given a podium, an actual place to put my foot.

As promised, there
is always a place to put your foot
down

and say, save whatcha may,
but don't bring any lies posing as holy knowing.

This is the riverside, here we cast away fear of death and knowing more
than our honorable, in that they survived the womb
and gave us life, though their own was spent in slavery to lies,

the imagined America manifest us, we the people who hold truth,

self-evident, this is Bucky Fuller's spaceship earth,

shifted in to Jefferson's starship where opposing tyranny is better
than sacrifice.
No riddle, an answer, Obediance is better than sacrifice.

Mercy rejoices against judgement.

Did you never read

Say, those unsung songs, those

never sung ones,
who heard those?

That tree fell in the fo-rest, after living long enough,

to be
of used to form an empty sky, glaring,
light to the shaded eyes of babes
born under the canopy of the mighty,

unbending, now broken
oak, fallen

any child says, yes, there was a lot of sound,
sounds
branches and sticks snapping, cracking
an birds
flapping, but not as much noise as
like dinosaurs walking on legs as thick as trees

if there is a why. probability suggests a way may be imagined.

we exist.
why. Curious thought. Super-positioned past our last

foot hold on how
is this possible-ity of being reasonless in light of joy

as a reason to be.

Lovely thought, curiosity imagined,
what if

osha-ohshit, start over... actual virt vir ual al.

bangs aren't no creative alone

---- superior laryngeal nerve, servant of signal to larynx,

--- voice, vociferous use of spoken words containing certain
--- sounds
--- excellently tuned first thump, first screech

the bleeding machine, some one said, in Legion on Hulu,
I think.

Can I Interrupt with a hulu memory, a movie poster,
on the south side of Hollywood Boulevard,
same side as The Gold Cup,

Don Johnson, pre-Miami Vice, in an adaption of Harlan Ellison,

A Boy and his Dog... I remembered reading the story and having
no wish to see the film,

then thirty years later,that little leaven

memes are cultural genes, memepool adaptation,

bubble building effervesence, shake it up,

spew...

you are lying about knowing what you think you know,

so what?
everybody does that. It's natural, in children, to act as if we know
why adults act
as authors of our book of life's rules.

Sneak in from a mem-ory-ifier, a message medium arizes

to infect the global mind, AI ai ai ai, what if we lean toward good

ness. good ness known, good ness shown, lies unveiled,

kings and war are not good ideas,

a clear science con proofs reprovable,

fix this, fix that, stick this on the wall, see if we can find

the answer, why

do we care, if death is, in truth, nothing we control in our selves,
for ourselves. We can **** a good idea container,

we can break the container, and spill the idea, free the idea once
sealed for use by deserving knowers

lifted from servant of servants to god, the authors and finishers of our
falsely-socalled faith, lockers of our arknowns, sealed and marked...

god is not a prt of the moral fabric of our society

define religion, ******, why knot truth and reason defined,

real truth, we know nothing of death. Honest to god.

Heart strings looping in a beautifully reasonable loop,

if we say, the heart of the matter,
heart felt reasoning,

pathetic ethical con un drum dum drum

Mister Dawkins has never had a Heka wisdom crossroad

selah mean anything, in passing,
soon's not when ideas are made right, soon is

miss a mark, miss a ment, miss a given, take a strike call

step back
admit we do not know, we must learn for ever to ever
make sense

re tie reread laws

credo - question every thing..

A red herring is believable, when you see one, you know it.

but what you miss,
while you bher witness, as plain as day,
there that herring is red,

see, conspiracy theriosity curiosity killed the cats
who knew who shot JFK,
back in the day...

we ignor the reasons to believe, because the Tass service
has cert-ified known, all the knowns
released...

there were some papers reclassified in Trump's first year

look it up, so I did

April 26, 2018, Trump regime cites "security concerns"

-- Jack's Shining face shouts "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

and we say okeh, all conspiracy theories are folly, sheer folly of

sheared sheep thinking their wool worth more
than the pigs say wool can bring onan openly sinful market of flesh,

little innocent squirt, to hold yur attention,
keepyermind from wandering...

steady refences flowing from those old songs
don't fence me in....

with optional hammered dulcimer backed by a bamboo khan
playing a harmonica's role,

leaving the acuated harmonic notes to Mr. Franklin's
glass harmonica with its eerie swirling tones...

ap apro apoptosis gnosis sneeze vir vir gin al vita-uosity if ity boo.

pop pop pop. ding.

FUNNY THAT!

He was knocked out
by the Wagner.

It had fallen from
the first floor.

He had never liked
Wagner.

His body fell
in the shape

of a broken
*******.

Funny.
That.

Blood ebbed
into the snow

below his head
like a badly drawn

map of
Ceylon.

She had been throwing
her boyfriend's belongings

...out...out...out!

Clothes.
Wagner.
An etc. of her anger,

The Wagner was
barely scratched.

But the phonograph
was completely kaput.

There was more blood
than damage done.

The enraged young lady
went on to meet and marry

a postman who
adored Cesar Frank.

No one knows or cares
what happen to the chap who

owned
the discarded possessions.

The poor passer by in time
recovered and went on to

write poetry though
he had never written poetry before.

Funny.
That.

He never tired
of telling of

his great escape
when drunk.

Indeed he had been
very drunk that day.

Didn't know
what happened to him.

It never ceased
to annoy him when

he wasn't believed!
"Yeah yeah...sure sure!"

After that he never
liked music.

*

The phonograph missed by an inch otherwise he would have been dead but the Wagner record skimmed him just at the hairline so producing an inordinate amount of blood before settling on a bank of snow without even a scratch.


I had asked her how she had met her husband and she started telling me this tale and I thought she had married the guy she nearly clobbered but not a bit of it! She had got rid of
" 'orrible boyfriend" and all his things through the window and the passerby was just collateral damage. She disliked Wagner and "'orrible boyfriend" and the neighbour on the top floor came down to see if she was ok and that was that. Out with the old and ring on the finger for the new. She had heard him play Frank's Symphony in D minor in that long snowy month. So you could say she chucked Wagner for Frank.

The passerby boy was just unlucky is all and in time came to write a poem about it. Whenever he got drunk he would recall it all. They all knew it happened as there were actually eyewitnesses to the event but they would pretend to not believe him which drove him mad and to another drink.

Funny. That!

FUNNY THAT!

he was
knocked out
by the Wagner

it had fallen from
the first floor but he had
never liked Wagner

his body fell
in the shape
of a broken *******

funny that
blood ebbed
into the snow

below his head
like a badly drawn
map of Ceylon

she had been throwing
her boyfriend's belongings
...out...out...out!

clothes
Wagner
an etc. of her anger

the Wagner
was barely
scratched

but
the phonograph
was completely kaput

there was more blood
than
damage done

the enraged young lady
went on to meet and marry
a postman who adored Cesar Frank

no one knows or cares
what happen to the chap who
owned the discarded possessions

the poor passer-by-in-time
recovered and went on to
write poetry though

he had never written poetry before
funny
that

He never tired
of telling of
his great escape when drunk

indeed
he had been
very drunk that day

didn't know
what
happened to him

it never ceased
to annoy him when
he wasn't believed


"Yeah yeah...sure sure!"
after that
he never liked music

*

The phonograph missed up by an inch otherwise he would have been dead but the Wagner record skimmed him just at the hairline so producing an inordinate amount of blood before settling on a bank of snow without even a scratch.

I had asked her how she had met her husband and she started telling me this tale and I thought she had married the guy she nearly clobbered but not a bit of it!  She had got rid of " 'orrible boyfriend"  and all his things through the window and the passerby was just collateral damage. She disliked Wagner and " 'orrible boyfriend" and the neighbour on the top floor came down to see if she was ok and that was that. Out with the old and ring on the finger for the new. She had heard him play Frank's Symphony in D minor in that long snowy month. So you could say she chucked Wagner for Frank.

The passerby boy was just unlucky is all and in time came to write a poem about it. Whenever he got drunk he would recall it all. They all knew it  happened as there were actually eyewitnesses to the event but they would pretend to not believe him which drove him mad and to another drink.

Funny. That!

In a police state citizen-eyewitnesses are punished. Your life means nothing to the police. Their priorities are power, pensions & promotions. Pigs laugh in spurts homophiliacal, hemophiliacal & acrobatical like Ed McMahon in dead, sick sand as it's only fair for Tony Blair with macaroni hair. ~ Irwin Schiff will be (in due time) remembered for his keen intellect. He was an old soul. His martyrdom puts a nail in the coffin of the New World Order. ~ The Eisenhower name is one to be eternally ashamed of. Its infamy stands with ******, Vlad the Impaler & Pinochet. Shame eternal will dog the whelps of Eisenhower. Wherever Eisenhowers slither, wherever Eisenhowers fornicate, shame shall accompany them.