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King Panda Nov 2017
I see a ****** of crows
parting the sky with
a ******* V

it hawks and blecks
down as if to say
good afternoon
to the child wheeling
across federal
on her
pink bicycle—

a travel
that rots and witches
the sweet, grey air
sailing into clouds
of pounding tide—

jewels

colorless
and divorced
drifting
across the
blue-domed
pearl of
missing you
It has become clear, since the Great Recession began, that the American banking and the political, "systems," are 'one-and-the-same' entity. Neither works for the majority of Americans but both appear to be working quite well, historically-compared, in fact, for the richest or most advantaged people.

Life should model to become a, "heaven," on earth for all people not just those at the foremost of political benefit, wealth or talent. This current state of affair is not what Plato envisioned. It is not what the Founding Fathers intended. America should not be about exclusion and private benefit but the public as a whole and the individual inclusion; Every Man a King.

Not Kings among the men who serve them...even Jesus would be appalled.

No one wants to think they are taking something they do not deserve or someone is being forced to accept something they do not want yet it is clear by the recent election that the American people are fed-up and ready to start taking things away. Naturally since they own this nation not the Fortune 500.

At a point greed undoes itself.

Rather than reach that point, the ultimate point of violence, we should endeavor our creative consciousness to alleviate the concerns of the excluded masses as Congress has proven that government can fix major world-altering problems such as the worst financial crisis in modern history. They cannot agree on health care, minority rights or ****** behavior but when Wall Street came begging they had no issues in agreement.

So here we are with a solution for the smallest percentage of Americans that fixed part of the economy leaving the multitude behind with nothing. Sorry, they got something; half of all familial wealth created since the Federal Reserve Act has been wiped out for the bottom half of society.  

Half...

Our economy is a dud. Ironically our central bank along with England's now admit they failed Main Street and furthermore say they should no longer be involved in these kinds of decisions! Yes, Americans should eliminate all of their authority over the finance industry, central banking and monetary policy leaving it the hands of those beggars who ruined it for everyone but themselves and admitted they failed us all?

How about a simple act of Congress to amend the matter?

Declare that all publicly-traded corporations can no longer issue corporate bonds or stock for revenue if they do not offer consumers a prepayment option to their accounts with an interest bearing incentive. From now on all corporations with publicly-issued stock must accept any prepayment towards future consumer services liabilities and pay an annualized interest rate identical to the Fed prime rate.

What corporation would not want to borrow at the Fed prime rate?

When any company needs money for expansion they should have the option to pool money directly from the account holder's prepayment revenue as long as they credit those accounts on all prepayments regardless of usage at the Fed rate. If they do not pay interest they should not be allowed to access the funds until a current invoice for service is generated and due from the consumer. Consumers should be able to earn money by being good stewards and paying off future liabilities early, or if requested, the consumer should receive a check for all of their annualized interest at the end of each fiscal year.

Corporations now need you to finance their dreams and you can finance your own with real interest paid to you since most of these multinational corporations would be bankrupt and gone today had not your bank, The Federal Reserve, issued credit and capital to save them as they whined about the unfairness in the economy.

"Unfair?"

For whom?
Dead Rose One Feb 2015
"montana-says-yoga-pants-illegal" Look up on Yahoo

we got quite the stash,
under the illegal grass,
in our hidden home,
bring 'em out when
it's just the two of us,
looking to get exercised

o'course we have secret codes,
(yogurt slackers)
never call 'em by their real name
in public,
lest we get sent by drone
to the new
orange and black jail

when we be feeling
risky-frisky,
under our coats
we wear 'em semi-publicly,
but to blend in,
we only buy black,
seeing as we live
in new york seeity,
where we reside,
black be the only
legal color for approved
illegal street walking

never when we travel domestically
in case we get busted,
don't want to face
federal interstate charges
of inciting others to riot sensationally!

this land is not my land,
maybe it is yours,
but if you come alooking
for us, we got a cabin
in the deep words,
where we practice
dress code freedom,
no ties, shirts untucked,
navel (oranges) fully exposed,
button down shirts always  unbuttoned,
(my high school days
revolutionary first strike)
hoping to escape
the idiots we
place above us
to "govern"
The shortest distance between two points of travel.

The fastest method for achieving a result.

Quickest answer for a resolution.

Marrying equals.

  All terminology meaning essentially the same thing; synthesis. That is what the two-party system is meant to be doing. It is the point of checks and balances. A check is a stopgap. A balance is a measure.

  No one wants to ban personal firearms. No one wants mentally-ill people to own them. No one advocates violence by school teachers to assuage future potential violence. No reasonable person wants children to grow up in a police state school system. No American believes that State and Federal government can agree on what should be done in all states.

  We will not be arming teachers. Nor will we be banning guns. There will never be armed guards at public schools. States and the Federal government disagree on so many levels there will never be consensus on change when it comes to this issue. So, change the issue in a way that offers a stopgap as a measure.

  The President of The United States issues a proclamation that all land directly adjacent to the front of all public schools will be bought by the federal government at today's market price. That price will be fixed provided the states do two things. Use state eminent domain laws(every state already has them) to file a claim on said properties and assess the value thereof for the federal government.

  Secondly, establish police precincts on said property.


    Ask yourself;

"How many children would die if the local police were directly across the street from the school at the time of the shooting?"


And,

"Would Conservatives or Liberals be against this proposal?"

  
Also,

We should all remember that these shooters plan their attacks and would have to plan around the police being there immediately after they begin one.


  Problem solved...
                             ...and no one touched a gun(right) to do it.
Seb Tha Guru Feb 2018
Remember days bagging up some minerals.
Trying to find the toys in our cereal.
Now me and Don hiding from the ops like we federal;
Getting kinda hungry, not for food but for miracles.

I’m just thinking bout the old times.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
With TDS, for success, keep that in my mind.
And summer eighteen, promise it’ll be mine.
Spread claims you are the only one who can stop corrupt politicians and their dependence on the rich (even though you yourself belong to the rich)

2. Spread lies and insults about anyone who might look like a serious opponent

3. Once you are in power, continue 1. & 2. and put your rich friends into influential positions in state offices and courts, give tax breaks to the rich and claim that everyone benefits from them. Declare any information that runs counter to your lies „fake news“.

4. Invent threats to the security and well-being of the nation and then claim you are the one who can solve all the problems by strict measures, like building a 2,000 mile wall against those criminal immigrants that threaten your people – what the „fake news“ reports as a few thousand refugees from neighboring countries who flee from misery and persecution and crime and hope to get asylum in your country of 350 million.

5. Cut your aid programs for the home countries of those resfugees so that the situation there worsens even more and even more people will try to run for a better life, and you can rhetorically justify inhuman security measures at your borders.

6. On a different field, isolate your country internationally, be the elefant in the china shop, break or end international agreements, destabilize whole regions, and then threaten to send the military – all of which, you tell your voters, makes your country great again.

7. Start trade wars with old global partners, accusing them of taking advantage of your countrty, and when your own economy suffers from such idiocies, calm your afflicted followers with federal subsidies that jolt the nationl deficit to singular heights.

8. Fire (or mob into retirement) any critical person in your government until all your officials speak with your voice.

9. Look around for a worthy cause to be the focus of your consoldidated power.

10. Start a world war and lose it.
Apropos certain current global developments ....
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.

I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,

Quotes later, maybe

Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-**-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation

of chivalric folly forever

be caused, in those days...

--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018

I saw a blue bird as I took a curve

on one of my many roads with double yellow lines

they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons

creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt

utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand

accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.

A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.

How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature

legion, for we are many

Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.

Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'

Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up

oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms

celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute

Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus

that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?

Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.

(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?

Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))

Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum

Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ

walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.

Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee

I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.

I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.

The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot

that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few

who learned the value of going over edges by learning to  play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.

Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that

makes the world go 'round.

Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not ****) Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.

Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon

a pump being
primed

to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike

Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world

Interference, actual counter acting waves,

still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?

You can imagine...
let your peace go out

Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned

oh. MY peace.
I see.

hmmmm

I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know

nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***,
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play

ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them

life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight

the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.

floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as

still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,

you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?

Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,

meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving

quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there

is a word that means exactedky that

requirement requires those initial quires

we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble

whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?

I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin

for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll

I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free

you owe me nothing, until you do again,

we had us a Jubilee.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others

Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?

Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****,

Aye,

that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)

or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)

she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find

lurking humans acting like machines

this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,

there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession

It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime

so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something

someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save

The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.

the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why

and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to

citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school

mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.

level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,

a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,

kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did

the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack

the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.

The play in the great game.

Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through

it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.

----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with

secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung

songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.

You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl

the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way

merry christmas, they used

to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment

forever begins the moment

you get time.

The worst you can imagine is temporary.

Try umph. It's not like winning,

it carries no pride, it's easy,

like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing

the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn

for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never

dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.

Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?

Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,

just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang

Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,

golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
*******,

I said Hallelujah

and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd

like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned

could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,

could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,

I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.

it is. No reason I can say, just is.

It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness

saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves

something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies

we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.

--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.

I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive

but I did, I belived every time

I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?

some good is
in the reality you share

with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing

That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,

ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow

yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must

be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,

oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean

I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.

And that's okeh.

I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at

ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,

then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War

{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really

the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks

we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your

informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again

if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be

molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza

oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting

on the named domain.

Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni

as Archemides primes the pump

What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.
A year in the making honest
Salute to the faithful federal workers that contribute to  staying vibrant in the political storm that affecting them.

Those old senior fat cats with years of clout blocking your pay.
But expecting you to protect the president.
Salute, to the secret service official staying firm to their duties.

Many of us would be hitting back with no pay, no work.
And we see this in other sectors.

Southern boy Mitch not concern.
Southern boy Lindsey not concern.
Then notice that the south block still yearn for days of old.

Heck, those days are mostly gone.
Still those old fogeys still holding on.
Bob B Aug 2018
Yesterday was a rotten one
For Donald Trump. What a shame!
In desperation Trump has jumped
Out of the frying pan into the flame.

His friend and former campaign manager,
Paul Manafort, was convicted
On eight felony counts, although
More convictions had been predicted.

Then his lawyer, Michael Cohen,
Pleaded guilty on eight counts
And implicated the president
In a felony, as the tension mounts.

Trump is an unindicted co-
Conspirator in a federal crime,
According to Cohen--something that many
Have suspected all the time.

Also, an early supporter in Congress,
Hunter Duncan, was indicted
For the misuse of campaign funds.
Do all who touch Trump become blighted?

Meanwhile, Omarosa says
She has many more tapes to play.
It almost seems as though the president's
Teflon coating is wearing away.

As Trump's Republican defenders
In Congress flat out refuse to condemn
Trump's actions, people wonder,
"What does Putin have on THEM?"

"I always hire the best people,"
Donald Trump would frequently boast.
Stay away from Donald Trump
Or you, too, are going to be toast.

-by Bob B (8-22-18)
"Let us put
Our hands together for you
Go ahead
Your view we second,
For ideas grow in a mind fecund!"
A support it was reckoned.

Contrariwise,recently
As it may sound sad
By a phony party
It turned out a fad
"Let us not stop to clap
Your freedom of speech
In the face to slap!"

What a mishap
What a mishap
Childish and selfish
Politicians are being seen
Wearing more than one cap--
Sometimes the constitution
On the back they tap
But, often they misconstrue,
Trample on it
Or use it as a trap--
Pursuant of evil ends
With the federal government
They adore to create
A rift or a gap!

A university  gets  off track
If it allows party members
Infest it
Freedom of speech to attack.
1)Some participants,who claim to uphold democracy, deliberately nonstop clapped weaponizing clapping for stopping opposition party's PR from expressing his views.The conference was called by a university but it was infested by  corrupt, tyrant and sanctimonious party members.Here the point is clapping is being used for negative end.In the first stanza it shows capping was meant for upholding freedom of speech but in the second stanza and the following stanzas it shows ,ironically clapping is being used to abort freedom of speech
2)What happened on the conference recently organized on a University's compound.
Arena opposition member, Amdom G/Selassie.
The wealthy only complain when their investment and stocks goes downward.
They have no sympathy for the less fortunate.

Of course not all wealthy I am speaking about.

Put your trust in a hopeless wonder and you witness various style of blunders.

Oh, how you can make many people fools?
When they under this impression you gonna make something great.
Then again, they never traced our past history.

And when we do?
We try to rewrite the narrative.

Politicians, getting paid.
Federal employees not.
Even clown boy getting his check.
And now many giving him their wrath.

Hate to admit this.
You failed for his manipulation tricks.
The junk bond king is still smiling.

All because he have gained a lot from those Russians dollars.
Bulletproof School Backpacks...

                DeLuxe model with emojis and a charging port

School days, school days
Dear old shooting drill days
Coding and walkouts and smart pad functions
Taught to a federal court’s latest injunctions
You were my queen in tats (Day-Glo®)
I was your Trump at every gun show
You carved in my skin “i luv U ‘n’ Che Guevara so”
When we were a couple of latch-key kids




As of 3 August 2019 bulletproof backpacks were not on the approved list for the Texas Comptroller’s tax-free school supplies weekend; bulletproof vests are on the list as taxable (https://comptroller.texas.gov/taxes/publications/98-490/clothing-footwear.php).
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
There is power within the people.
Not the politicians.

Witness this political climate.
Federal employees on furlough without pay.

TSA employees calling out.
But it was the airline traffic controllers that could have halted it all.

Not a single plane could take flight.
While the elected fools fight.
No pay, no work.

Even the president protection squad could halted his travel.
With just the phase for your safety sir stay within the White House.

ANOTHER SIGN THAT THE POWER IS WITHIN THE PEOPLE.

The group always proposing walls and segregation camps?
Should be the ones assigned to feel the agony of the hurt and pain.
Bob B Jul 27
They say in Washington, D.C.
That few are hated as much as he.
Of course, that all depends on whom you ask.
If you ask him, he contends
He's not there to make more friends.
Pushing his agenda is his task.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

His biggest friend in D.C. now
Is Donald Trump. Notice how
The two men are connected at the hip.
They will sacrifice--insane!--
Democracy for political gain
With their vile, disgusting partnership.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

He truly doesn't dignify
The Senate, where bills go to die.
He prefers to make up his own rules.
Obviously, Mitch's goal
Is only to maintain control
And stack the federal courts with far-right fools.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

We know that Russians interfered
In our elections, but what's weird
Is Mitch McConnell doesn't seem to care.
Since Russians helped Trump win before,
He could use their help once more.
Without their help he wouldn't have a prayer.

Yep, the man has found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

Just look at his expressionless mug.
(People say he resembles a slug--
A slug with an empty, vapid frown.)
If people really knew what's good,
And if they cared at all they would
Find a candidate to bring him down.

Yep, the man who found his niche--
The man known as Moscow Mitch.

-by Bob B (7-27-19)
Lou Apr 2018
Simplest of names,
So plain, But how I love to say it
A promise for warmth in igloo block prison eyes
And tone of Daria,
just whelmed enough to respond
A chance of sarcasm is air
Venom in plain daylight.

Plain tone.
Plain mood.
Plain old abuse.
And most would take it from her.
As she would and certainly has taken it from us.

Petit feminine fighter with no haymakers or KO records.
****** face, that rested war and peace between chin and brow.
Baroness of motherhood or is it the queen of hearts and depression?

Stars and music always forever
Anchor tattoos with a key to a heart, now a predator.
Forever enchanted by the la-de-dah and bleeding heart affairs
A savior in no motion or fashion but I dare not call you hypothetical

But a standard broad, beauty and-
So shameless I celebrate seeing you, awkward and so ****
Cleopatra, to be a bit dramatic-
Yes Cleo-mantra, I collectively disintegrate all charm and physical form
And you,  unfazed or unimpressed with either detail of romance

My friend, compromised by style and NO amusement.
There is much more to you than ****** faces and belittling arguments.
There is more to you then practicing soapbox rants in your kitchen.
There is more to you than a shallow mothers intoxications and material.
There is more to you than the new hair dye or the wigs you collect.

The things you store in the boxes cluttering your room with everything not in those boxes
The clothes on your floor, decorations from your teenaged 3rd or 4th personality.
The smell of perfume and coffee and more perfume all over,
stuck to papers, next to wine bottles, borrowed and never returned books, unfinished snacks,
used paper towels, lipstick stained mugs and glasses, your sons toy I stepped on 4 times,
pictures of gone lovers and notes, your license; now found again after the second time ordering a new one.
And…it's expired,
Then finally under the aftermath of years, doubt, clutter, your cell phone vibrating in the fray of sheets.

"found it."

Least we forget that, as we forgot we are both in this room together.
You are so much more than this mess I picked up for you countless times
And though I complain I will pick it up for you and not ask your permission
I won't scold you, I can only exhale failure and help.

Staring blankly into your screen discussing all genres of worldly horror and ways to divert.
Such plans and opinions but no federal funding!
We would pay homage to girl power and the early 90's and call her G.I. Jayne-
(Or not cause she doesn’t have that kind of sense of humor.)
But imagine a solider, a true solider of the meek.
That is theoretically, G.I. Jayne.
Has all of our best interest at hearts, our hero.
Songs of children are said to give her strength-
(She really doesn't like this kind of humor, I must move on.)

My friend truly distressed by the world she can't control from her tiny screen.
I place all comfort I can to her and understandably rejected like a stranger making rounds.
No trust comes from her nowadays, None for me at least. I can't speak for all.
I try to climb over the steep absurdity, alluding to her self-mutilation and task this is
but not going as far as just telling her this is ******* killing me.

I have no lesser or sophisticated words.
I'm dying every time we reach these altitudes.
Fingers and my tone raising at every disagreement .
How you can break me down to my atomic core and decimate miles of friendship.
My closest star in the sky, use to bring me morning tea, flowers and maternity
We now stand in quasar as our space and stardust find mass in thousands of millions of years in development
For me to be sent to the loony bin and you to prison like our heroes from Clinton to Lazaretto.
For my friend.
The clown sits above the water awaiting the baptism,
hurling the truth—

guessing the exact weight of the big blonde
with the skinny man attached to her side  
like a vanishing twin, the errant throw
the last spasm of a hand destined  
to be reabsorbed into the belly;

knocking a few inches off the little person
glaring at him defiantly, eating an elephant ear,
unaware that he has walked into the insult zone;

questioning the masculinity/femininity
of the man transitioning to woman,
the woman getting used to her new man beard;

all the victims to the secret knowledge of the clown
with the orange hair and red cap turned backwards,
black peeking from the white waterproof makeup—

that knows tiny arms can only throw downwards,
weight is heavy, and that men and women
who can’t control the aim of their emotions
means he stays dry, an extra dollar in his pocket.

A collusive chuckle sets the hook
for the barkers to initiate the $3 hustle,
corralling everything in their sight lines
for the wet revenge to drown the clown.

Only the unemotional hit the tea-plate target,
disengaging the lever that drops his hulking mass
into one hundred fifty gallons of tepid water,
the splash of money he carries from fair to fair.

He changes names in each new town:
Bozo in Montgomery, Patches in Columbia,
New Bozo in Decatur, where he can reside
in full unbridled insult without offense,  
that won’t run him out of town,
or the sway of the tallest, oldest tree,

until he settles into the Miami sun,
the Jack Jackels of Santa’s Enchanted Forest
where the old Cubans can freely laugh
and flick him the ashes of their cigars.

He struggles with arthritis, new cultural norms,
the old broken right hand when he tries
to lift himself above the water, the twinge
of neuropathy in his left foot, the revenge
of years of carnival food.

“Abuela, Abuela,” he chortles at the old
Spanish woman in black crossing his path,
her hijo, a minor league prospect,
hurling a perfect tea-pitch strike
that dunks him for the hundredth time
in five hours.  

As he pulls himself to his steel perch
he recalls how his great great grandfather
scared him with tales of the African Dip,
where as a savage above a boiling cauldron
he would be ladled to soup fifty times a day,
back when there were no bars, just rage
misdirected from the real target.

“Blackbird, blackbird”, he remembers
the white kids chanting as he settles
into his refuge, the iron lattice that
deflects stones, his eyes fixating on
a teen with a tube top and  baby bump.
“I’m probably paying child support for you, kid.”

Anywhere else, anything else
he would be boiling in hot water,
be doing days in the county jail,
months rattling the bars of a federal pen,
just for speaking the truth.

He knows of less than ten like him
as he watches a crowd of seniors
settling in on metal benches
in the dawning sunset
beyond his eyes horizon,

coming to sit and listen
to tonight’s show filled
with insults and baptisms,
knowing he would spew
the things they were
thinking in their heads.

They lied in school, he thought,
when his teachers said,
“you can’t make a living
being a *******.”
By: Cedric McClester

Do we have problems?
That’s for sure!
But, I still love
The city of Baltimore!
From the Inner Harbor
To Cockeysville.
Did I neglect to
Mention Federal Hill?

We’re known as
“A city of neighborhoods”
Where WEB DuBois
Was first understood
And Edgar Allen Poe
Showed that he could
Write a scary novel
That was very good

We’re the same city
Trump chose to malign
But perhaps that’s because
We’re one of a kind
Or maybe that’s because
He lost his mind
It’s either one, or the other
You’ll surely find

We are the city
Faults and all
Where the Baltimore Orioles
Still play baseball
And thousands of immigrants
Heeded the call
When they came to America
Summer, winter or fall
























Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserve.
labyrinth Oct 4
******* wake-up! You’re dying over here
Situation’s already a serial killer

US, China, Israel, UK or France
Same tune all over, but different dance

New world order’s conquering the soul
Anyhow it’s long been the initial goal

The Media numbs and The Capital reaps
I shortly call them the filthy creeps

Lousy news, soap operas, sports and such
Good enough to make you lose mind touch

Your brains got a lot of poison injected
No further questions stand objected

Deeper than deepest y’all have slept
Exactly the way you’re supposed to be kept

Designated countries are using democracy
In such a wise manner covering hypocrisy

In your midst, their ******* agents’re dwelling
How and why your wounds keep swelling

Hospitals, schools, medicine and food
Seems like serving you for their own good

Don’t you see? All at your expense
Sixth went bankrupt, you need a seventh sense

The enemy is in fact in your jurisdiction
What the hell is wrong with you? Show’em some reaction

Nine/Eleven, health-care, Federal Reserve!
You honestly believe that’s what you deserve?

Man! Quite visible. Yet, you don’t see
Who or what stops you from being free

Named John, Linda, Mary, Stephen and Bob
They look like angels only; they’re the hob

You’re from wherever; I’m from Istanbul
Lemme put it this way!! They love it when you’re fool

As George Carlin manfully put
Your owners led the souls go kaputt

Good times will be gone, far away
Punishment will be your regular day

As it has been for some time now
Come on!!! Be brave!!! Or simply ciao!!!

You know very well who the **** is responsible
What you don’t know is, they’re not indispensable

Quit ******* and moaning, do something on your own
Remember the darkest hour before the dawn

Pay attention *******, I can talk forever
Do me a favor, and stop saying WHATEVER

Because when ILLUMINATI beats
The very day, you’re mere dead meat

It’s not just you! Still proliferating!
It’s your kids too, why procrastinating

Every passing moment makes you lose hope
If not you or me; who the hell will cope

You mortals, listen!! To break this deal
First gotta get rid of lack of zeal

Unless you peeps begin holding hands
And walk in the direction right against

Nothing’s gonna change towards the good
You’ll soon be left with should, would and could

I’ll anyway share with you one more prescription
Hear me out. So clear! No **** encryption!

To see what the hack’s really going on
Give up being illiterate, idiot, *****

Read and learn AND learn and read
That’s the vicious cycle you need indeed

On the verge of a choice to resist or assist them
Last piece of advice kindly **** the system

Get ready otherwise for some **** blood shed
Labyrinth said it all, either pursue or dread… *******
Copyrighted work
Homunculus Feb 1
01/31/2019

Today, I learned the true extent to which I loathe the IRS. To be fair, I've always known that I hated them. I've had plenty of legitimate reasons for this in the past. For instance, every year, they casually extort our wage and salary, pretending to allocate it for the building of bridges, roads, and schools. While in reality, the infrastructure and educational system crumble, and defense spending grows without limit.
But then again, I do suppose that in a certain sense, roads, bridges, and schools are built indirectly with these funds; but only after the funds are used to blow these institutions to smithereens in third world countries, and private corporations like Halliburton are contracted to rebuild them for egregious profits. Profits, mind you, which are shuffled to dozens of offshore shell corporations, ensuring that they are taxed at a rate exponentially lower than the profits of the average working citizen.
But today, I experienced a type of hatred entirely novel to my conceptions of what is even possible in the realm of consciousness. A loathing so intense that it paralyzed my rationality, sending me into fits of rage and bewildered astonishment that I would wish on NO ONE . . . except Cheney or Kissinger, the ******* *******. For today, for the first time in all my 28 years of life, I filed my federal income taxes. I knew that one day the chore would inevitably arise, but I still consider it an accomplishment to have made it through an entire third or more of my life without ever actually dirtying my hands with the wretched muck. All that aside, the story goes like this:
I work as an “independent contractor” for a friend who runs a small business. I perform various services around the office, and he cuts me a check at the end of the week. I've been working there “on paper” for about a year, really a bit longer, but “what they don't know...” so goes the old adage. We had, the both of us, anticipated with tempered irritation, the arrival of this bureaucratic beast of burden. However, neither of us knew that the deadline mailing date for “independent contractors” comes nary two months sooner than for payroll employees. This information was sprung on us at the very last minute by his tax attorney who, from this point on, will be referred only to as 'G.S.' (grease stain).
As I was fulfilling my duties, my friend urgently beckoned to me “STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. TAXES ARE DUE TODAY, AND WE HAVE TO FILE THEM NOW!” Naturally, I panicked. I had seen an income tax form . . . perhaps once or twice? . . .  much less filled one out . . .  maybe once at 17 during the employment process at a fast food joint? . . . Initially, we had thought it would be a simple matter of the W-2, the likes of which had been filled out automatically for me by employers in the past as a part of the hiring phase. Nonetheless, since my status of “independent contractor” placed me into a different tax category, I had to fill out what is known as a 1099-MISC. “Simple enough!” thought I, “I'll just fill in the relevant details and get back to work.” . . . “NOT SO FAST, CASEY JONES!” screamed the form, with all its talk of “fishing boat expenses” and “crop insurance” . . . “O...K?” “and what precisely has this to do with me?” thought I.
My employer, courteous as he can sometimes be, called up (t)rusty old G.S., who referred us to a site where the form could be understood more intelligibly. After a bit of head scratching and chin stroking, we figured it out. No matter, though! Because once we figured the form out, we couldn't figure out what to DO with the ******* thing. 'G.S.' was once again consulted, and he told us that we could simply print the form, and take it to an H&R Block office for submission. “Okay, simple enough!” thought I . . . but alas! It was not to be so. When we arrived at said office, the agent . . . who looked like a burned out caricature of William H. Macy . . .  reviewed the forms, and said that to apply the deductions I had calculated, he would require a $300 fee for his services, and that I would need to fill out a “Section-C.” This lanky, rasp-voiced, twig of a man then withdrew from his cubicle, at which point, my employer whispered to me “**** that, I've done Section-C forms hundreds of times, we're ditching these crooks”
At this point, we retreated back to the office, found what we thought to be the relevant forms, but were soon swept up in a vicious monsoon of bureaucratic legalese which, although it resembled English, bore few similarities other than word spelling and grammatical form. It is sometimes alleged that Kafka was haunted by ghosts which had an insatiable appetite for stories. The legend further has it that he would write for them to quell their unyielding wrath. Those of us who have read Kafka know intimately of his satirical preoccupation with the absurdity of bureaucracy. Perhaps these stories pleased the ominous specters which loomed over him like the fluorescent light beaming down upon me as I type these words. Some things can never be known for certain. If, however, this were truly the case, then it would seem that Kafka's ghost had now taken the role of writing MY story for his own amusement. Every cliché of the DMV and social services building was present in this ghastly affair. “Fill out this form; stand in this line; oh, I'm sorry, sir. You've got the wrong form. You'll need to file a (…) and take it to (…), their hours are MwAhMwAhMwAhMwAhMwAh” This futile circumlocution went on for SIX HOURS. All the while, thoughts of a perfectly wound noose, crafted of thick hemp rope, with thirteen pristine wraps forming a slipknot to be fitted as though tailor made around my neck filled my mind, as the acute stages of benzodiazepene withdrawal began to set it. Luckily enough, or so we suspect. We figured it out, and now I have only to wait for my return to come in the mail to see what I owe.
But once I got home, I got to thinking. There is a copy of 'Infinite Jest' on my coffee table. A literary epic whose magnitude cannot possibly be overstated. I began to think deeply reverential thoughts of the author of this book, and then something clicked in my mind: on that fateful day when Wallace took his own life  by the noose, he was in the middle of writing a novel about nothing less than the 1985 Tax Code in Illinois, and a group of IRS agents. Being the adamant researcher of all topics that he was, we can hardly imagine that he did not give this terrible ******* of language what he felt to be its due diligence. Of course, any responsible thinker understands that correlation does not equal causation; but as the admittedly ironic thoughts of suicide filled my mind over the course of this afternoon and evening, I can't help but be left to wonder if a mind so vastly superior to mine as his did not experience these ideas with markedly less irony as he reveled in the vile idiosyncrasies of bureaucratic jargon. Again. Some things can never be known.
I have begun keeping a journal. Not so much for the sake of documenting my daily experience, but more so to experiment with different writing styles and, perhaps to help clarify my own thoughts. I will also continue to write poems, of course.
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