Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-led "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all native conspirators of ultimate treason.
As the State buries the dissident's piercing wits,
A treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
This wormlike betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."

If this title attracted your attention
As it surely should
The devil is real my friend
Rest assured it's true.

Folks I am not fibbing
The master of lies has a great disguise.
Like the Saviour he is watching you too.
But unlike the Master, your fears are his haven.
He's lying in quiet wait to trip you.

If you think I am fibbing, let me explain.
His existence is in the mind of the aimless.
He makes his home in the hopeless.
The young ones he infects with discontent
His hatred he sows deep.
This till the children of God become his sheep.

Then beguiling he'll lead them to slaughter.
Broken hearts, bitterness to plunder.
The emptiness a yawning gap.
You can't save yourself,
He'll push you to give up.
Then he'll put words of despair in the mouths of loved ones.
Break your resolve if you so much as dare.
He'll thrive on wickedness, and turn your love into despair.
All around you, you'll see hopelessness.
This minions perfecting the part.
Only the Son of God (Jesus), can break this act.

When you feel love tugging at your heart
And reach out to those hurting.
When u bury the hatchet
And choose forgiveness.
When you rise above the pettiness
Your pride destroyed
When you see in persons God's image
Trust me, you've the fetters blown away

Oh, he won't let you go easily
Your too much a prized possession
The one he'll ensnare,
The one he'll dangle, before His throne
Then the Son of God, His Christ, his body tearing, will offer himself in exchange
A bargain with his blood
Before your life can drain.

Look out Oh children of One God
The devil knows no religion
He exists it's true
Simply look around you.
The wars and guns are his legacy
Products of his insanity.
The mindless massacre of innocents
Unleashed through times immemorial
****** earth covered cries for vengeance.

Mind you, you can only be so much as used.
As you allow yourself to be.
The traps are set in every corner
It's not going to be easy.

Often you'll be goaded by those closest to you.
Offering you solace in things that should not be.
Drugs and gangs
Violence and rave
Ecstasy and addiction
Cool fads and attractions
Wanting things you'd
be better off

But it doesn't stop there
Fear is a potent weapon
He'll use it everywhere.
He'll bombard you from every corner
Till you doubt your sanity
Then willingly you'll walk into his parlour
Handing over your serenity

You'll never know what's evil.
Cause he make you believe he doesn't exist.
But my friend all long
You were flirting with the devil..

Elbows
Knees
keep you
Bendy
And when someone tells you
' I bent over backwards'
and they are not an act in a circus
Just know they are big white lie fibbing.

Stars shine on in a night sky so black
you can see the truth.
What is that light but an interruption
to progress so blinding
the sun blushes–
as if another light vandalized
our ever darkening sky.
Closing out on reality,
opening up to ideals,
it’s the rays piercing through the layers
and the yea-sayers nodding
off to sleep in a darkness so deep.
When the genius strips off the latent,
flexes its manifest intelligence,
and puts down thoughts
that flare into the darkness.
No effort from a sun fibbing eternal.
The end might come but the hand
who writes eternity can’t see
the end coming.
Who are the geniuses
expelling the light
and who are the receivers
not likely to admit their stupor
for fear of fantastic phantasms.
Fleeing from their folly,
straying into strange, insipid
serials, unending, not rerunning–
only growing obese with weight
Of chances not spent.

Spent my hard earned money buying stuff I seen on commercials
with two singers claiming all they use was the stuff I bought to fix faces.
Both them women got to be telling fibs if they said a little bit of
skin fixer works good did not work and used full bottle and nothing.
I googled them womens pictures and seen how they faces look bad
and messed up and both got blotchy skin and look real tired in pictures.
Seen all them commercials with them woman I am talking about
saying all they used was that stuff but saying did not work on me.
I would be fibbing if I posted I thought those women are pretty
in google search pictures of them without tons of makeup I see on their faces.
No make up do make them look like not so good as women called plain Jane.
Simple telling when women ain't plenty made up or they not wearing skin fixer
when they got them dark circles and darker spots like some pictures I seen when I google.
We got a few women looking very pretty cause they got that natural beauty.
I not grandma old but I got crows feet and cracking lines on my face.
I been trying making up my face with gobs of crap and went to expert at store
where rich folks shop and I know I did not look good like she lied to me
telling me I looked good but that mirror in that store showed me truth.
No more making up this face cause I was born to be what I am not pretty.

Out on the path, I wait for her
my friend who’s just for me.
We play and sing and laugh a lot,
though no-one else can see.

You call her imaginary,
but she’s real and best of all,
she’s made a solemn promise
to be here when I call.

My mum says she’s not really there,
though the truth is mum don’t know
the fun me and my friend have had
or the places that we go.

We get lost in the forest
and fly up to the stars,
then sit upon the rooftops
throwing jelly beans at cars.

We’ve dug up buried treasure
and stared Blackbeard in the face.
And we’ve ridden Pegasus
to see the earth from space.

If you think I may be fibbing,
I’ll tell you it’s no lie -
to say we’ve seen most everything,
my secret friend and I.

But now the time is ticking,
she’s never usually late.
But here I am still waiting
sitting by the gate.

I feel the world revolving
as seasons come and go.
I never thought she wouldn’t come,
but perhaps I finally know.

That secret friends are mortal
and don’t last forever,
but I’m quite sure I won’t forget
the times we spent together.

I think I hear the clock indoors
chiming half past four.
The day has almost passed without her,
I’m not so little anymore.

But, just as I turn to go inside,
I hear the squeaking gate
“I’m so sorry,” my friend cries
“I didn’t mean to be this late”!

The world turns again to greet the moon
and my friend and I shall roam,
weaving in and out of dreams
making memories our own.

So, grown-ups if you’re finding,
modern life hard to survive,
wait a while, by the gate
you never know who may arrive.

Though you may not have seen them
for about a hundred years,
secret friends remain with us
and help allay our fears

that we all grow old and crinkly
and forget how to dance and laugh
just have a little patience
and pause there on the path.

Don’t you dare ask me that question,
I beg of you, stop looking at me.
All of you stop!
Just leave me be.
I couldn’t even if I wanted to,
I’m not mean
I’m not crazy
How dare you say that I’m selfish,
I’m trying my best but can’t you see?
Clearly it’s killing me.
There is no shame in my honest silence,
Unlike the provocative lies you spew
Day after day
Pretending that you are good,
Fibbing that you’re okay.
I don’t lie like that,
Completely invisible when I lie flat,
Talk to me,
Set me free,
For I am she,
She with no name,
No chance of fame,
When you speak the tears will flow,
I promise this is not a show.
All the horror stories that I hear,
What is audible,
And being noticed,
THAT is my one true fear.

I know that they all like to say that nice guys finish last.
But this really is far from true.

Most nice guys really will end up finishing first.
It just may happen to them well after they want it to.

But it may be to your advantage, that way.
You’ll get to meet people at their best, some would say.

When you get to finish first, first, you will miss out on a lot.
The people whose prime is early in life are generally not the best.

I know that it is really hard to think that you’ll have to wait.
There is not a single person who enjoys waiting.

But it really is in your favor to wait for a little while.
You can meet yourself before meeting other people.

And you have to be crazy to think that there aren’t others who are lonely.
Sometimes the nice girls think they’re in last place, too.

Nice guys think that they have to change.
Nice guys, please do us all a favor, never change.

The world can use a lot of people like you.
We need some people we can be proud of.

See, you think you’re a problem because her parents would like you.
Give it a few years, and that will be what she wants.

I meet this nice guy once and really liked him.
But, as you’d like to guess, I didn’t date him.

I’m even certain that we were flirting for a little bit.
Yet, I did not wish to date him.

I suppose you can call me a hypocrite right now.
I would be lying if I said you’re completely wrong.

But never did I say that nice guys would always win.
All I recall saying is that they wouldn’t finish last.

Because, if I’m being frank here, they cannot be last.
Last is reserved for those whom you don’t desire in the slightest.

And I can attest to always wanting someone nice.
I can admit that I will always want someone who is kind.

And you’re wondering why I didn’t date what I wanted.
As luck would have it, I knew he was too good for me.

He may have actually gotten a different message on that.
I’d be fibbing if I said that I told him that.

He just thinks that I only want him as a friend.
He thinks that was all I ever thought of him as.

He is not entirely wrong, honestly, he’s not.
Dating friends is something that complicates things; so I won’t date them.

But he doesn’t know that I was willing to break that rule.
I would go against all I stand for, just for a nice guy.

Sure, I would then somehow ruin things, but it would be nice while it lasted.
But I could never think of hurting someone so dearly, not when he gave his all.

Nice guys don’t finish last because no one wants them.
Nice guys finish last because everyone wants them.

Nice guys win in the end because others have gathered up their courage.
When we can be real with them, then they can win.

Nice guys finish later because we like them so much.
We are scared to hurt them and it causes us to hurt them more.

We can never win when it comes to people.
No matter what you do, someone will get hurt.

I'm not fibbing,
when I say I need a defibrillator
to restart my heart
and close my jaw
that jaw-dropped to the ground
and left my head heavy
and my lungs breathless
all because,
I saw you in red.

This Apocalypse Summer
has really got me down,
but then I'm up running
through what is left of town.
I never got to swim the backstroke
before Brunswick Basin bled
Lake Olympia from amidst her oak,
before Deer Creek went dead.

The streets'll burn, the bodies break
and the blood washed away by beer.
The streets burned, bodies broke
and we're still here.

Shadow people wander the sidewalk,
been here since the bombs dropped.
Never got no noisy television,
just watch the streets and shadows in them.
I'm pushing up just like daisies
and pulling them up for fun.
Convinced that I'm going crazy
from the trips that I get on.

Jane says she cannot get it:
"something hidden...back when children."
You're always looking for the road
where we used to drink too drunk,
where you look to have again
what we had so long ago.

Do you feel it coming?
on Earth His will be done.
Collapse a long time coming—
still nothing new under the sun.
Summer is for the living.
That's a bubble-bursted, sun-dried reason.
It's the end or I am fibbing,
still live up the rest of the season.

First came the flood then spilled blood.
Had anyone caught on of that to come
you know we'd never have let it begun.
But it had:
got you, your mother, and dad.
Surely there was nothing we could do
but hunker down, get a job, and rue
the day they brought us into
the Old World and buried the New.

I hear tell that downriver
the water gets warmer;
I hear tell that valley below us's
a hotter n' hell, body-ridden bowl of dust.
—
I hear tell that upriver
the trout they run thicker,
the water cooler, air smoother, and **** sticks thinner.
I wanna flee up that river
but I'm not that good a swimmer.

How do we know?
We think we're smart,
in fact we're geniuses.
But we're still sitting
and can't stop talking about...

This Apocalypse Summer
has really got me down,
but then I'm up running
through what is left of town.

intent and hell bent,
to escape and to pretend.
that all's well,
and nothing else.
i pause to run,
and simply because there's no fun.
to say i am not sad,
and it isn't all that bad.
but seriously,
as i sprint furiously,
who am i kidding,
if i am not fibbing.
it's all pretense,
and it's my only defense.

My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child

that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks

My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.

after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,

writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes

light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once

Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees

It's all in the technique, they say
But if you have the desire
If you have the drive
That's the easy part.
Yet still,
Execution is key.

Let us use an example
Fibbing about your whereabouts?
Know your audience
Know what they want to hear
Know what they will believe
And how much they will believe.

Details make a scarlet deception ivory
They truly create the white lie
It becomes obvious if you are too vague.
Trust me, I know.

Look them dead in the eye
Don't laugh, but don't be too serious.
Just think about what you would say
Under normal circumstances.

If you get this far,
I pose a question of irony to you.
Why would you trust me?
After all,
I am a liar.

It's all the same,
To lie to you.
To lie to him
To lie with me.

Look at you
So easily lying and fibbing
Like a naturalist
It makes me cringe every time you
Tell that same lie
Over and over and over again
"You did well"
"You are amazing"
"I like you a lot"
My only option is to smile with my
Broken teeth and bleeding gums
Ravaged by the bones I have been cracking on
"Stop lying to me"
I try and scream but absolutely nothing comes out
Why?
Because I have gotten so used to the
Shattered glass of untruths that
The crunch of it underfoot and the zap
Of it in my skin has completely gone
Away
So all I can think is
**My, What Big Lies You Have

You call me a *****
You say you want me to die in a ditch
Well I don't know what I did
Love towards me was forbid
I shut you out
You never shut your mouth
My wrists are bleeding
My heart is screaming
But you you just stand there watching
I'm tearing down
I'm leaving town
I don't know who I am
But whoever I am your not a fan
I'm never good enough
I'm packing my stuff
No stay you scream and plead
Then you turn around and hit me
You call me a ****
Compare me to a mutt
Now you wonder why I overdose once a    
day
My life is filled with hate
But the hate is like a drug
One feeling of warm fuzzy hug
The drug is the hug that bring me to tears and hopes no one ever comes near
I need to get myself away from here
I struggle with my own problems
To half to take care of you on top of them is like a dog caring for its owner
I guess I'm like a dog no wait you might say I'm a bit lower
So here is my apology no wait just kidding
I think I was just fibbing
I should thank you in stead
Thanks for trying to hit me in the head
Thanks for making me scream for making my wrists bleed for watching me die then just adding to the pain by cutting up my emotions with your lies
Yeah you were always sly until you walk right up and said ok ***** it's time for you to die
I just laughed and said no girl it's been you messing with my head
Sorry ***** but I'm already dead
That night I took too many pills now I was in for the ****
I hopped right into my car drove to the train tracks
Ready to be attacked
This next rhyme is an effing fact
If the ***** ain't got her dog
She is gonna disappear in the fog
The shadow that's been killing me for years
Oh lucky me the train is almost here
Grown near for my last stop
Laying on the tracks
The train threw a little honk
Then I felt it
I was nothing but a memory
Come puppy sit
But ***** don't you know I can play dead  too watch me your bond to loose.

i don't know much about the moon
for half of it is always hidden

and i envy the stars that can peer at the scars on the other side of where i'm sitting

i can't say much about the tides
that fall victim to your tug

but i can observe that with every fibbing word
the sounding sea has had enough

- l.f.

Love, you told me once that
Butterflies don’t lie
So I knew I was in love
The moment I met your eyes

Love, you told me once that
You can’t solve all my problems
But I knew you were fibbing because
Standing next to you, the hurt is forgotten

Love, you told me once that
You want my arms around you
But I knew you were just kidding because
You were gone before I could hold you

Love, you told me once that
You don’t always think when you talk
So I knew you didn’t want me,
Yet I still sold you my heart.

Love, I’ll tell you once that
I love you so **** much.
Love, I’ll tell you twice,
Three or four times if you want.

Impending rain through the gut rut strain
A letter stamped and ready to gain
Impending media menaces straight on through
A touch of pepper was what she wanted to know

A listen of the booth towards the man's moon lit
Whistle for the sinister because we all got sisters
Either you hear me
Or you ain't got nothing to say

Good night to the morning because I ain't trying to see you
We used to be something but things got boring
Bent post cards meant everything she meant to lie
Cut another piece of that fibbing apple pie

A showman knows when the audience is rolling
They breathe it in and know when it stinks
Thanks for the lot but smother me another time
I got some reasons I ain't feeling fine

Puking out the nonsense so I don't walk it off
Curb stump near me so I can start to bear it
A silly **** bump near the ever clear rear
Wishing for the fear to leave me every night dear

Dawn break sticks near my window right about now
Eye rubbing madness for the cook that boils sadness
Cash for me with my woman far away
Round this corner I think I might have my stay

You say —
it is impossible
to read
people within
your own frame
of reference.

You’re a neuroscientist,
so I should probably believe you,
because you know
more
about how
the brain processes
information.

You say —
communication is the closest thing
we have to reading someone’s thoughts.
You can't infer the type of person someone is
or what they'll do
from their actions alone —
you just need to ask them.

Evolution is a testament
to the power of speech.
It allows us to co-exist peacefully
with other human beings,
warn them of danger,
or tell them where the food is.

But evolution isn't so
intelligent, and I would premise
that communication
is just a workaround
telepathy.

First of all,
humans lie
when they want
for us to read
what is NOT in
their mind.
Rarely will one
get a straightforward answer
to the question: "Are you lying?"
And should you really expect to?

You say,
of course you can tell
when people are overtly lying.
There are biological signs
of deception
and we're hard-wired to detect
them —
the overly detailed stories
prolonged eye contact
calculated breathing,
are all indicators
of fibbing.

Ok, so there is truth-telling and lying,
but like most dichotomies
there are several somethings
in between.
Like when people don't mean
what they say,
but say it anyways — miscommunication.
Or when people genuinely
believe the words they spew
are true, but they are — mistaken.
Or when people
want so badly
for words to be true...
but they
are
just
not — denial.

For example,
someone like you
could tell me over and over again
that you're sorry,
But communicating isn't gonna help
heal the bruises, honey.

I’m so scared
you'll hit her
when you raise your voice.

I don’t know how to talk about it
because when I do,
she suffers the consequences.

I’m so nervous
I’ll have know about it
the entire time
and still have done nothing.

If I say something,
I’m so worried
she'll think I’m overreacting,
and then stop telling me stories.

What is the least about of harm
you can do
before I’m allowed to speak.
Is it a bruise?
Why must I wait
for the inevitable
just to say
I saw it coming all along.

The complete disregard for her as a partner,
your disrespect, the verbal assaults,
are known precursors of domestic violence.

As is my silence.
But I can't seem to
communicate the situation
without making it worse.

I can’t known for certain
why you treat her this way
from my frame of reference,
because the evidence neither supports or denies
my claim, and I am judge-mental if I infer it anyway...

until it is too late.
Because it wasn't a truth or a lie,
just a thing I knew deep in my bones,
but was told I have no
evidence for
from people like you.

People rarely mean what they say.
Why should I trust their displays
over my own judgement.
Yes, sometimes we are trapped in perspective
and then our perspective turns out to be wrong
about people.
But it takes someone strong,
to risk being wrong,
when she is
chastised for it.

Fabricated Moon
If only I'd seen it soon
Fibbing.  Dance.  I swoon.

Who shall find intermittent song?
...of reason wrong ...of time so lent
Who could position themselves to be
... lark in tree? ... one heaven sent?

Audacity to find in peace of mind
... words so kind ... yet ever untrue
Convince me now of lies so bold
... so very cold ... never more undue

Lie to me till eminent death
... with sweet breath ... in toiled rest
Sing to me great love accolade
... make fine charade ... fibbing best

Do this in pity, I shall bequeath
... a laurel wreath ... a poet's song
Precious days numbered in ways
... testament blaze ... schooling wrong

Consider final pathetic beseeching
... it's own bequeathing ... riled begging
Harden heart to own such phrases
... this last lying day .. is mild *******

... it won't hold on without you

<>

reversed a verse from “Like a Rolling Stone;
~complements to Mr. B. Dylan, a Nobel man~

you, me, hear what you’re hearing, feeling it,
you, me, hear what you’re thinking, feeling that,
regenerating, excising, pinching a single word of Bobby’s
lyricizing, knowing, you’ve just handbag-snatched a poem full.

the rolling stone sings of next meal scrounging,
he’s talking to you, knowing you, you customizing
his lyrics modifying-jiggering, for your purposeful brain,
emotional crazed notions, your monsanto seed of needs and strains.

nah, I’m fibbing, polite-ly lying,
like clover waves springing up
overnight after a night’s soaking,
raining, picking up hints, misdirections, clues,
***, poem titles dripping from my glassy eyes!

des idées for the next poem, the one, in the garden hereafter,
now called thereafter, all arriving in tranches, backyard bunches,
just to write down the titles fast enough, sometimes, trouble,
oft easy, sometimes rough, but always a fast rush jiggling job.

yeah, I’m liking that word, scrounging,
got character, internal noises aclashing,

so I’m scrounging
while lounging , it’s so ******* easy,

it’s getting borrowed till you! steal
it out from under me,
like an ill reputed
good poet should...


P.S. don’t keep me waiting!
let the scrounging commencin’

tw36

when I get into my friend’s car
it’s hard
it’s too high above the road
and I’m not that good at stick, I’m told
I end up ******* it up
which is why I don’t do it

when I sit down and try to
write about my friend’s life
it’s too high above the road
and I’m not good at fibbing, I’m told
I end up ******* it up
For both me and them

which is why I don’t do it.