Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man's dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and ***** seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
   Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it's Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it's the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
        ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
        WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
        AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
        AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT THAT OTHER'S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
        BETTER TO DIE FREE
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper's Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
   Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
    Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, ****** and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don't be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don't be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
        ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
        NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
        TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
        WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
        BETTER DIE FREE,
        THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
   FREEDOM!
     BROTHERHOOD!
         DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
     Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
     KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

If we leave the litter behind,
and run until our legs become a burden and our heads start to swell and come loose like a white-cloth-Arabian-silk turban,
we can make it home before 5.

Past the market that only makes sense in the sun,
along the terraces slipping from their foundations,
skip on-top of walls before falling back into our run
behind the street of seared spice smells, conjured up by different nations.

We’ve left the litter behind.

We’d run further than these cities and their boundaries,
take transport to the tops of heavenly high hills,
cause havoc amongst the machinery of the foundries
and make it home for five if we run through those mills.

We’ve left the litter behind.

Holding hands we’ll remember the brush of the grass on our thighs,
farmer’s fields and the dark brown cut-throughs we took,
our pockets full of receipts and chewing gum supplies
and the look of your pale blue eyes amongst your fresh air haircut.

I hope the litter don’t mind.

You wrote a letter, it had to be,
Your merest whim and dearest thought.
I found it clever, you have to see, going
Out on a limb where the true battle’s fought.

We sorely wished and ached to know,
You shared a life, I shared one, too.
The seeds we sow and hope to grow,
‘Till vines cross the boundaries of me,
(And you…)

Forging a future in distant foundries,
Life and love make a space for you.
Our lives, as such, the liminal boundaries,
Our love, of course, the glue.

Fall into the melody...
Fall away from the felony...


M̵̧̞̦̪̦͈̖̭̣̃̋͗̈̓́͆̓̈́͌̃̈́ͅḿ̵̢͖̟̩̱̯̦̮̜̘̮̰͎͈͊̿̒̔͐͛̔́̊͋͜ͅ­̠h̵̛͚̦̙̻̙͕̲͈̻̹̃̑͌̊͂͊̇̎̂̐͗̔̕̕̕͠h̵̡̳̹̼̯̙͔̞̯͕̽͑̈́͐͗̈́̀͗̀͒͐̓̚͘̕ͅm̶̟͗̀͐͝­͚͎̲͎̳̳̰̳̤̮ͅͅh̷̨͉̙͚̱͖͔͈͖̼̠̮̟͆̂͗͛͐̽̓̿͊̊̚̚͠͝ę̸̛̘̮̘͔̳̰̟̐͊̑̌̀̓̌̓̽̎̒͘̚­̨͎̯͎̭͎̝h̷̨̪̖͍͚̩̣̼͍̲̲̜̻͒͛̈͐ ̸̨̨̛͙͈̝̦͙̺̪̹̘̫͇͕̩̫͋̐̋̚͠m̵̨̛͔̰̹̬̯̦̥͇̰̺̖͔͆͛̐̆̋̈́͒̈̍̎͗͜h̸̡͇͍̫͈̔͆͗̇͛͜͝­h̵̢̥͇̼̟͙̗̪̺̹̖̞̾͑̈͑̓̍͛̂̍̋̌̚͜h̴̛͖͎̦̳̪͔̮͍̫̯̯̜̱̹̐͑̄̃̉̽̂͒̏͗͝ḩ̷̲̭͈̜͜͝ͅ­̮͖͜h̷̭̥̜̜̙́́̈͛̎̏̃͘͠ȕ̴̙̰͔̞̄ú̴̡̹̮̦̠̐̈́͆͂̀͌̚͜ͅŭ̴͓͙̗̍̑̿̀̽̇̊͑̅͘͘̚͝͠ͅ­̝͔ͅͅu̵̖̰̱̗̬̳͊̇̈́̀̂̿̃͒͛͐̇͐̓͠h̶̡̛̜͉͉̥̻͈͓̱͉̣̀̿̀̊̇̐̈̀̽̈́͗̕̚:̴̛̎̇̂̎́͆̐͐­̢͇̤͕́̅͒͠


Following fine lines
But still, find myself

Lost in the trees
Following these

Rivers of difference
Babbel between

Deliberate peaks
Slivered and scattered ships
  
Littered literates spread
through splattered ṣ̵͗t̴̩͛r̷̲̓ị̵̋p̶͔̑ṡ̶͈

Saying goes:

Man Move Mountains
  Man move ounces
(Tilled forests raise foundries)

Alex Taught to push :
  Immortal as Icarus
Legend so rigorous
Now we all Sisyphus, ****.

(̴͖͝Ď̵̫è̴͉a̵̝͑d̵̝̄ ̶͙͗n̵̞͋ẹ̴̌v̶̡͋ę̵̈́r̸̩̀ ̵̗͝d̸̮͝e̷̳͂a̷̙͊d̶̰̉ ̵̢͝ț̵̿h̶̹̑ê̴̥ ̷̨̿l̷̲̍e̵̘̓g̸͉͑e̴͚̊n̵̜̕ḏ̸͌ ̸͖̿å̶̞c̷̬͐c̷̹̈́o̵̹͐ú̵̩n̶͇͠ṭ̴͋ ̶̹̇f̵̫͋o̴̙͛r̴̮̾ ̴̲͠t̵̫̊h̸͓̾i̷͓͒ś̸͙ ̶̛̣)̶̛̯

Still find people weird...

Times where clowns
Seem see-through.

Where seams of seas
and deeds for these

Grow Seeds from Scenes
My Gurus breathe through.

Winds sweep up
as the Moment pounces

Bullet quick
through Money pouches

Still indigo here too remind that :

We
Is stronger than I

****
is stronger than high

When hearts are aligned
Lead song from the mind

Never seem to last forever
Got em all  waiting for a blast of clever

Listen close :
Hard  to dine and dash in error

Oh god of media ×
just trying to cash in terror

Oh god please raise me up ×
The stairs from Saint to Sinner...

Or was it Sinner to Saint?
Call it trial and error ×

With Mystical p̴̩̀a̶̺̓ḯ̴̦n̸͚͒t̸̪͝
Expert alchemical bearer

I'll be the standard I bear up
Of owning all my moments
This sin that I tear up

Putting my palms feet,
(My hands, words, my deeds)
Towards all souls atoning

Raising grace like the moments laced
God on my tongue, Just
Keeping pace with the aftertaste

I'm a blinded Ace with a savage case
So the doc says hydrate
till the drips replaced

Better stay braced
cause we laying waste ( **** )
Spiky v̵̥̆ḭ̸͆r̵̰̂u̵̙͋š̸̟ covid space (fuuuuck)

Now:

I may pace in place considering vagrant states  
Dey don raised a case to obliterate mental waste

But we ****** up with them Crowley ways to play
Blood, ******, Mag̵͈̕ḯ̸͓k̵̳͠, *** for  days

Corrupted plays....
So far from grace

Figured Paradise Lost
So we prayed through sprays

Blinded by Lazer Raves
While (we) Distract for daze

When The chemical stays
But I called myself a hero,
A chemical Brave...

More like brazen youth
Surrendered
my mind eye and tooth

Question, am I denying truth?
Jesus was I denying you?
Why it takes the loss of a youth
And you saving him for me buy in to ...
The weight of a soul, that's the buy-in foo.

So we:

Mostly Replaced grass with gratitude
Replaced *** with attitude
Replaced mind with knowing you

Looking outside for help
ain't betraying true
We can't know it all
that's just the lay man's


t̸̢̗̞̣̟͕̣̹̭̟̻̬̒̍̒̐͐͛̆̈́̎̅̔̾r̵̺̯̞̩͕̳̘̗̗̗̝͖̯̝̾̒̀͒͆͗͘u̵͔͂̈́̽̐͗̎͐́̉̑̓́̕­̢̢͖͔͍̤t̷̨̛͇̻̙̻̖͔͕̪͍̣̟̜̰̙̉̉̏͗̎̊̀̒͆̊́͋h̷̛̗̙̟̟̠̫̳̦̽̈̀̃̊͋͌͆̀̚͝.̶͍͕̩̘͑­͎

I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures
Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon
“The stories they’d tell”
Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it
“Someone should do something”
Someone, but not they
Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew
How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks
Past fallen trees and draining pipes
Until being caught by a shopping cart
Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul
Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save
From which it was taken
I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way
Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking
Until I reached
Well...
Fond Du Lac
Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe
Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag
Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can
and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar
And he told me I was just like you
I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley
Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side
Or be courageous like the captain
Sailing to Muskegon
Over choppy freshwater treachery
I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep
And never wake back up
I can drive all my loved ones away
Just like you have
For the past five decades
I’m exactly like you
Because I too
Wait for a sunnier day

Dudley, a black country town
the birthplace of the industrial revolution
where foundries thumped
and coal and limestone pumped
A ghost town ****** dry
by Merry Hill
a commercial giant
treading on local enterprise
killing it's trader's hope
until they couldn't cope
John Dudley from his grave turned
as his castle was raised to the ground
by parliamentarians in a coup
a ruin, now turned into a zoo!
A suffering town screaming for survival
not taking a nap for a place on the map
The home of Aynuk and Ayli
mythical characters who *****
in famed colloquial dialect kitsch
The museum packed with bold
black country tales
from glass blowing bubble
to blacksmith's trouble
The ayle, the doorstep sarni's
cow pies and canal barges
Salt of the earth men
who often pen
poems from their working class den
A concrete town
grey, dank into practicality sank
but if you get the chance to meet
any of the inhabitants
you'll be in for a treat
as the warmth in their hearts
will melt any thoughts of revolution
and cleanse your soul
of all pollution.

Upon returning from Deutsch class,
Where we spoke of Sturm und Drang,
I reminisce about Schiller’s scull in glass
and think it rather wrong.

Maybe it’s just komisch
your best friend stealing your noodle
somehow it makes sense, I wish
a really great poem he did doodle

Schiller and Goethe, the poets
and quite a pair were they!
Even after death we know it,
“Schiller’s” head was on display!

The inspiration knew no bound’ries,
words flowed without a hitch,
like blacksmiths in metal foundries
he truly found his niche

Know nature, life, and death alike
looking in his hollowed out eyes
you never know! Inspiration may strike
n'ere prompt, like lightening, o’re the skies.

September 29th 2022 Philosophy

The spavined strumpets of aleatory nimonics stranded in the dimpled pelargic mythos of the nebelwerfers of scansorial elitism burroling the stokehold of pragmatic lurch useful for the progeny of powellisation interned by potichomania for balefires against the throbbing thremmatology of the strickle of jabirus vexed by stunsail argumentation of sumpter sidelong in oblique ginglymus to such a grave extent the thalwegs of contemplation daver in marauded orbit around ceraceous and cespitous thaumaturgy manacled by subservience in sequacious filagersion honing upon stereopsis for nomenclators of high squarson brigadoon fidelity to finessed wheals brackling away at tattermedalion squalor in squirmish facade of brockfaced brockens of wasserman to infiltrate against banjolins the pedigree of berceuse mendaciloquence that the branchiform sedigitation of all sesquiplicated sondage in the barnstorm of whelky during the subterfuge of wallfish cofferdams entrenched in boskets of the deepest regard of bathmism that we might fetch the canicular and cannular talents of susceptible bonhomie to retrace the elemental supralunar chrysopoetics of the transubstantiation of all stellions beyond provincial jansky and above fracklings of disrepute to array never a protervity of loimic stiction but always a sovenance of the highest fidelity to bellarmine briquets that can be sustained by mediagenic diffusion of volplanes of vulpecular vasotribes thereby careworn of future plight by preterition and chronobiology superfused for sporrans calculated for bonanza rather than retching with carpology. In the sustainable calculus of stanhopes and standpipes against the nivellated carnage of many a nivial hotspot grandiose with bruxomania rarely plodged by the subsultus of virgation nor flummoxed into glochidate barbs against the cephaligation of turmoil subduplicated by the gnomics of rebarbative betise flagrant upon caballine taunts of persiflage of percocted vexililogy curmudgeons of companionway spurtle upon cibophobias yearning for yeeps trouncing yaffs in a suitable mascon that trounces the pentapolis for its misfire of finicky stoichometry gradate in the traipse of ginglymus rotated succinctly by a minor machinule degradation of venostastis that the wens of wanchancy never vex or vitiate the providence of prattle of umbrageous stultification whelkied by the patriolatry of foreign observers of the brocade of balbriggan springhares reticulated by grimgribbers of jaunty jabberwocky levying murage with murengers against the trident spodium of overwrought negotiosity spinescent in capacity to deturpate never with a carnassial intent the tribuloid fictions vaccimulgent by reedbucks who learn from stockinette harbingers the calculus of specular redintegration and redhibition that fewer in number are those scollardical taunts of poststructuralism and many more rancorous attempts at chrematistic nurture above camouflets of the vees of vecordy singulting melancholy upon the canzone of cadrans mobilized by motile wafture into cavernous applause that we might witness the secundine generation waft rather than wamble through its throes of goatish goliardy deposed by gonfaloniers of stridor rather than brackle over truculent developments of the lurch of wainage and wantage burroling the constative prisoptometers of tritanopia leveraged by finifugal finesse of stricklers of sifflation that the saffron glow of refulgence is contingent upon the biotaxy and biocenosis of evolved human trust in the stirpiculture of many fascinated disciplines into a chaptalized chapbook of enlightenment above the murky morass of snallygasters of casemate. With an improvident regisseur domineering by the labile fears of neuropynology that understates the mainlined efforts of the nervure against the nesh nessberries of overindulgent popinjays straggling through the stench of sprag winzing in fumatoriums of maieutic latency bored by the tedium of the laveers of the propriety of neolagnium restive because of plumeopicean nidor frowning upon the badigeon of baedekers becoming centripetal to all harmonized gambados seeking the same terminus against the vexatious simultagnosia of the graft between crevices of paltripolitan wrox and the bailivated society we govern better by the rhombos of rhizogenic answers to papaverous problems of chaetophorous vengeance wagered by the groundlings of kyphosis in their idiosyncratic bascules of stentorian elocution that the taxidermy of selenodesic traipses through barnstorms of plurrennial wastelots of cachalots suborned only by the betise and bezique of portentous diestrus fledgling in its inadequacies of torment to roodge any subservience to carpology or any allegiance to the miscegenation of the political yaffingales of plemyrameters overcapacitated by misyoked fears meeting inclement rhigosis that the fortunes of cimelia rather than the boggarts of cimex might enchant future generations to supplant history with a calculated cecutiency that never avoids the boygs of boskets carping by cymaphens of the semaphores of all wheelhouses of wheaten inventions that we might witness the historicity never of sesquiplicated subduplicated biocenosis gorging on the gorgonization of internecine ignorance of varsal velocious cynegetics that the stranded victims of spathspey only in ceremony rather than in supernumerary contemplation that the vigorish vagantes and newels among the badigeons might thrive despite turmoil and the jugodi of broadcloth happenstance devolved upon popular cynography rather than annealed by the ballicatter of avenged samara and samarra that find requital in the wedeln modality rather than nodality of propriety in purpresture rather than crassified demassification of the slore of poltophagous crimogenic procrypsis simileter to all shortsighted gambits of a farsighted batrachian fidelity to nektons suspended among the stunsails of the wager of man to better himself. Because of the motile capacity of thaumaturgy of the wafting baedekers circulated with superfusion incidental to its warped dimensions against thalwegs of strigine configuration that boltropes of emacity swindle from the registry of the coffles of bailivated marivaudage scanscorial in its own moulin capable of entombing the cenote of even the most strident efforts of the nembutsu of gonfaloniers to issue cheer instead of malinger with precipitogenic intimidations of spinescent spiraculated pickelhaubes of porbeagle insights collated from sublime authority because the world awaits not a faineant corpse of morigeration upon the shend of sheol crepitating in heavenly judicature rather than the juggins of notoriety of crambos and crampons that cadge licentiousness that we might all marvel at synechdocial capacities against baryecoia weaponized by a modern bacillicide by blesboks whose candent semaphores of whittled stepneys of swank picaresque by degrees of leverage and largesse taxed by stenometers of pycnostyle elevated because of pyretology that the eventual harbinger of piscary reconnaissance is worth the awaited junctition of all sociogenesis captivated by the selfsame rapture of the chaptalized discovery of a greater biocenosis brockened to rejoice upon decisive conquest rather than backfire in mekometers of coquelicot carnage. The vees of veepstakes admonished by prevenience in vitrail that the fewer casualties of macropicide slangwhanging the brocade of the insular rhotacism of the cannular heist of springald necrologues deposed by cardophagous lies about necrophages so immunized in their stanjant stolinicity boltroped by annealed wheals of endeavor cavorted with portfires of yuzbashi above the petty pedestrian concerns of the spavineds of vauriens of varietism that they can jolt even the jolterheads and surprise with rudenture even the most poikilothermic negotiosities to truckle with a hint of truculence to spare the world from starvelings on the outskirts of spirketti that the scarfskin of the collective endeavors of the ventrad vanguard might resemble the coalition of forbearance for the broadest bronteum of ptarmic awakening ever enjoyed by the vigilance of men and the simity of women against the phallocrats twinged with meritodespotism. When we steeve our way past the mazut of balkanized mazopathia in mercedary wainage rarely taxed by the forefront of  considerate myopia we might celebrate the kalamkari spathspeys in their inordinate caution developed into a nympholepsy splendor of refulgent thrills demassified for the curglaff of generosity upon the crumpled brannigans of wizened applause upon the heyday of saturnalia that the whittawers of willowish repute might barnstorm yet again past the precipice of indecency naively wagered never by the sageships of conciliabule capacity to wheedle their way through their attempts at bacillicide regardant always of the caudles of the past commiseration of privileged cribbles of bathmism rather than repugnant spathodea of retorted pelargic barbarism congealed in oppositive valor to enchant only a regelation of nightjars vigilant in sciatheric darkness that the sondage of siffilated barnstorm might jar the very foundations of heaven and earth that the welkins of those whelking might find the couveuse of attempted blatternophones of past decorum the stridor of many taunted nightmares rather than the precipice of the most copulated acclaim ever registered in the foundries of men above the carcasses of subternatural plebeian mythos that stagnates the world rather than ameliorates it into congenial harmony of concordat against interregnum. The suretyship of so many strictions that the sprahl of sprachgefuhl intermittent with janitrices of stanjant jansky beblubbered by the maudlin sentiments of the many recklings ignorant of stockinette despite the nephroliths against nervifolious demise pregnant with absolution rather than replete with gullywashers of metaplasm in the exposure of ragmatical soteriology jaunty only to elective privilege rather than preserved by the conformed chapbooks of catechumen that our fears incumbent on catastrophism always brackle against the truculence of truckling masses of corpses of infirmity that gimcracks of the pentapolis exalt above the treasury of life itself inviolable. The caverniloquys of the jobbernowls of jolterhead infamy regardless of the purpresture of imperious strigrine secrecy embossed upon the pogroms of caudles rarely commiserating with any enchantment of wanchancy brockfaced in its geopolitical fanfire of the portfire of perendination that swashbuckles with the freebooter flarmeys of past coquelicot catalfalque notoriety always a kilmarge to the boondoggles of syndicalism arrayed in satnav ratomorphism that we might storge our present culture with the heyday of glamour intransigent to the chronobiology of preterition always glozing with glottogonic piecemeal dashpots against catastrophism even when done with metaplasm against metapolitics we can fight together with a unified brigade and sodality against the carping objectionable trends of a momentary amnesia so refulgent it overpowers every other inclination that the solfatara of weatherboards of wethers might convene upon the sumter of clochards becoming vagarish rather than prurience becoming simileter to a popular culture ****** of cisvestism upon the scarpetti of crambazzled crampons of senicide rather than the registries of seismotic impetus roundhousing through jobbled configurations of nimonic harbinger to etch themselves indelibly upon the sociogenesis of bellarmine among men and eutrapely among every other facet of attention never too calcimine with calvous calvers that the bolar of our existence depends on the synclastic momentum of the cynegetic valor rather than porlecking insecurities of babirusa of baboonery. The silkaline improvidence of the many boondoggles of lacking stolonicity or a casemate lockjaw jawhole internment of castrametation created by the pourparler of powellisation entombed in the liturgy that laments the past rather than accelerates the amelioration of the future might wilt because of wilding accidia rather than bonzoline acrasia because those people of nevosity that barnstorm against the nivial haunts of the lionized precipitogenic groundprox of naivety derived never from svedberg of swag of gromatic completion that alleviates all wambling grognards of desperation that we might fetch a new epoch superior to the one we have inherited by our callous poikilothermic poivrades of carnage and carnassial deprivations created by stagnant recession rather than optimized reflation because it behooves us all collectively to inseminate the future for the nitids of troilism rather than argue and pander to the bifids of blackmasters nidificating suboptimal steeves of the bobbinet to storge the inoculated beerocracy davering against the best interests of principality rather than the mainline of bayaderes of bargemasters locked into combat with stevedores from other dimensions of cordial conduct and contact that we no longer cower out of polyphiloprogenitive goals or teleonomic insufficiencies but that we brook and embraced age of praxeology above ragtaggers of retchination that the brassage of squamation can supervise into fluency rather than lurch into internecine schmeggegy that remains and always will be the cynosure of schwerpunkt in domestic manifestation of regal impetus above the detritus of defenestration. We should muster an assault against the plodges of kistvaens and the carnassial carnifician yeltings of wights of widgeons that the wicket of campanile shortsightedness might recoil upon its very foundations of ineptitude to become sempervirent in the sashays of surahs contemplated by the magnality of both mahouts and sansculottes to together forge ahead in commonplace articles of enchantment rather than the reliction of ideation in the swamp menaced by vinegaroons rather than elevated by picaroons who thrive even against snallygasters of importunate jawholes that crave a schoenabatic portfire to distract people from the rudenture of rubefaction in such a finicky way as to alleviate the coacervation of cespitous and cepivorous disdain. The faineant world orbiting around cynosures enjoying sinecures that the balbriggan springhares of reticulose pleonexia designed by veilleuses of brachet serectrium asterongue popularity designated with crass balizes of only bakelite answers of echopraxia to every dented quidlibertarian fascination with their quisquilous periergia floundering because the bathmism of elite pedigree imposes the steepest murage against avenged cachalots that their beziques of betise immolated by the discernment of the capable against the brazen incompetence of hortatory disdain that the thermolysis of sacrilege becomes a better portfire than protective jaundice designated by gamidolatry to perform intorted gambados to soothe the idiosyncratic jobbernowls whose incapacity to subduplicate societal quandaries and correctly weigh the subreption of jannock provides a paralytic inertia to fasten schadenfreude above the tympany of macarism because the catastrophism against the metaplasm correctly brazen rather than cordial only to inauthenticity always bristles at the perendination of evil skullduggery that it might eventually fade from the brocades of supercilious elitism that uses pundonors against mercedary enrichments. Many a time ago already elapsed by the portfire of skalds of jimswingers of sarangousty predicating their vehemence on axiomatic psyiurgic morkins the casualties of many a conflict witnessed by the depredation of morale even when sustained by the puckery of whipstaffs that the fewterers of modern taste deranged by their ginglymus constrained by their thalwegs that sejugate raltention from comprehension might find it incumbent to celebrate never a saiga that berates the many nightjars of saki but rather to entomb novelty because of the pickelhaubes of portbeagles flummoxed by their evaporating fortunes always avenge those who stand in the way of nivial and nivellated securiform and scalariform dementia that is the senicide of many a monocular cause witnessed by barbaric cyclops so intorted in the most pedestrian of antics that his incapacity to even see single borts from the boschveldt and singular leaps among the varsal capacity of proselytism that his ineptitude staggers the stenometers of the most dismal apprehension of his wagered capacity for any kind of stamina in any discipline. These poltophagous idiosyncrasies enjoyed by the oppositive acclaim of those pourparlers of castrametation designed by jabirus preventing stirpiculture of chrysopoetics for cachalots guarded by the blackguard of the ventrad camarilla rather than spayed by the cespitous vinegaroons of poikilothermic aims to plumeopicean ragtaggers entrapped by vapulation rather than informed of bonanza that we might starkly refrain from endorsing majoritarian lewdness as the new credo of a reborn republic constituted around the mahouts of idealism and the magnalities of those who posture in support of the noosphere rather than entangle themselves in the wase of imposture only because catalfalques angry of coquelicot politics might find the calcariferous disdain of pollarchy too much of an enormity to stomach with a stomacher. In the secundine revival of riveted artifacts of sometimes galeanthropic velleity that the skalds of scavons always maraud around to deprive of vehemence the maladroit malaise of the junctition of clitter and clinkstone because of a widespread malcontent that the sedigitated sidestep by every careful lurch on the bobbinet common to resourceless bodaches that we might witness the dying wish of the stellions to become the hamparthia of entire nations cribbling with propriety the bathmism centripetal to the public morale rather than the vacillation of internecine political balkanization in the barnstorm against the security of gonfaloniers to thrive without synsematic declension because of misappropriated vilipended ignorance widespread among those that clamber insistently and with insolence against the gravity and gravitas of the pundonors of cadastre rather than a sublime lackaday morose regret of saturnism waged by sideration in thick boschveldt to depose and derange many. Many tarry because of the umbrage of ultrageous litigation enthusiastically brought with coemption of the celebrated vanguard baldric retinue jolting the enthusiastic boltrope wegotists into the braxy of their shakuhachi of shantung bucentaurs and shenangos emboldened by the vicissitude of the collective remnants of the shambles of sottoportico to assemble with the borts in their possession the wilding zalkengur of absolution rather than the faltering groundprox of phugoid and mugient demands of bolar that laveer silently in the slithers of a puckery night scaffolded by the dashpots of insular providence against termagants of negaholic deprivations of lifestyle and pedigree because of the bradyseismic subsultus against the moya of carpology that is axiomatic in its retched mistetches of ceratoid configuration around the ballaster of schadenfreude enthusiastic in its moribund capacity to disembrangle the better soldiers from the recklings of morose enchantment with lugubrious toil flummoxing all propriety in regard for the sanctiloquence of the present never to result in a future martyrdom of saturnism that would assuredly wipe out the blemishes of portfire from the memory of a disheveled Earth into a shambolic configuration that would result in a nivial morigeration to nivellated conditions of egestuous sejugated cephaligation of nebelwerfers rather than primiparas always lachrymose in regret now pregnant with reactionary desires to coerce change rather than wamble in the ginglymus of sesquiplicated triage around petty boundaries of shakuhachi inviting balbriggan disgrace. In the trismus of crackjaw siderism ennobled by baldric syntalities elective of belletrist in their formative cadges of procatalepsis and jarvey of the intorted blunge of degenerative capacities for meharis combustible only in camouflets of prestige that skirpettis contain by the skinters of springhares of denouement carefully managing larithmics to optimize the mantissa never of a vagarish vagantes venostasis of mottled pternology megacerine because of meleagrine despots of sedigitated attempts to provoke casualties of corbels in the neorama of many sinecures of simultagnosia extorted endlessly by vaccimulgent reedbucks of sinister racemation that the phugoid eutrapely and bellarmine capacity to trounce the sudd that creates the rebarbative bosket of embattled retrenchment in survival ethos because of the macropicide and yirds of many a poikilothermic wretchock of morality to denounce as a denizen of unholy chaptalization that the chaomancies of chabouks between the pleiromorphy of convictions and the moulin of lickerish fascinations of beerocracy of beeskeps of yaraks a commonplace deturpation that finally the pomace of regalia might sustain the mainsail cardimelech and cardiognost capacity of piscary urbacity finicky of any desultory castrametation wagered by sinturong of piscifauna negligent of agapism that their fortuitist regard for humane sanctiloquence that already perished from the Earth might be revived by the vasotribes of the whipstaff of declared decorum vanquishing all tantrels of gambados of gamidolatry so pickelhaube in their dereliction of picaroons that vinegaroons capable like jerboas disguised in the thickets of the night will depose their serendipity and revoke their citizenship from the habitations of the woubits of hell rather than the brevets of widgeons of animadversion propining in every saccadic misyoke of endeavor to find a commonplace destination agreeable beyond the bifids of internecine thalwegs of sejugation rather than assimilation.

There once came a tale that didn’t want to be told.
It shuddered in the light of the voices decrepit and old,
That tried to conjure it at the peripheries of its boundaries.
But it fought back lingering in its formation in the foundries.  
It would not be cast so easily like metal,
It would not be set so willingly in stone,
It would float on the tip of the tongue a fragranced petal,
It would bounce on the edge of the mind an ineffable tone.
Never drifting too close to anyone’s ear,
It remained in the distance away from the sages and scribes,
Always aware of its greatest fear,
To be misinterpreted by the way a human describes.
For who in all of creation has the ability to tell a story such as this?
With all the glory and irreverence so subtly intertwined,
The colour so luminous, and texture beating with bliss,
With no earthly writer could this yarn be aligned.
The muses who birthed this defiant prose did weep,
When they saw their child miss its chance for eternity again and again,
They beseeched their progeny to take the leap,
But over and over it would say no and cause them such pain.
And in the absence of this story the world fell in disarray,
Chaos ran wild and fear grew rife,
Without the stories guidance, the part it was supposed to play,
Soon it came to the end of its life.
For the humans had lost their ability to imagine such a story,
And it was lost in obscurity, unconceived glory.
It was then it saw the errors of its foolish way,
It tried to enter their thoughts but could never stay.
It was now far too late,
It had created its fate.
And everything turned grim, in a darksome pit
When it realised no one would remember it.
And the moral of the story is this,
Take this token a gentle kiss.
Play your part and play it bold,
Let your story be one that’s told.

How awesome it was, for She held my heart!
From the minute we met I couldn't hold back, I had no boundaries!

Oh she held my heart !

With sweet passion filled ******* so Hot, we could fire up a thousand foundries!

Oh she held my heart oh yeah!

She has Beauty she has! And wows all in her day!
With a ravenous smile, I just can't resist!

Oh she held my heart oh yeah!oh yeah she did!

I sit here pondering with all that's passed why does this feeling persist ?

Trouble I see it so clearly at times, with greatest of fears I have to admit!

She held my heart and how awesome we were!

Even with sheer stubbornness and greatest of will!

Thing is she held my heart and SO does still !

to say I am lost would be to imply that, at one point, I was present.
My presence was ignored from the time I crawled the floors,
feelings inside developed into sores
boring onto my soul scars.
My father, my guide, idolised in mind.
They say love is blind but
when eyes open and you find monsters, sponsors of crime
doing time for an easy dime,
can you carry that love on
or does that one idol burn?
I am lost or
rather never found, no guide by my side,
just going with the tide and building walls, to keep these feelings back,
that torment my mind.
The foundries of feeling’s forges have gone cold, Shut away and barricaded
by un-shaken walls.
So I wander, in search of myself,
I wonder
if I’ll be found or
if I’m bound for a battery of life:

b ronze  a ge

gone alchemic .
plasma fiat .
foundries of blue-white light .

In our lives are many choices.
They display our inner voices.
To be vengeful and cruel.
To let anger and hate rule.

All our decisions,
Can create divisions.
Or they can be revisions,
Like stitches closing incisions,

No matter what we are feeling,
We can choose the path of healing.
Meeting anger with kindness.
Using calm to cure rage’s blindness.

Pushing past our old boundaries.
Reforging ourselves, like metal in foundries.
Disregard fear, choose to live free;
To improve ourselves, be better. We…

Have so many choices.