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I look at my mother, beautiful and alive
I look at her with wrinkles too evident for a woman of her age
telling the stories of all her misery
and I know- she only ever wanted to love and be loved
she only ever wanted to get it right
I see my grandmother, frail and full of wisdom
but tragically alone
no one to grow old with but herself and all of the stories of the men that walked away
I look around at the seventh house I've lived in
but I feel a feeling all too familiar because the same stories repeat in each one
marriages ripped to shreds and I wonder what consistency feels like
and I pray through tear-choked words that I will find a way to break this generational curse
but the truth is I'm terrified
I'm terrified of love because I've only ever lived to watch it fall apart
and I don't blame my mother for the life I've lived because I know she tried her best to make it work
to give us a stable home even if it meant sacrificing her own well-being
I'm terrified of love because I've only ever seen it end in sadness
and I don't know a man who's ever stayed
I wrote this in five minutes, honesty flows easily
Marla Apr 10
Let's go down
God's Rabbit Hole
And find inside
A WILD ROAMING MIND
that helps us unlearn
ALL of the ******* *******
Everyone has given us
to shovel out of their
WEIRD WILD FANTASIES
made of sugar sparkles
and the tears of
THE ******* YOUTH.
The consequences of your actions
Are a burden I suppose I asked for
When I agreed to belong to you
When I offered you sanctuary in my arms

Yet tonight they are so heavy
And I no longer wish to carry them
My legs are so tired darling
Please just admit that you were wrong

My legs are so tired darling
Break the generational chain that binds us to this nonsense.
Whisper Yes Apr 5
She sits on a stool in the kitchen
The last of the evening sun caressing her face

She spent the last 2 hours dancing
Her body being moved by the music
Freedom flowing through her veins

She couldn't talk that day
All she could do was allow her body its voice
Trusting it to show her the way

She lit 4 candles
One for each of them
Her mother
Her sister
Her grandmother
And her

Her body moving
Freeing each of them as she moved
Past present and future dancing
Secrets whispered and revealed through her body
Ciel Dec 2018
War
War.
One syllable.
Three letters.
Such a simple word.

Why then does it have such an immense power?
The power to break people.
The power to annihilate.

It rips children from their parents,
Tears lovers from each others’ arms.
It steals our youth
And smears our last days.
It divides the most united people,
Destroys the most beautiful of countries.

It is the greatest of hypocrites.
Some claim to fight for their countries,
Some for their oh-so-loving religion,
And others for their family's honour,
But all are driven by none other
than their own poisonous ego and pride.
And if not the individual,
The institutions sending them
To their certain demise is.

It kills most,
And those who escape it
Are left with a fate far worse than death:
An eternity of guilt and sorrow,
Of agonizing memories
And restless nights
Wondering what could have been.

It is filthy, corrupted and tainted.
Tainted with the crimson blood of the fallen,
The deep scars of the survivors,
The shrill cries of the mourners,
And the money of those in power.

And the greatest of its crimes:
The innocents pay the highest price.

You see those fancy politicians with tailored suits
standing in front of the crowds preaching
about the bravery of the people
who are being desensitised to killing
and taught to not feel or think but just obey?
They are not the ones who lay awake at night
too scared to close their eyes,
too afraid of their own minds.
They are not the ones who were told they were heroes
and yet came home to find themselves without support
sleeping every night on the cold concrete
in front of some big-name store whose owner probably
profited off the same ******* war that led them there.
They are not the ones who will try for the rest of their lives
To heal the generational trauma they inherited from their parents.

No, see those fancy politicians are going to go home tonight
to their big fancy house in their big fancy car protected on all sides.
They are going to have a great night of sleep
knowing they have just gained new funding for their campaign
by sending innocents to the slaughterhouse
so that the CEO of some oil company can make more money.
They are content knowing that
they have successfully put a price on a human life.

War.
A word that should evoke negative feelings
and yet has been so normalized that we no longer respond to it.
War.
A word that describes the most atrocious of realities
but that has somehow been made into a badge of honour.
War.
A word that should be feared and despised
but is instead weaponized to manipulate the people.
War.
A word that should never be the first option
but has become a shortcut for greedy rich people
with political influence to obtain more power and become richer.
War.
A word that was said to be associated with "barbaric", "uncivilized" people
but has somehow mostly been used by the "civilized" ones
and is now one of the pillars of modern capitalism.

War.
One syllable,
Three letters,
Just a ******* word.
Obassi Bholai Nov 2018
I could tell you more about the hurt
inflicted into us by what we thought was love
and to find it be an inevitable pain
followed by tears that flow off the face
and the guilt that maybe it was out fault.

we NEVER get the love we deserve,
manipulated and programmed the generational stigma
to love one more than yourself and unfulfilling
what we as the human race should've
been instilled with was self love.

too busy lost in the social media haze of
losing yourself into everything that we
forget to love ourselves
forgetting we have to do that before we
can truly love any one person.
Angeline Dec 2018
I've inherited my mother's fear
And my father's bitterness
And he inherited his father's recklessness
And his mother's pain
And she inherited
And he inherited
And we've inherited hatred of our own kind
Passed down from the terrorists who have colonized the lands and minds and bodies of my ancestors
And I can feel the anguish & the effects of this hereditary agony from here;

I am ready to heal.
Thoughts from the diaspora.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 5
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)

“a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed
a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds.
to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally

“Sweet baby
with your head on my shoulder
I'm no more growing older...” Pradip

~

the unpredictability and randomness of the winds,
seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard,
powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic,
           who can grow others       who can feed    
                             who can sustain multiple living creatures

each seed unique, a poem composed and complete,
authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors,
utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun,
rainwater from space and deep driven to
the clear milk of underground railroad rivers,
to give nurture to its revisional generational code

these new children of an old mix,
are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive,
that those who will one day grow old,
with deep gnarled roots, are most capable
of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within,
to those who give babies homage, in attendance

this then the newborn miracle, the new seed,
wind borne, replants itself in old soil,
taking but more so giving,
injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry,
how can this be?


I do not know the why or the how,
but am evidence of the therefore,
and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom




7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
the dawn here is hours behind their sunsets, this then, a refreshment for the
wisdoms of their evening prayers
Nat Lipstadt Apr 8
You seem to know where you're needed


to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!

this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as


come see me

come to the time the place and the date

and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue

communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven

you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared

this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended

an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded

departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility

when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply

one new who knew where one was needed
April  8  4/6/nought nineteen
10:13 am

https://www.google.com/search?q=da+vinci%27s+beard&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&hl=en-us&client=safari#imgrc=q3e6G4ijVeXNKM:
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children



one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,
eliminated

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode


I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,
dreams


*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict
assured

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled
"denial"

until the next nights dream
Nat Lipstadt Sep 14
~for Sreetama Chatterjee, granddaughter of Pradip Chatterjee~

A first time grandfather observes,
“that one path ends, a new one begins”

A philosophy, an observation shared,
one that I am, in multiplicity acquainted

Sources inform me that Sreetama is
of Sanskrit origin, the meaning is
“gift of god”

how wonderful are the mysterious coincidences in this world!

For my Hebrew name,
Netanel, given to me at my birth, the meaning is
“gift of god”

Sources inform me that name of Sreetama has given you
the desire for creative, artistic or musical expression
in an original way.

I can pretend to be surprised, but who would I fool?

you, granddaughter of my friend, an esteemed poet,
Pradip Chatterjee,
who delights in you,
you, an exquisite of the small
you, so powerful already,
that he has shelved his writing,
(temporarily I suspect)
to tend to your upbringing

You, so powerful already,
you, will break his will, command his attention,
demanding, bringing out his issuance of a thousand poems,
all revealing and reveling in your mastery,
over him!

You, so powerful already,
in secret concert, listening secretly,
already composing silently, smilingly,
awaiting the arrival of your fine,
very fine, motor skills,
to grasp, own! his writing utensils,
with the strength of a child insistent

You, feeling the power within those instruments,
sparking a commencement and a continuation of
the generational gift residing in your senses

I await those artistic creature creations
most impatiently...

—————————————————————————————
“the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.”

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3299027/pradip-im-a-charming-man-with-a-fragile-patience/

<>
छोटी की उत्तमता
[ *~ बालिका श्रीतमा चटर्जी के लिए कविता ~
]

प्रथम बार दादा ने महसूस किया,
"एक पथ पड़ाव तक पहुंचता है, एक नया प्रारम्भ होता है"

एक दर्शन, एक अवलोकन साझा करता हूँ
जिससे मैं भली भांति परिचित हूँ| कई गुना

स्त्रोत बताते हैं कि शब्द 'श्रीतमा' संस्कृत मूल का है,
जिसका अर्थ है - "ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद";

दुनिया में होने वाले रहस्यमय संयोग, कितने अद्भुत हैं!
मेरे हिब्रू भाषा के नाम - 'नेटानेल'

जिसे मेरे जन्म के समय, मुझे दिया गया
उसका भी अर्थ यही है - " ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद"

मुझे, सूत्र बताते हैं कि 'श्रीतमा' नाम ने तुम्हे
रचनात्मक, कलात्मक या संगीतमय -

अभिव्यक्ति की इच्छा दी है
बिलकुल नैसर्गिक और मूल तरीके से।

मैं आश्चर्यचकित होने का नाटक कर सकता हूं,
लेकिन आखिर मैं किसे मूर्ख बनाऊंगा?

तुम, मेरे दोस्त, एक सम्मानित कवि,
प्रदीप चटर्जी की पोती हो

जो तुम्हे देख कर प्रसन्न होता है
तुम, छोटी हो, श्रेष्ठ हो, उत्तम हो

तुम पहले से ही इतनी खुशनसीब हो कि,
उसने अपने लेखन को रोक कर दिया,
(अस्थायी रूप से, ऐसा मेरा मानना है)

केवल और केवल
तुम्हारी अच्छी परवरिश के लिए

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम उसकी इच्छाशक्ति को मोड़ सकोगी

उसके ध्यान को अपनी ओर खींचकर
अपनी महारत से उसके भीतर

हिलोरें मार रही हज़ारों कविताओं को
रहस्योद्घाटित होने का अवसर दे सकोगी

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम चुपके से धीरे धीरे सुन रही हो

तदात्म्य स्थापित कर रही हो
चुपचाप रच रही हो, गढ़ रही हो

इंतज़ार कर रही हो, समय आने का
अपनी मांसपेशियों पर नियंत्रण होने का

जिससे तुम लेखनी को पकड़ सको
सुदृढ़ता के साथ नियंत्रित कर सको

कुशलता से उसका उपयोग कर सको
एक बच्चे की ताकत और जिद के साथ|


तुम उन उपकरणों में निहित शक्ति महसूस कर रही हो,
जो शुरुआत से ही निरंतर तुम्हारे भीतर,

स्फुलिंग उत्पन्न कर, तुम्हारी इन्द्रियों के भीतर मौजूद
पीढ़ीगत उपहार को जारी रखते हैं

मुझे तुम्हारी उन कलात्मक, जीवंत कृतियों का,
इंतजार है, अधीरता के साथ, हाँ, पूरी अधीरता के साथ|


Many thanks to Shiv Pratap  Pal for his translation, advice and exquisite attention to the smallest detail.
I was just passing through
You didn’t know me; I didn’t know you
But I should have known you’d steal from me
When you told me to Have a Blessed Day

You never came back with the change
And that is sad. We have come to accept the lies
Of praychurs, presidents, and prime ministers
But one expects better of Sonic waitresses

And  you told me to Have a Blessed Day

So you’re 40 cents to the bad, that’s true
But I’ve got the dollar I was going to tip you

And, hey, y’all have a blessed day, y’hear?


(May God bless her for really-real; generational poverty sees things differently, and, anyway, she may have learned it from the 501C3 preacher-man.)
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.
Nolan Willett Jun 25
In ancient unenlightened days,
There came a man whose triumph would’ve laid
Foundations for a better world,
Our inner compassions unfurled.
For we thought we found a holy seer,
To rid our lives of all our fear,
To tell us what to say and what to think
What to do and what to drink.
He did his best,
I can attest,
To warn us of that one,
Who would see all our progress undone.
Indeed, many in our history have been
Told what constitutes sin,
Left with a hurtful scar,
By one who never wandered very far.
And our true messiah saw
This prophet for a gaping maw,
Another of the tempter’s tricks,
A man whose touch could heal the sick.
For he loved God more than most
But found him in the cosmos,
Our divine provenance,
Rooted in collective consciousness,
Not an oath to take or die
Or a being to mollify,
Nor any kind of credo,
But an universal ego.
Heeding logic over gullibility
He recognized the liability,
One who would see them die for naught,
And stray them from the insight they sought.
But in trying to break the cycle
He heralded its arrival,
Enshrining the sun,
Of the cursed three-in-one.
He made a martyr
And thus followed generational slaughter.
Promising sacred haven,
Causing war and famine.
For deceivers are known to appear as savior,
For them there is no pleasure greater,
In casting down the righteous,
And rendering them mindless.
And so millennia could have been spared
From some cruelty our kind have shared-
So long and so onerous, never ending-
And our pity’s rending.
The earth’s inhabitants coalesced,
No longer their souls oppressed,
Saved from prejudice,
Alas, poor Judas.
Sorry I published this a couple times I had to fix some things and I like it so
To judge a man comparing his skin, yes he may look black,
But due to his generational descendants he could be white and that's a fact.
There's a lot of critics and people who discriminate whether you're black or white,
When they themselves don't know if there color of skin to their true color is right.

It's strange and very funny how blacks and whites still fight.
When both races sees of feels passion and emotions to the opposite race type.
Like a black man loving a white woman and vice versa, for both males and females.
It's such uncommon and unexpected details.

Because white is used in mostly everything, that's surety.
And the meaning of white is peace, love and purity.
Although some may see of refer to black as bad and not pure.
Why then man walk along side their shadow, I know it's black for sure.

Therefore why should the white clouds give a black shadow as well.
And any other object white light reflect on gives the same.
It's insane to see both races of black and white causing each other pain.

Isn't that white and black makes grey in all it's shades.
Isn't that white and black are side by side in a chest or checkers game.
Isn't that black and white helps darken and lighten every color.

It's a fact that black and white will always be together,
Because black and white are not only colors, but they are brothers.
Keiya Tasire Oct 24
Is the pain and suffering    
that comes from our generational weaknesses.
Born from the stuffings of our ancestors.
The pain and suffering they are not able to resolve
Is a gift for the next generation.

The choice to resolve or not to resolve
Is ours alone to make.
If we choose to resolve, it is a gift.
If we choose not to resolve, this too is a gift.

For more generations will follow
To make the same choice.
Stepping into this life
Fully aware of the new strengths
They will gain and pass on
to the generations ahead.

If they step into darkness
While holding on to courage.
For both strengths and weaknesses
Are blessed gifts.

One to bring us to our knees
And the other to lift us up.
There is both darkness and light in life each has its role. As we come to understand the role and gifts of our shadow side, we come to an awareness that black and white is more. As we explore their handshake in the gray areas, we learn that weaknesses take strengths by the hand and dance together to yield an even more durable strength within our life. Yet, choice to step into healing the weaknesses to cross into our greatest strengths is our choice alone. The question becomes, do I allow my fear to join hands with courage? Will I trust the process? Or do I stay stuck in the generational perspective that has enslaved myself and the ancestors before me?
Nat Lipstadt Aug 22
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^

summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing

summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart

the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy

try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational  descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;

zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!

ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!

which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****

no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no ***, no *****!
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes

I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,

zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!

ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!



a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Sacrelicious Jun 26
Sometimes you just gotta burn that mother ******* bridge
down.

Take what's yours and **** every body else over.
In whatever position
you want, baby.

The wicked side
Of your generational afflictions.
Runs ramped, galavanting about.

Just having a grand old time.

While I'm here, sitting pretty.
Sulking,
on the edge of nothing.



For I put my hands up and begged for mercy.
Only to be kicked again.
For dramatic affect.

But that's okay.
You can keep your HBO subscription
To the commercial, bubble gum prescreened.
True life of the bipolar.

I've been living shamelessly since before I realized I'm shameless by nature.
And y'all have misrepresented tge original gangster of depression memes.
The mentally I'll.
India Jun 2018
A man I am meant to love told me the amount of skin I show represents my right to consent.
Flesh = Yes
Clothes = No
"Deserving" is a word he used.
A grandfather told his grandchild she deserved to be abused based off the length of her skirt, but this is old news; same story.
Only, I've heard it one time too many and now I'm sick of it.
"Devastated" over my hypothetical ****, he'd said,
as though his feelings mattered more than my right to my body.
Well, **** him.
I'm tired of prioritising people whose opinions are so archaic they can't see the crime in their words.
And his words hurt.
He defended the 'nature of men', claiming its an inbreed instinct,
tried to explain the appeal of women as though I don't already know.  
Jokes on him.
I'm ***.
But I've never been under the illusion it's okay to objectify or intimidate your way into a person's life.
I've never felt entitled to a person I've liked
And there lies the generational divide
Because neither has my brother.
Being "unable to control certain urges" is just another lie they feed you to perpetuate a culture of ****.
I'm seventeen, and yet I know the fear a predatory gaze can cause,
I've been leered at to the extent I honestly thought this is it.
This is the moment I've been warned about.
And then I thought "It's my own fault.
It's dark, it's after nine, I went out running in only a sports bra,
of cause I'm going to find trouble"
because I forgot that I'm not an object.
I'd been fed the same message so frequently it was ingrained into my fight or flight response.
Doesn't that speak for itself?
I'd been conditioned to accept the blame before the finger was even pointed.
So when my grandfather looked me in eye and said he thought girls where asking for it by the way they dressed,
I didn't have the energy to suppress my response.
I asked him if I'd been out drinking with friends wearing a sheer dress and matching bralette, and I was *****, would he consider it my fault.
His answer was met with stunned laughter.
Yes, he'd consider me to blame, and indicated his disappointment should weigh on my conscious.
I am shamed I have the same genetics as such a man.
At least I've learned to drown out his words so they can no longer effect me.
Ken Pepiton Jun 10
If peace were a state we all agree to imagine, a state
we
envision as uni-
versal in any song, peace, calm, flowing deep, state
of being
in any man, wombed or un,
in any family, any tribe, any deme of agreements unbreakable,
any hermit cell

any bubble of believing generating proper people to fit
tradition and mystery myths without

re-tying truth to may, the verb. That's vainity.  
Religion.
(re-ligamentation,
like muscle to bone wit sinyew,
same stuff strangs a bow, for a fiddle ora arrow,
y'know)
that's somethin' else.
Religion could mean read the instructions, too.
All together
----
stopping to live. slowing, not stopping. pre-stop.

whisper,
say, earth,
hey, earth,
can you hear you now?

---
the dictator dictated the dictionary,
he/she/we/me

learned to speak as spoken to, in the boss tongue.
Ma or pa,
or whosover was fustus wit d'mostus
taught the good ol' boys.

But wisdom saw a way. We've been woven in a story.
We are in the code. Ethos, Pathos, Logos.
Those old Greeks examined them some life, I'd say.

Language rules the iron fist's grip,
meaning empowers
laxation, re
loose
gut brain pain fraught fear of the iron fist crimping
the flow of solidity
punch in the gut

Knock thashitoff! Now, flush

in ifity, boo, be bop, I'm an ice cream cone,

like those alien ones, mebbe,
moving stones the weight of 737s,

my cones of power defy your hour of suffering patient
per fection of...

what, wait, allusion to "Let patience have her perfect work"
what is her perfect work?
Quote that San Francisco band. Oh. Did that. Love.

you ask. The reality I see, you say, no, I say, me.

I am patience, the feminine form, 's perfect work.
Patients must put up with me,
you see

----
fear is terror's weapon, am i right?

And it is written, the fear of the LORD (KJV)
yhwh, in the unsayable way, God's name, only name, eh

is why that started?
Old Job let out a yelp, hey, earth is great, but you have no idea
how this feels.
You know lots of stuff I don't know, but mortality is not one of em,
as far as I can tell.
How 'bout a referee betixt us?

Hey, sus, pect me a spectacle

of the great contro
verse un ifiable, unif, once possible now, nullift.

got it.
Every other direction known. Take a fearless, peaceful-
feeling
path past all that.
Peace, be unto  you, earth. For my part.
The examined life is worth the living. You are in this one with me,
a very important part, an object, an aim to see what

could be there, a like mind, washed ashore.
----

A.P.I. Art Pax Intel

act as if they are listening with interest, paying
actual
attention, add pieces
of life stuff

I am 71, my window is my horizon, or
better said,
my horizon is my window. I have mini-horizons,
i think
like this... chromebook attached at finger tips,
I can and may be making some counter wave that clears
the crypto frost from my window to your
realm.

Who took your may? Do you recall the day?

It was a teacher who took my may,
but I won my can, That's a plotted point, I
ponder on my porch
partaking in curds of ways to do so saline a work

Fantasy education system U of old dudes like me,
tired old dudes who have no desire to argue,

but, really, don't tread on me.

the old greeks were at rest, the slaves were under control
but we old American men in twenty nineteen
we have A.I. and pensions enough,
my examination can go far deeper than Aristotle's.

Part taker, trope positions, anonymous wisemen's roles in
this generational take on
we, the people, by realization, not revelation
of the
traditional worth of wisdom found under hoary
or shiny-fringed heads and grey beards and
amplified through ear hair
like antennae.

Admiring and worth. Hmmm.
Mira, look upon the ozimandian heir and
wonder, why am I a part of this, an eight billionth of this

interesting time of changed time,
time duration,
it is known relative now,
a precocious child of twelve can explain the paradox.
But time travel, imagine...
The ships,
The captains venturing where... slaves and would-be thieves
would, or could be made to, row or man the ropes,
whether any sweating soul endured to the end,
or not,
Who cares-- we recall only the history of kings.

Aha, there were teachers paid to teach
Admire-alty of the strong who keep us free within our walls.
That was the meme, be like
obediant to
the man on the horse.

Extreme Narcissist rises as the needed leader, least meek
of men morphs materially into the Nuclear God?
the opposite of peacemaker becomes hero?

Endure. In your patience, you possess...

Here's the deal. Life ain't fair. No war ever worked to settle
the mixup over the actual reason
for con fusion. Fusion sticks stuff together that has a pro

pensity to repel.
En-trope, we wrestle that, we fight it with
weapons un-carnal on any fractal level where matter matters.

Settle down, we say, by being at rest, fretless.
Let my peace, you say, come in me,

now, in your bubble of peace,
where no damnation can exist, begin
to grow, feed on knowledge proven no lie.
Start with one, unproven
reason you have for laying down or taking lifetime from anyone,
or for anyone.

Plus and minus, up and down. Mere words.
Confusion is mashing things together to make stuff

like earth. You look close, **** augmented us,
we inherited the only biosphere in the known universe,

and some ******* hell's angel wannabe...

Nope. Fractally can't happen, time being duration, not
an arrow on a gravity bound arc.
From "it is finished' going viral,
Nailed it,
no contest.
Yep, peace makers won. Deck was stacked.
The idea of the act of
Nuclear war launched the tyranny of phobias,
including an old idol word bound fear.
Logophobia
fear of God idea is the beginning of wisdom. think this, what if

wisdom began in you when you imagined the evil
men have realized from their shared imagings,
Logos imagined it first. What if that?

for lack of vision,
my people perish. AH, fractal up
about a thousand Mandelbrot tics, okeh.

Did we come away with treasure, or are we lost in the war game?

---
how many is enough to make the effort,

ef fective effort to learn.... check. didit, still am. one's enough.

ef fective effort to use the learning right ... check, workin' on it.

Whee gotta cut some traditional slack to the clowns
who keep the poor man happy for the hell of it,

y'know, life's hard at the bottom.

but it ain't
no fun.
And happy minds bounce. No lie. Bi-polar on demand, kinda.

K'mon down. The price is right. Got moonshine in the evenin',
after-the-cool-of-the-day, unquiet late spring night,
Stars aplenty,

laid back, leanin' on the tree of all I can ever know or
ever know
already. Ever knowing, you know. Feels good. Starry night,

in focus, with our shared augmented eyes beyond

the base-bubble of life, where I fit.

---- bored old man? is that pathetic, or what?---
Is this a good that you can do, asked, but I allowed no quest to form.

The point of any story in my mandlebrot set of stories never imagined,
is why I make the daily efforts, find the point, mark it a peaceful
place at the end of a hard row to ***.

Making the point in ever, where you notice your role,
this is the peacmaker's privilege, for the prize of playing your role,
the rest that remains, is mine to use right, examing life
amidst confusion you may have stirred up on your own way here.
Joe Rogan 1041, Dan Carlin, in the background, sittin' on the porch after tearing part of the roof from the garage because it leaked all winter.
We
Every time we, as people...as a group, think of a new category, a new classification, a new label, we further our own separation from each other. Every new name gives us a pre-conceived notion for us to pre-judge other people with.

All of us will be familiar with generational categorization. Millennial, Boomer, Gen X, Y, and Z...etc. We all say, "Millenials are spoiled and have it easy and complain too much," or "The Boomers ruined the economy because they're greedy," or "Gen Z is lazy and never knew anything that wasn't on a screen..."

These sayings, are all just easy ways out... lazy assumptions we can use to generalize one another so that we don't have to put in the effort it takes to actually care...

And yeah, caring is hard.
Truth is, we've all gotten lazy.

Every single "group" of people, has some of the most amazing, loving people you will ever meet, regardless of age, or anything. Love and hatred have no bias as to who you are, where you live, what you think, or when you were born.

Think about it.
It's so easy to see one person doing something selfish to us, and we immediately look at them, and label them according to our own biases, but we never stop to look at the many more people that don't do us wrong; Perhaps even the ones that help us out. When that happens to us, they're just...people.
When we're transgressed, those people become "they." **** them blank, **** those blank, Selfish blank.
And every time we allow these little events to affect us, we become more selfish ourselves... and the cycle goes on.

This doesn't just go for generations. It goes for political separation, gender identity, race, etc.

Every,
Single,
Name,
is an excuse for us to hate each other.
Fuel for the pyre that we ourselves, you and I are tied to.

We are all human. We are all kin. Every single one of us will bleed the same blood, and cry the same tears.
That ******* that cut you off in traffic may have been on the way to the hospital to catch the dying breath of his wife, son, daughter, father, mother, or friend just in time.

We need to stop seeing each other as they, or them.
We,
Are Us.

We,
Are the only people on this tiny little rock in space,
And if we allow ourselves to hate our kin, surely we will destroy everything we know and love.

We live in the age of being overfed with information no one asked for, and we allow this information to divide us as a people.

I don't care if you are Gen Z, Republican, Democrat, Millenial, Man, Woman, or anything in between...you are just like me. You bleed red and you have a heart and a soul that wants to be loved and to feel important and that you're doing the right thing.

There's a very simple solution to this epidemic of social divide.
Next time you feel like someone has wronged you, or done something wrong. Take a step back. Stop and think.
Benefit,
of,
the Doubt.

We need to love ourselves,
but more importantly,
We need to love each other just as much...
Because in the end,
Without each other,
we would just be alone, and lost.
We are meaningless without each other.
This isn't much of a poem, but It needs to be seen.
highly recommended, highly nutritional, highly idealized, highly regarded, highly aware that my skin should be as tender as Jesus, a concoction of milkweed and baby's breathe, highly worthy of a man, high volume, high capacity, highly considering the recipes from God's kitchen, the smell of ***** and peppermint, highly bronzed and beautifully sick.
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