Change in my pocket,
but no charge in the socket.
That’s where I use to be.
                                              Heavily
       ­                                                       lost
in a world that wasn’t mine.
Committing sin and crime,
more than this poems rhyme.
Never did I wish to be
                                        minus 6 feet in pine.
At least,
          that’s the lie I’ll stick by.
Hurt every morning. Every night I then cry.
                                                            ­                     Yet,
back at it again in the AM.
Liquor was certainly quicker and I never
                                                           ­   lost
                                                         ­     my
                                                         ­     buzz,
but thank Godness it was,
because much longer and I would’ve lost my cause.
It was more than shaking paws.
I
was
a
slave.
          And, alcohol was my master.
Physically, I always drank faster.
Mentally, there was too much cluster
                     of
self-pity and self-inflicted misery.

Spiritually………………………………….sick.
I far surpassed being a ****.
Pushed away even the biggest *****.
Sure.
Funny now,
                       but then. No then.
                                                        On the binge, waking up smelling
                                                        of Monarch in the park.
                                  Just the thought makes me cringe.
I
            Never
                        Hit
        ­                                   bottom.
                                                     I went through it.
You name it, I’ve done it.
                                Peed my pants in a jail pit.
                                                     Sick.
                                Struck my bestfriend with my mit.
                                                      Sick.
­                                Cheated, lied, and stole way more than a little bit.
                                                      Sick.
­                                Treated girls by the ease of their ****.
                                                       Sick.
Yet.
Yet..
Yet…
Not once, did I think to quit.
Nor, did I think I was fit
                                            to be a respectable man.
But, this life? This current life, was not my plan.
                        This. This is someone else’s hand.
                        This is metanoia.
                                                       ­      With it,
                                                                ­       no more paranoia.
No longer am I better or worse than.
Today, I just am.
I have a god I understand.
I’ve made amends to the fam.
I’ve seen my brother’s band.
I don’t isolate like a clam.
I’ve passed my graduate exam.
I fall asleep without spinning like a fan.
And, this story,
                             I promise
                                         is no scam.

♫♪I believe in miracles♫♪,
                    because,
              I’m a **** thing.
A girl even accepted my ring,
And I’ll admit,
I’m not perfect.
And as you heard,
I can’t sing.
But today,
I do the next right thing.
           I
           try
           to help others
                                   learn to be brothers,
                                              respect people of all colors,
                                                        ­  and to tolerate (yes! tolerate)
                                                       ­                              even their mothers.
My life is second to none, I finally found fun, and by grace
hopefully, I’m not done.
My acceptance is high and my expectations low.
Today, I even try not to steal the show.
But,
        with this flow
I think I’ve found my cause
and that’s
to hear your applause.

why were wallbuilders and promise keepers
made into heros for people like me who
always lived beyond the walls?

Outside the wire,
beyond the pallisade,

within which

Very rich powerful people want all the money
money monetize

me, or phugmefofree

Spaceship earth, the generic term for
the bubble ourkind can

be real in.
This one.
Runes tuned to sounds we share

in cognitve morphic resonance coupled
with this magic-time-teck tic tic

pause
selah

Stall-speed,
need to know
this:

there, from here,
is always a place to put your foot.
I said that,
There's always aplace to put y'foot

falling according to plan, we land

here in the cloud of pod-people-recasting,
con-positivo woe to whoa to wow
in ten seconds after the first Plancsec you noticed,

Accutron-- Tom Green, not the famous one, maybe
the beautiful mind imaginaty kind,
but he had an Accutron watch in Vietnam,
I remember the tone

listen....

viral ideas are the great gift of wisdom, in a word.

The gates of the institute of us, which we, the people are subject to,
the object of our service as patriotic citizens
we,
the consumption economy-minions men imagine are
all conceived in love of money,
money-infected,
at the level of stem ideas.
common sensed as seen on TV
or Twitter

we know, entering-tainment over flow.....

Eric Weinstein
Atheist but I go to synagogue (analog for same knowing
knowing knowing knowing)
I let the spirit move me,
says he,
it doesn't mean that it confuses me... a (no signal)

hmmmm  think
Das Heilige Geist
ghost of a chance, try cognition via morphic
resonance,

or listen on Spotify. I forgot the time.

I can listen wither I wish, I've reckoned.
I, you know,
inherited the wind,

it was worth all the trouble.

Do you think it's all about belief?
Are you religious,

trivia answer for future players:

Define religious. And they say shitnobodybelieves

I say, define be.
And so on and on.

I did a half hour podcast and returned to thinking in these
runes, peace is made by the path
least re
sisted

Sistere, the word is a key to the path,
war distorts reason
for a season

stand here.

Ah, the Welsh H'laf-veard, sug
gests this may be when craft
prospers
Coud be the tothic season of the switch,
the exercise in godliness.
liness? why not godness, like
say no lie, the trials are beyond

appeal, judge yourself,

exercise godness,
hear
the voice, nay the word

nay the sound
resounding in you right now, save

ye vacillate, silly, wishy-washy pre-
tender toward

outahere

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

Enlightens My days of darkness,
Artificial Light,
Weak violet blow of a violent decay
Thunder of rough emotions
Exploding and burning and bursting
In the remote obscure hollows of my head.

This it is; Where pure passion is emanated,
Runs away to the very edge of curiosity
A traveller through the infinite skies
Of my bare human intelligence.

Light of darkness
Expression of sudden expiry
And simultaneous rebirth.
Light of veracity
Reveals and destroys and remakes
As the majority abruptly yells about.
Light of my dreams
Golden thing
On this soil of broken faith.

All of a sudden, sneaking bull,
my cacophonous orchestra wavers
as a sharp blade has sat in my brain.
Boiling gurgling twanging
My mind cracks and gasps
And gulps, when the veracious grace of light
glances out of the waves of my lost sea.
Glorious the way it shows off,
Harsh the way it acts and plays.

And yet Lives and gives life, it is Light.
Speeding through the windows of our soul,
it measures with my fortitude's eyes.
And yet is light
The only source of truth.
And yet,
on this soil of broken faith.

So why, for godness sake, should we avoid her natural touch?

Content within my destructions,
Embrace my demons fully,
Wallow in my Godness
Just by Being wholly.

Tell me the reasons to change,
More conceptual delusions.
Spout the need to be different,
The same remain my conclusions

I shan't fear my Being,
No recoil from the Way.
"It is I", I'll say at the gate,
Today, or any other day.