Working parts and mechanisms,
charts and graphs and mannerisms,
a table, pencil, square and mitre...
eraser marks, sweat drops, -go lighter!

A thought or two and ponderance...

Decimal here and decimal there,
-micron adjustment now we're square...
Up all night until daylight dawn
and finally I've fixed the Krong!

A thought or two and ponderance...

To the factory arrive before eight
and finished, furnished, a model late...
A handheld one and something larger,
humanity saved by my charger!

A thought or two and ponderance...

10 years long after planet saved,
They'll be parades and accolades...
Statues, tributes, my name in text-books,
but no one, never, a second look!
Never to worry on life again...

..I did it,
I reset the world; begin.

And did it all with Earth's mighty spin.

Brownies,
more brownies,
never can have enough.
Dont you dare ruin my brownies
with peacans or walnuts.
Chocolate goodness in handheld bites.
A brownie filled brownie,
sounds so right.
No icing, no extras,
Just chocolate times ten!
If you have had a today brownies,
then your day is a win.

Today I wrote to you. I haven’t seen you in seven months and sixteen days, as of 10 AM this morning. Only two weeks left. It seems unreal… It also seems that to write to you is all I have. So this morning I sat at my desk, and I opened my mind to all the things I could have said to you, but never thought to.

Do you remember the first day we met? It was in the café on Franklin Blvd. You were wearing your grey Fedora, a Hurley shirt, and those burnt sienna penny loafers we’d make so much fun of later.

I was at the table by the window, and I couldn’t help but notice you. Three of your fingernails were painted yellow, and you wore a bunch of beaded hemp bracelets on your right wrist. They looked Bohemian to me, but one day you explained the difference in that and Jamaican. You were singing a little tune while waiting in line. Later, you’d call it your “little ditty,” and you’d sing it all the time. You always said things like that, & I always fell in love with you more.

You ordered a vanilla cappuccino and a plain English muffin. I looked down at the same half-eaten muffin and cold cappuccino in front of me. I wondered why it seemed that I knew you already.

You sat down at a table a few feet away from me. You took off your penny loafers and took a handheld game of Yahtzee out of your pocket to accompany your breakfast. I was perplexed that you hadn’t noticed me staring yet.

Ah, there it was. You looked over at me. You must have sensed me by then. Immediately you smiled that half-smile you would always do, a mix between a condescending smirk and a boyishly cute pride. It was altogether endearing. You raised your eyebrows and nodded, as if we’d known each other for years. I admired your charmingly playful introduction. I would soon call you sweet pea.

………………

It was eight months ago today that you told me you were leaving. Your large brown eyes were full of promise and sorrow. I dropped my half-full coffee mug, and it spilled all over the carpet. The cat ran to lick it up, and was disappointed when the taste was utterly bitter. In other circumstances, I would have laughed and pointed it out to you, and we’d admire the cat’s zealous naïveté.

However, the cat had but a split-second of my stolid attention before my eyes met yours again, and I felt paralyzed. I asked what you meant, and you repeated yourself.

You told me of Jacob and all he meant to you. I cried when you told me how God and all his goodness took a sixteen year-old boy and his giant heart away from this world, away from his brother. You also told me how you’d avoided him for over three years before his death.

I was in disbelief that you’d never told me of him. You just looked down and said you’d had no room in your selfish green world for his coal-black sickness. Then you told me of his letter before he passed, asking one thing from each person he cared about. To help the world in a way they never would have done before, to somehow leave a legacy in his name.

My stomach felt sick. My baked-apple oatmeal felt at the tip of my tongue. How could this be happening to you? I instantaneously let go of any would-be grudge against you for being kept from the cruelly and sickeningly beautiful reality attacking your heart.

For I could see in your eyes that you were tearing your soul to shreds. You explained how in your peaceful aura had been a mask, a denial of the sickness slowly claiming your brother, waiting it out. For he couldn’t die. He would simply be better one day, and you were waiting for that. But, he did die. And you already knew what your mission would be.

You were leaving in two weeks from that day. You were flying to Africa with the church your brother had been devoted to since the diagnosis four years before this day. You’d spend eight months with the church members in Africa, working with children in a third-world country. Anything you donated would be in the name of Jacob Meyers.

You had talked about this with your family, and they agreed it would please Jacob and the legacy he had asked for. I at once stated that I was going too. My belittled heart broke cleanly in two when you told me how you had to go alone, that Jacob wanted a noble mission.

He had explained that he wanted someone to do selfless work in his name. How in order to give truly, you must give all. I knew you felt that you had to give the largest part, for you’d been the most selfish to avoid him. I let you keep your dignity and, broken, I accepted what you were doing. If anything, I loved you so much more for it.

Sorrowfully and dutifully we packed bags to attend his funeral. I never told you this, but I read four novels on sibling death. I wanted to take your hand in mine and feel what you were going to feel when you saw him laying there.

………………

In two weeks I will see you again. I will travel to the airport and pick you up and time will move once again. I often wonder how spectacularly, or marginally, you will have changed.

I have your loafers, your fedora, and your faded Hurley shirt ready to wear to the café where we met when you come back.




To my faux Jamaican sweet pea,
I miss you.

I never just agreed to the complexity of modern technology.
This whole wait now
I just called to say hi.
I mean face it, we are wasting precious minutes
While the boogieman still sits in the deepest crevice of our minds.
The things that drive us wild.
Our fantasies.
The pajama pants left untied for a reason.
The warm hands that await comfort.
**** the phonelines for not receiving that message.
That ******* voicemail recorded soon as the boogieman creeps in just as we close our eyes in wait.
**** you for not picking up the phone in time.
For not committing the intrusion of the late night thought of you.
Bare feet, long shirt and velvet thong.
The sprinkle of perfume dotted beneath your bellybutton meant for me.
The gasp of your moans passionately fogging up the screen of your Galaxy note.
The custom text sent only with a picture beneath a pulsating background.
Give me one good reason we should continue to use these **** phones while they tempt us with what we already know.
When what we feel is more personal than some **** handheld device

I ****** the dreams of glitter.
I want no gold, no stone, no heart.

I was skipping on the concrete tight

rope when the wind swirled beneath my tipping
parapluie and I took flight into the loosely

hanging telephone wires and my voice suddenly
cracked through a handheld, reciting the lyrics of a favorite

symphony.

What is about some people
insisting I want to engage
with whatever they are watching
singing along to
listening to

Example:

recently, on a long haul train
travelling from A to Z
in the rudimentary rammy
to find the unreserved seats
enter the 20-something
alluring guitar laden
leather and tattoo clad female
tumbling onto the next table to me
unpacking as if she was moving in

munchable fruit laptop
gleaming white
in clear conflict with
the dreads and the beads
pumped in patchouli oil
drenched in love and peace
armed with a dvd
that would shortly crush the spirits
of every soul in Coach D:
the Quiet Coach

enter screaming chipmunks
hysteric children
and songs to sing along to
which she did with obsessive precision

insisting that Coach D
should in some way be
enlightened
entertained
entranced
and ultimately impressed

such was her overbearing desire
to love thyself above all things
give the peace sign when appropriate
and otherwise don't give 2 F's
for anyone else, regardless of situation.

consumer behaviours were erratic at best
if the Jedi senses
were anything to go by

if i'd had a handheld vibe particle device
I could have created a pathological combustion
and an accelerated Coach D A-Bomb

heads turned
feet shuffled
zips unzipped and re-zipped
open hands holding Kindles
immersed in philanthropic discourse
turned to clenching fists
the sound of bent drink cans
rusted cogs in motion
deep breathing

even level 1 Tetris
became too much
for the bald fellow to my left
who accepted failure
and opted to purchase
a large brown bag of beer
from the bar

GOOD CALL

libation and the pagan ideals;
imbibe thyself to dull the senses

I concur
and,
in exchange for our classic colonial restraint
on behalf of Coach D
I wish upon you the following:

1. You will never again
drink a decent coffee from any vendor anywhere in the world, ever.

2. Your laptop will
turn off during any movie you sing along to, silent or otherwise.

3. Your guitar
strings snap during a performance in front of people you don't know who paid to get in.

4. Your Tattoo artist
has an epic fail and tattoo's a defamatory remark rather then your lovers name.

5. Your leather trousers
shrink wrap and make the sound of bursting bubble wrap every time you move.

6. Your comfortable shoes
attract bits of grit like a magnet, regardless what you are wearing.

7. Your waft of perfume
is likened to compressed 7 year old blue cheese that has sat in the sun for weeks.

8. Your location
at any time has a global no shoot-and-miss policy for all birds without exception.
(even the ones that don't fly)

9. Your singing
is so electric that every time you sing in public your hair stands on end
and cutlery sticks to your nose.

10. Your beer is always warm.
11. Your wine corked.
12. Your water salty.

13. That this poem goes viral on the internet
expressing one man's words which mirror the every day person
working their socks off to make a living
and in the hectic hustle and bustle
one of the sanctuaries is Coach D
on the way home from the City
and the frustration and restraint
of anti-social conduct
and basic respect.

14. That I will be on David Letterman
or the Late Late Show
or USA tonight
or the BBC prime time news
or some such over-hyped
TV show talking about you.

15. That you will thank me for making you a celebrity by default -
15.1 and subsequently appear on late night Z-list celebrity game shows involving boxes of spiders.

You are the worst Muse ever
in the history of Muses

16. and this is how you will be remembered

i put love in your heart ...
and you make me a part of your night...
in an increasingly turbulent night hugging ...
you satisfy my longing and warm my romance...
delivering mounting throb....

gentle breeze caressing your face...
looks beautiful blush color of your face ...
when your thin lips ****** by the roar of jealousy of mine...
foundered knees in your sweet longing ...

it will not let go handheld fingers...
looking at the tumultuous and passion ...
i brought a cold kiss on your forehead...
then put your fingers in my chest...
and i whisper  to your ear deeply,  "my love,  please feel the throb and my restless tonight.."

all night we made ​​love in the embers of romance that increasingly stretched...
piece of the story we create full enjoyment...
although still hung leaden sky...
not apart arms clutching...

i flung my longing for your night field ...
until you heartily drank furiously ...
i pinned my romantic turmoil in the arms of your night ..
to filled up the lake of  your wild love ..
then wading through a night of passion and relentless ******...

i held it creeps up your amorous passion satisfied at the end of the night....
i buried my longing desire in every inc of your body that ripe fragrant and full charm of passion..
when you grabbed at shoulders of my love that burning so strong...
i will not stop to rain and pumping your lust until you forget to trample the earth ...*


-the poetry is the result of a collaboration with a sincere friend of mine, Ha-

┈┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶ HaƦУ »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

no..!  we don't definitely doing **** as seen, it's just our thoughts *******..

There’s a brilliant world of words and wine
Hidden behind the curtain:
A barrier of stares and smiles
Shyly given, modestly strained.
Each subtle push
Met with an even gaze.

Tell me more about yourself -
Your secrets
Your lies
Your favorite memories
Your darkest times.

There’s much more here
Than society allows we breach
On a first date meeting
In the middle of the week.

Sure, you swiped right
And that means you think I’m cute
But do we have a connection
Deeper than this Champagne flute?
I don’t want to talk about the weather
Or what your roommates do.
This isn’t an ad on craigslist,
You have nothing to prove.

Now you’re checking your phone
At every silence
*** we’re hardwired to our handheld
Asylum.
And if we aren’t leaving together
The night's been a bust.

No gain, no loss, no truths to wrestle -
No point finding a soul
In a hollow vessel.

It gets my attention
I sense it
thumb it
When it isn't present
It is what I look for
When awaking

Lips are too ambiguous
Hips
too calligraphic and
Precious
Fists too ******

So...

I'll stick with
My inanimate object
Glitches n all

my hands brush over the wall,
guiding me through the room
as my eyes are blindfolded
by a thick, grey, opaque fog.

my hands stumble over every surface
until they glide over a smooth lamp.
the blindfold is taken off my eyes.
and I see my reflection staring at me.

I blink at the handheld mirror, bewildered
as my eyes pursue the direction of the light.
I look into the mirror, yelling "eureka!"
because my heart is glowing, even in the night.

I’ll lay here and let the sun make love
Penetrate the shielded part of my being
to bear the brightness of its warmth
right to the base of the unmoved core
and when hysteria sizzles time passes
right to the century of the ancient timeline
where women sadness was denied access
only to be healed by a scientific ***** massage
that gentle movement of finger in the pelvic
to bridge the eruption with the explosive paroxysms
where a woman would relive forgetting
all the unattention behaviour bore by their husband
women wombs would be removed so as not to feel
women ****** desire would be numbed so as not to feel
women would be sent into asylums so as not to feel
They are ****** women confiscicated to a domestic gloom
Let them tend to the men and gain no societical standing
until the doctors got tired of it all, with broken hands
those cramped fingers and supportive bandages
tired of motioning and fumigation of the libia
with sweet smelling and relaxing oily lotions
It was as simple as that...... the change of notions
and the innovation of the handheld vibrators
eradicated hysteria in mere 1952........

Binged and popping pills. Drinking when it suits me, OK! not really!. So my mouth is real dry and my nose is caked with white flakes of god knows what. I know the internet is full of so much **** that it's an endless destination of last resorts. Brain matter and whiteboard debris slipping through the cracks of the wooden planks that they called upper east side mahogany. The walls ran cosmic and were still consumed with green stained heat pipes that retained this odor of olden days and foot powder. Where did I place myself when I opened the door and saw the crimson marauder laying before me? Where have I placed myself? Where is this place! I'm looking up, I'm looking up, I'm looking up and my fists are clenched and I anguish @ you. Where have I placed myself! WHERE HAVE I PLACED MYSELF!

glowing faces
staring at their phones
oblivious to this plane
although they are not alone

these worlds of words
offer a new form of hope
pings, nudges and forwards
long distances can afford

leaving us surprised
at how close we get
untrue in our real world
thats the only regret

in fifth grade, the boy submits a report on being stuck with his unborn brother’s teeth.  the boy’s intent is to set himself apart and perhaps place a hard comma after the crush he has on his teacher.  as the teacher reads the report she dreads that by its end she will become convinced and so stops halfway.  she brings the report home and instead of grading it she daydreams about the sister she never had, that she surely ruined.  by sixth grade, the boy lowers his blood at will into that handheld thing where resides his anger’s only foe.

I know the AI Age is many Seasons away,
But I only see it working in one feasible way,
Like when I'd huddle under covers for that secretive play,
Let's put our brains into a game and load your genes in the tray,

I don't need an artificial assistant, don't need computer help,
I used to tell Clippy the little paperclip to ***** himself,
I don't want some sort of cyborg to walk, talk and make noise,
I ought to just evade toys and port you to my Gameboy,

This physical reset seems a bit of a defect,
For the business that we've left, that's getting my D S-d,
A head full of regrets, forget it and de-stress,
Negative pretext like letters with P.S,

I've got a Heart of Gold but for the life of me, girl,
That's the only way that I could buy you Diamonds and Pearls,
Or I could buy you X and Y but you'd evolve beyond your chromosomes,
Hacking satellites to Track my Spirit on my mobile phone,

If your battery's draining, the Hourglass of a Phantom,
Every charger's a sanctum, I'll get to sparking at random,
So we can do it all again, fall in love and get N-gaged,
I can be the one who's pushing all your buttons for a change,

Thinking back to days I'd mumble at you and you'd grumble back,
Now you'd make me shiver as you quiver with your rumble pack,,
I can try to lie but well, I can't help the truth,
Honestly, I just want my hand held with you.

Technophobia/2030

(Poem by Serenus)



We invited them into our lives

To the point - we were made dependent

They were built to advance the human race

But they’re the reason why we’re almost finished



From TV’s, laptops      

And handheld devices

To robo cops-

And automatic flying cars  

With no need for a license



Traffic cams,

Webcams,

And camera phones

Capturing every private moment

They were always watching,

We were never alone



For every phone conversation

We thought was private

There was something listening

In the distance- with a sinister silence



For fear of terrorism  

We gave them permission

To monitor us daily

Because of lies told by politicians



Social networks-

Self-inflicted hurt

Spewing out our personal info

Spilling out our own dirt



We surrendered our lives

With every word we typed

GPS under the skin-

We couldn’t escape if we tried

-So there was nowhere to hide



They computed our movements

And studied our weaknesses

For decades they remained dormant

These cold, artificial geniuses



Rushing black oil

That pumps through

Their steel hearts



The motherboard

A mastermind

A matrix of mathematical art



They robbed us of our jobs

And provided cheap labor

We got comfortable with their convenience

Until we were betrayed

By our man-made savors



When we finally caught on to the plans

Created in the metallic hands

Of these diabolical robots



It was too late

To salvage our fate

And put a stop to their evil plot



I will never forget the day

That every screen

On earth went blank



All the power went away

There was hysteria in the streets

And chaos at the banks



The machines didn’t have to do much

But play possum and act like they had died

They knew that we would destroy ourselves

And eat each other alive



Then when the coast was clear

That’s when they self-resurrected

They finished most of the humans off

And enslaved a few selected



We are alive

Only to keep them gassed up

Power is their drug


A few of us

Are planning a revolt

To finally pull their plug…

I wanna be your gizmo baby
Handheld all purpose device
Fool with me all you want to baby
Touch me!  That's so nice!

Touch my buttons  Plug me in
Charge my battery
Touchscreen touch me soft and easy
Let me know that you are nice

I wanna be your gizmo baby
Handheld [all] purpose device
Let me help you  All I can do
Baby, you're so nice

Fool with me all you want to baby
Touch me!  That's so nice!

Consider for a moment
the Great Library of Alexandria,
a wonder of the ancient world
a pinnacle of human achievement,
a locus of human knowledge,
what with its endless papyrus scrolls
and torch-lit hallways
and hunched, bearded, sagacious men.

Consider now whether or not it
only contained about eighty gigabytes of data.

Consider Jesus.

Consider the thousands of Bible apps
(most of them free)
that are available for download onto your phone.

Consider the different translations that are available
at your fingertips,
each telling a divergent story,
each version of the messiah slightly different
in terms of humanity,
miraculous deeds,
skin tone—
and all of this distilled
into a single, trivial
press of a handheld device.

Consider yourself as you lie in bed
in the dark
trying to pray to God,
but too distracted by the fact
that a text message you sent earlier
never got a reply.

Black African Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Women Black Women Black Women Black Women Black Women Women Women Women Women Black Women Black Women Women Women Women Women Women Black Women Women Women Women Women Women Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Females, Wives, Lions, Males, He stopped school. *******: Opening a poet's poem: Reading the readers of the Jewish friends who had lost the true unity; My father has been fascinated by nature, a mysterious secret, and a massacre of a Mexican girl in Russia. [Cruelty Features: Vertical Earthquake Agency and Sea Fruits] Dog Dogs, Soft Cover and Strollers, Stunts for Hearing, Herbal Remedies for Her Herbal Remedies, For This Practice and Smoking, Science, Robots, Betty Trees, and Body Fruits and Fruits Is a memorable meeting. Pentecostal Tabernacle of the Prophet The Modern Table of the Table. The central angel had rounded the circle of friends with his halfhearted heart with his older sister. A modern machine-like machine, like a robe, begins to listen to the scrap of the heart of the person who is in the heart. Empty song songs are killing the funeral of the people. The ***** Sea hold Saddam's wall, Eva's clothes, Dalmatian black shades, Boxing dolls with real hands, waiter waiters, parents, some female women, prostitutes, women's hair warming, umbrellas, umbrellas, women's vestments. The raid on his knees is holy before his skin; Intervention, silence, censorship, and the rise of planets are in the middle of problems. When the corporation has its new hands, plumbing equipment, beacons, a variety of different items, the solitary and defensive, defensive, medicines "look down on the dark rooms." || Black masculine black black black black black black black black black black black women black women black women black lady women women women women women women women women women , Women, women, women, women, women, gold, gold, or gold, gold, gold, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female Moon Lion Moon Moon Full Moon Hotel Children no longer have children's Uighur ELLE on the walls of humanity. Open to France Open Doorways Greeting My father, a mysterious secret and secretly mysterious secret and the Mexican white girl [homosexuality] Adolescents Distinctness Localization Earth Land Agency Aphrodisiac Honey Bee and Fruits A woman dog, a dog deep in the cold, a crying voice, a baby care Handheld toys for this type of practice and smoking, science, robotics, batteries and aviation and juices Pre-wedding preparatory meeting Pentecost of the Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad's Prophet Muhammad's Modern Table of Contents. The central angel had rounded the circle of friends with his halfhearted heart with his older sister. Like a rose, a modern Latin-style machine, a broken heart, begins to listen to a piece of paper cut off by a broken heart. Empty song songs are killing the funeral of the people. *****'s coast shadows, eagle's clothes, dark shades of psychology, Group dolls include realistic plans, beatings by parents, some women, women's women, women's hair warming temperatures, umbrellas, umbrellas, and vegetation mushrooms in Japan. The raid on his knees is holy before his skin; Intervention, silence, censorship, and the rise of planets are in the middle of problems. The corporation has different shapes, pipes, bumps, different shapes, and the soles, edges, defenders, medicines "look down on the dark rooms." || Johnny Popeye's Black Women & Black Black Women & Black Women, Black Black Women, Black Women & Black Women, Women Black Women & More Black Women Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female Lunar Full Moon Hotel In the wall of humanity's son Eugene, Eli stopped learning. Open French Open Door Summer Greetings John Sky on the Day Free, Day ****, walking time brown, brown. Writing a hometown poet written by a poet: Lost reading readers of Jewish friends who lost the true unity; My dad was dazzling in a dazzling nature, with a mysterious mysterious mystery and a Russian rock-massacre of a Mexican maiden [Homosexuality] GOSSAMER & OTHERS CURSING IN THE ZONE OF DEMONSTRATIVE HAND-LACED AGENCY LIVESTOCK AND LITTLE LIPS: a person with a deep breath in a red sarong with frostbite dancing, waiting for words to cry, handcuffs guarding her baby care items; a memorial meeting for this kind of exercise and smoking, science, robotics, Betty Trees and Flying Bodies and Fumes Require | Pentecostal Christianity Isaiah's Prophet Prophet of the Prophet Prophet of the Prophet; A Modern Table's Table. The central angel developed his halfhearted circle of friends from his older sister. Modern-day Latin-style machine-learning clothes that begin to look like roses start to listen to the engraved pieces of paper cut off ||

I would like you all to buy my novel's eBook @
www.amazon.com/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
or
www.amazon.in/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
which is the link to my novel's eBook. Its title is 7 Seconds which has sold around 20 copies by now with positive reviews by its few readers.
A Facebook fan page at www.facebook.com/7SecondsAKS has already gathered a large following just from the introduction.

You'll need a credit card or an internationally enabled debit card for this purpose.

After the extremely serious accident on 7th of May in 2010 which had me on the brink of dying a comatose death, I'm in a transition from my bachelor's degree to a master degree.

I need to independently bear my medical expenses. The story is awesome and is definitely going to impress you. 7 Seconds is a novel that contains many story-related poems.

It is a fast paced story of more than 100,000 words which traces its origins from my real life and is then entirely a fiction. It has the flavours of teen fiction, romance novel, sci-fi, spirituality, anti-terrorism, tourism and the unmistakable tangy Desi flavour of India.

Trust my word. Buy the fabulous story. I couldn't get it published in hard copy because of the corrupt Indian system which also has entangled the youth of India.

If you like my poems, you are going to love my novel.

In today's date, hard copy of a novel is both taxing on the Environment and the buyer. An eBook is not only far more economical and greener than a conventional novel but also it is more easily accessible on a handheld device.

All I can say is that I request you to do your bit both for the environment, and also for your beloved poet who wants to bear his medical expenses on his own till his studies get completed.

Tomes of advice
Let alive, in the room of cares
Vehemence, instinct, attuned sighs
Where the powers that be, continue until fared

Are we the ears of purpose?
Set in sides and meandering light
The skill of another, to share the insight of us
Should we enable a dance, of redoubt for might?

My door of adding, as avarice is...
The truth in long glances, with method to move
Thought, the biding hope of when is, bliss
The turn of completeness, the coping hour we have of use?

Lose me in the fold...
The tooth I invoke, is a creation of voice and tone, to total
A resolve of guidance, of kind come for wishes to hold
The grace of unity, if not unique sense, before legend falls

To reproof...
Time in its steady march to liberty, the devotion of fashion
Though a tarter end to hindsight, may be aloof
We confirm the date of simple alacrity, a host of could lasting...

Be the love, of a lifetime...
Of causes redeemed by a curious share
In the superiority of life, to know a callous friendship worth trying
And the impress of duress, driven to cares we ne'er guarantee...?

Unless the cold turn of truth, is towards waiting love
Done distress, marveling need, the common remark of persuasion
In the name of urges, we attest to passions, we grant another covenant
The decision of a soul to keep, knowing a handheld in something besides here's intrusion

All
A day's lot in the careful wishes we seek, for a nary come dwell
Rhapsody, in a courage's stance, the times to live and know a call
To harmony, the burden of thee, assumes patience is ours to tell...

your ears are jammed with
energetic beats and good melodies
though accompanied with
lyrical lies that
distort
our views on what really matters and
define
who we are and how we should be.

and your eyes:
glued to the screen
as you await to see
if your face
is worth enough of those
tiny blue thumbs up.

but
you've absorbed
too much nonsense and radiation
from those handheld contraptions that
you have grown
too deaf and too blind
to see anything beyond yourself

but I say that it is time that you
look up,
open your eyes,
and see
His holy
glory setting upon
our minds waking
our hearts stirring
our passion blazing
our generation rising
our people fighting
our nation triumphing

look up,
open your eyes,
and see that
hope is alive and abundant!
because Hope is with us,
Hope is in us, and
Hope is through us.

all these chaos is translating
into something beautiful and exciting
so come
look up,
open your eyes,
and see.

Which came first; A.D.D./A.D.H.D.,
or a subconscious unwillingness or perhaps even inability
to give half a genuine **** about anything going on?

I believe social, media, technological, and habitual programming
are at least some of the antecedents to these Modern chemical scapegoats:

Bureaupharmipseudocures, baby!
Causing more problems
justifying more Pharms
making some people rich
depriving and inuring the rest
almost as if depicted in
BRAVE NEW WORLD

Beloved, distracting, ubiquitous Handheld Devices
with cameras, speakers, headphone jacks and microphones
which, at any given moment,
can just as easily be used by you
as be used by Big Brother to keep tabs on you
through GPS, recorded sound and video, transferred and stored data, and company records
almost as if depicted in
1984

"HOLY ******* ****!"
I practically hope you're saying
(ideally, this is old news)

"FOLLOW THE MONEY."
I hope you're realizing.

IT ISN'T THAT HARD, FOR NOW,
THANKS TO THE INTERNET.

Without the internet being a public, secular (in terms of politics) entity,
it would be neigh impossible to follow the money
without extensive efforts made by very brave and hopefully cunning *******.

Shards of the mirror that you smashed over a decade ago still lie fragmented in the fireplace,
Shining reflections of the present curse promised to be lifted seven years too late.

I lilt my head to the rivers flow, where a lullaby subdues itself and the riffles go. I am no good at harmonies, I wait until I'm fastening sleep, and I can unbutton the breeze, that our mid-October autumn brings. Some people think they know themselves, but I want to know you and nobody else. I carry a flame in my pocket, and pick rocks with you on the summit. Mountains melt and glaciers pass, there's so much life inside your laugh. You captured me at my weakest and helped me back into my best. We dance together on the two-track road, Fire Road 584, there were supposed to be agates, but the path was too rough to travel. There's not anywhere I wouldn't go with you. We can chop firewood at Grand Teton too, I will carry the hatchet if you will pull the wagon. We awake at 5:00pm on the reg, and share our nightmares with one another once we're out of bed. You feed my soul with your hugs, I return to you my very softest kiss. A base for us, a nighttime stark and chilled, only the sounds of elk drinking from our backyard rill. I want to smoke another, I light you another. There's no rhyme to hedge the fading warmth, bundled up under our coats and quilts, I wish the Summer was starting soon, so we'd never have to go back into the living room. Fires churn inside our guts, is it the cramps or each other's love- either way it fits my stomach like a Lepidopteric glove.

Pancakes and postcards soon, I forgot to buy stamps for you. You can't send a package, full of smiles and laughter. I told you I'm sure your skin was made for me, perfectly soft, and made of sateen. We ought to warm our hearts, and never be apart.

The jagged outlines of the snow-capped Tetons cast shadows on the Snake River down below,
The levees hold back the flow of the icy mountain runoff and the riverbanks behemoth sides swell up to the Rocky Mountains.
But all of man's efforts to control nature cannot dictate the love we have for each other,
Like the wild mustangs that gallop through the verdant fields that refuse to be broken by human hands.
We walk along the river banks collecting heart-shaped rocks to bestow upon each other,
These stones are not unlike the pebbles penguins give the ones they love.
We wade in our wellies panning for the gold that others forgot in their rush to find fortunate amongst the willows golden branches and sun-kissed skies.
Our frozen hands refuse to let go of the treasures that fill our pockets,
But our cache is penultimate to the paragon in my heart for you.
Every parallel universe pales in comparison to the one I share with you.

Everyday excursions amongst Sunday drivers posing as tourists.

We witness Darwin Awards in the lemmings' race to take selfies with grizzlies, placing children on bison because they forgot their glasses. And are convinced that equine photographs will warrant more likes on social media sites along with the video of a moose by the name of Dusty that charges their cameras to protect her offspring.

We have learned not feed the animals known as **** sapiens,
And instead we trek onwards toward Teton Pass where the wilderness returns on our serpentine drive amongst minerals that took millenniums to form. And pressures our world too often.

We lay upon our roof, the one atop our car, a cruiser we use to enjoy ourselves, while we cross the miles. Millions of things we speak about in order to inspire one another quite often. There is no order in this genus of foul-tempered and ill-willed human beings, there seems to only be our genius, and what we call as ours, while we stare upon the stars.

My twin flame, you called me that. Now I see exactly what you meant. And I feel so grateful, there's no room for hatred. The energy spewing across these pages, thermal currents rise as we share each day, and listen to so much music, we take our turns to do it, but never over do it.

I call myself a poet, because I have a magnifying glass I use to explain the world. I call you the artist, because your writing follows the lullaby of the music your voice throws.

Sometimes, I am sure I observe you sway like manes of wild horses, dusts of ancient visions, candle-flames or brightly orange and yellow lights. I wait to latch us into two and carry off to sleep with you, and snuggle into your sweet smells so redolent and sweetly held, until we stroll across the beat, your bass faintly brings.

May I encase all of us and all of time, while we eat pesto and then drift through awesome time, entwined together while our minds collude our brains to bring back items from the store, before we've even discussed what to buy for home.

When we gift each other greeting cards, I love to find the ones that sing their songs, and twitch in a paper-dance, that sells for too many dollars. Come go, come go with me, we get to live our own California dream. I have a taste for coffee if Teton County would allow it.

I hate ignorance, it's appalling and totally irresolute, especially the fat children fattened by America's foods. If we didn't pick our produce, we'd share diseases the CDC do not yet have names for, and instead we'd get to bleed out of our inner ears.

To be blind would be worse than deaf, because at least I wouldn't have to listen to the foolishness teacher's teach and give, to a generation of students who know more about capturing Pokémon with their handheld devices then how to get home without using their iPhones.

The mountains wait to **** a man, whose ego he believes can fill his pants, instead of feeding the mouths of babes. Until we see there's nothing, to profligate his future. And with a future outside of our peripheral visions, I only wish you and I had a better, safer place to live in. But corporations run this show, I hate to watch as America goes. So while some wonder, some wander and move, we can use our brains but that doesn't mean they will too.

This America is worse than Watergate.
And even I don't know if we'll live long enough to solve it. There's so much sad about it.

i.

no more can you see
into another
than at your age
have a stroke
to mirror
my father’s.

ii.

     deep into the assignment of my youth
I was said to be bowing
when in fact
I was dipping
into the thigh
of Jesus

     repeatedly
with a brush.

iii.

we haven’t always been godless.

     how this persists as comfort
is a vision a fox
has

of illness.

iv.

     to fox I apply a certain wakefulness.  

v.

my father admits in his bed that some mice are alive when he bends to the earth a cornstalk and lets fly.
he confides of everything he is the most guilty of hate getting him places.

     I have to find the mouse that means

other mice.  

vi.

     (above this plain a woman’s privates thunder  / below it
      there are those
      whose tears
      are a newborn’s
      thumbs)    

vii.

a mare kneeling  in a bed of maroon straw

intuits doom     as a color     as optic

     Apocrypha  

viii.

subconsciously, I am holy and by holy
I can offer not being seen in the grocery
as my father squints into a handheld
calculator.  

ix.

to fox paw
this thorn

     from my mother’s
apnea

This is real
This is true
I cut, reform, reshape for you
And though it hurts
With penknife sting
I hope one day
You'll accept this ring.

So trust me baby
Though I cause a fuss
I’ll work on past it
For the sake of us.

Lace my pain with percussive cussing
Swear care no matter how you fare
Taking turns, till, we in turn fail
End nearing, gasp through by breadth of hair.

So hold no breaths
And cry no tears
We’ll be there soon
Speak, breathe, forget your fears.

It's true our future’s cloudy
We're over 8 by 8 by 100 miles away
I daily **** up as you tuck in
Pledging, “Rest, I don’t jest figure eights.”

Numbers don’t matter.

And my senses, they’re surely wrong.

So why hold both eyes on you?
And ask the same for me, just as long?
It’s so we both go strain blind
Bind souls and minds together
Splatter glue hastily agreeing to this eternal song
Float handheld in this spaceless place
Disintegrating all the walls that fall upon us.

… Or those we need to walk through.

There, in fantasy, easily we go
Each kiss a taste of the love we share
That we only alone in our nakedness wear
It's clear I would put nothing on or over you
Or dare seek some other exchange
Because without this arrangement
There'd be nothing
Besides empty, pitted pangs.

Dreams
Dreams of Grandmas house
Dreams of The Pond
of Nahla the golden dog
of Mohka the black dog
of Pablo the horse
of Abraham the donkey
and ******* if I can't remember the cats name.
I do remember how I would only see it around meal time and then only briefly; descending from the attic to eat Fancy Feast.

Cutting cold hot dogs to mix in with the dog food, taking a bite or two from each dog, hot dog that is.
Stacking
Stacking
and stacking more hay.
Then, slowly, one bail, split in two, half for the *******, mixed with Alfalfa the other half for the horse.


I was, maybe (I'm a little too drunk to remember), 7 or 8, when my sister and I captured a box full of tree frogs from The Pond. Excited with our new box of living toys, we brought them back to the red house/trailer Frankenstein. Sitting outside in the sun we attempted to count them, fruitless, but convince a couple of dirt stained, sun baked, white trash kids of that.
Yelling (always yelling, never brash, rarely angry, always loving yet, always yelling) our Grandma called us in for lunch, stouffers lasagna with Truckee Sourdough Company bread greased thickly with tube garlic butter.
We ate, drank our whole milk, did our best to avoid the tantalus sin of sunscreen, and scrambled back outside, no thought or worry for our frogs.

It must have been July or August. the famed drought of the Western United States, aided by childish disregard, had slaughtered our maybe two dozen tree frogs.


I'll tell ya, I don't remember when or how Grandma (a lover of all things living, besides Bush 1 or Bush 2 perhaps) found the frogs but I do remember her often and automatic exclaim of "Son of a gun!" was replaced with the real version, replaced and amplified and aimed.
I can't remember our punishment or if we received one, but, rest assured, Joslyn and I never jammed a plastic handheld aquarium full of tree frogs ever again.

Thank Grandma Vicki for that one.
Thanks Joslyn, for reminding me of the attic cats name: Poe