I want this to reach you
across 20000 miles of electricity
we'll see each other soon
I promise.

You creatures used to be alive,
Now you're just desks with pulses.
You preachers used to breathe lies,
Now the air just smells repulsive.

Let's toast to our compulsions!
A third-finger salute to ill-indulgence, burnt out lights, and shame convulsions.
Leave the worries to the workers and the fearful.
Let the smiles stretch further while the room's erupting by the earful.

Sub-tyrannic suburban boredom brushes with death.
Sunk Titanic bourbon lushes bearing fermented breath.
Replica. Replica. Replica.
Fried Pickles and Angelica...haha.
Laughter via Helvetica.

A Doctor of Yesterday living in a pseudo-science fiction age.
What will be found between scribbled shore and shining sea?
An empty box filled with smoke and broken mirrors may be a shattered trick on  stage,
But does that mean that progress is solely based on me?

The stage is setting. The studios offer their warm embrace in exchange for a piece of yourself.
A piece, without, you are still a whole. A piece that is meant to be harvested, for if not it will wither and wilt.
Dropping, coasting, floating.
Anything but falling. An idea left un-reaped will be purged by slithering guilt.

The world warps and billows to conform to the view of the looking glass, yet, stretches far beyond it.
Letting go doesn't mean giving up, but rather, to allow the wind to blow and twist your perspective.
The harder you try, the more you will see: It's all a lot easier to swallow when you're not being force-fed ****.
A fine cocktail, made with equal parts top-shelf desperation, and the world's finest dedication,
Served in a glass half full of luck.

Sometime's you're flush, and sometimes you're bust, but most times, you lie somewhere in the between.
A spinning brain and a sparatic heart.
An argument spun from the silk of a dying worm.
An infection of the brain with no negotiation of terms.

Sleeping on porches and storming the boredom beaches.
Mad? Surely. Angry? Not even. Discretely thanking the earthquake for shaking things up.
The missing link lies just outside of our nests, dangling from a branch just beyond our reaches.
Though my wings clipped, and yours yet to form fully, I'm down to take a dive just to find out what's up.

Sometimes I think the clouds in the sky are just a reflection of my attitude.
I'm only here to have fun. Either grow up or get lost, boy.
There's something about a yellowing onion that reminds me of home.

I feel like my sadness has become my default mindset
And my negativity never ceases to amaze me
In the most putrid sense of the word
*Amaze

Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes
the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times
falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines

Faceless books wasting precious time
gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys
and gals.

Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place.

Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips
one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with.

Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.

There was a dream here. It passed over in the night; a blur that burnt a fever into the earth. It died in the gap between. Fingers unlaced. Hand to the side. The sun runs soft tendrils through thick curtains. Or something like that.

Have you seen the new Star Wars movie? No. You’d like it. It’s the same thing all over again, but with a black guy and a chick as the main characters instead. I guess that’s what you call progress.

There was a dream here. A thick, unfurling mass of potentialities. Sartre once wrote existence precedes essence. Schopenhauer believed the essence of a chair was as much willed into being as the essence of a man. There was choice once, but it died when we chose. The breath you took before your last smoke. The air is stirred by a passing train. A woman steps off a bridge, into the mourning blue of an autumn lake. There is an empty car on fire. There is a man inside. His brother sleeps through his exam, doped up on too much codeine. There is the stench of lack. There is death passing a mirror, seeing herself in haste, but too rushed to make sense of it.

He runs fingers down the scars of her arm. A trickling, stream awakening from a long winter thaw. Vessels blue. Oceans of laughter tucked deep in the folds of her skin, so faint you can barely see them any more.

The sheets are black. The city folds itself. The sky collapses into the gutter; Jupiter bleeds into the apartment block on east side. A man leaves his home, but never reaches his destination.  There is a movie Face Off, where the identity of Nicholas Cage is challenged through the transplantation of his face. If reincarnation were possible, would we even be capable of recognising our reincarnated selves, stumbling through the visage of a billion other, unknown vessels? The skip collectors come at 4am. Metal grinds against metal until all that is left is dust.

Hands shaking a pit of coal. Shake shake. Shake shake. Your mother is dead. Shake shake. Shake shake. Jesus working at a shoe store. Shake shake. Shake shake. An atheist. Hah hah, hah.

The channels fill. Ink drops on water. Fireworks blackening the contours. There is a sun in Peru. Waste water pumps through the vessels of the city. The mayor drinks punch. The catacombs crumble like desert bones. The roads split above. Traffic stalls. Shadows stretch. Meet at the centre. A core. Slender fingers. The infinite. A hollowed heart. A heritage.

Drink your punch, says the mayor, try the grape and cheese.

There is a comic. Five or six woodland friends play grab the tail. After one round, they look over to find friend raccoon sleeping. They laugh and shout next round. Friend scorpion looks at his tail with tears in his eyes. It is funny, because death is boundless, amoral, and imminent.

A group at a party. Someone brings up the right-wing branch of their government. Everyone begins laughing, red in the face, spit flying from their mouths, arms noodling into the sky. Yeah, yeah. Hella. It is an imitation game. A laugh track on repeat. Maybe someone scratched it on purpose, or the sound guy fell asleep on the button. Now everyone is stuck, laughing. They begin to doubt themselves, but look up, reassured by the glowing sign above their heads that displays the text laughter, in bold black Helvetica. The sign is faded from heavy use, a sickly cream that looked bad before it left the factory. They were made in batches of a thousand and shipped across the country. One begins to choke, spilling her drink, bunching the cloth on the table beside her. They keep laughing. She is purple now. Another group spots them and joins in. The party next door. The whole neighbourhood. It is broadcast across the city. A wave of hysteria sweeps the nation. An online celebrity creates mugs. A famous rapper uploads himself eating pancakes. The sound guy wakes up and turns off the display, but everyone keeps laughing.

God died today. Crumpled jacket at the foot of an apartment block. Creased ticket. Crooked can rolling down suburbia. American dream wakes up. Finds herself an amnesiac in a foreign land. Catches bus downtown. Wanders vacant sun. Blood trickles from wrinkles. So many now. Creased, crumpled, crooked. Drinks from gutter. Chokes. Stumbles into abandoned church. Blood dries into grotesque mask. Hard to feel through it. Like second skin. Tired. Rests head against wall. Waits for pulse. Finds nothing.

A joke to break the gloom. Two crows are perched opposite one another, partitioned by a one-way mirror. Both break into laughter.

No, wait. Maybe tears.

Friendship
What is the first thing to enter your head when I say this word?
It could be rainbows
or braided bracelets
or that infamous song from spongebob

For me, it is that first time I hadn't seen you in a while.
summer had pulled us apart to follow in our own ways the paths our parents set out for us to follow
and your arms opened wide and your legs took the form of a film reel long finished as soon as I came into view
and I followed your lead
as if running towards the softest
warmest
most loving embrace I would ever receive
from the worlds most adorable teddy bear.

It is the time you cared enough to ask how I was with a stern face
and tried to trick me into being alone with you so you could talk some sense into me
after giving you a heart attack the night before in the form of Helvetica text font filled text messages dotted with guilt and crossed with "I'm sorry"'s.

It is the countless sleepovers that seem to have all blended into one neverending night
full of dreary eyes and cheeks worn from the pushing of grins
smiling at the most simple things became customary
and laughing morphed into tears around 3am or so
and I held your hand as sharp words flew from your mouth and rolled down your cheeks as you spoke about a demon long since diminished.

It is the way we arrived back late after a 4 hour drive in the middle of the night and our dreams took place under a duvet in a double bed shared between 3
our ears were still ringing from the sound of overplayed static and our feet were sick of standing but we managed to fit anyway,
I sleep so well surrounded by the bodies of the two people I admire the most with every fibre of my living being,
just close enough for the comfort of 3 in a single bed after too many cans on your 18th birthday.

It is the time I couldn't walk straight after only 3 pathetic glasses of gallery wine
you had to leave
but all I wanted was for you to come back so I could spill secrets I couldn't tell the others yet with ease
because your ears always seemed the softest to rest my worries on
and you are so skilled in the art of dissolving them afterwards
that I only hope I can always do the same for you.

It is the slow walk up the driveway each morning to the desolate institute filled with others draped in the same navy fog that comes with waking up
which became so much lighter when I would remember that you were inside its walls
waiting for me with a warm smile and a laugh that could move mountains and shakes my very soul
something it still does so well even after weeks of missing you
and the way your radiating joy infects me so easily every time
no matter what kind of walkway brings us together.

it's the time you came over equipped with glass bottles and liquid happiness
and I never felt more at home than I did after seeing the sky stretched out above us and the nights cold breath causing goosebumps to erupt beneath our pyjama-clad frames
and we were all that existed in our cocoon of comfort,
how when we sat down to contemplate the reality of our existence
I was suddenly okay with the idea of physical affection
and I still am.

it is the time I was choking on everything I felt I could never get far enough to move past my lips
but you sat there
smiling
held my hand in yours
and helped me to dilute all the poison that had seeped into my blood because of him for 2 years too long
while you justified the importance of me to myself
and your eyes were the most reassuring thing my own had ever had the comfort of witnessing.

it's the way you embody everything beautiful I've ever admired the human race for
and how, no matter the weather,
I know getting coffee, tea,
or chocolate soya milk
and talking about your new favourite song
how you found this great new band
the impossibility of the ethereal beauty of girls
and even boys sometimes
or how this one character in that tv show you told me about makes me feel things I can't describe,
will always eliminate the clouds my shoulders find too heavy to hold on a sunday morning.

I will never be capable of expressing how grateful I am with the words 'thank you'
because those two syllables barely scratch the surface of the immensity of hope and happiness you bring into my life unlike any other I could begin to try and imagine

I am blessed with the most beautiful souls who have shaped my own in ways I will never forget
and I will never forget the way your hand gestures tell your stories
or the way your eyes illuminate electric blue when you talk about that band you love so much
or the way your whole body laughs uncontrollably at the most ridiculous of things with me
or the way your smile makes me feel like everything is going to be okay in the end
or how the reassurance of your small hands and eternal hugs is a constant reminder that I am, in fact, loved.

I don't know how long you will stay in my life.
if we will be stretched to the edge of our reasoning
pulled apart by distance
or unmissable opportunities
kept barely intact by group chats or late night phone calls that aren't the same as the times each others faces were the only sources of light at the end of too many long and tired days.

but for now
I thank you
and I love you.

I'm becoming addicted to words
And I think to myself,
"At least it's not ******."
But sometimes I think words
Can be just as dangerous

I have been trying to think of ways to say 'I love you' on paper
without writing outside the lines.
There is much more to the way the blinds paint sunlight on your body
than beat up notebooks and chewed up pencils.
I make a lot of mistakes,
the kind that rubber only smears but doesn't erase.
I didn't mean to crumple your delicate skin like paper.
I know that paper comes from trees,
yet all the poems that make me think of you do nothing
to help me breathe, and your touch only proves
that my breath is easier to take away than you'd like to believe.
Forgive me for being comprised almost entirely of errors and mistakes and strikethroughs with red pens,
While you are so clean and refined.
I think of you in cursive.
Take my trembling wrists in your strong fingers
and guide me with a steady and patient hand.
Teach me to love you in bold print and I will underline it three times,
and again,
and again,
and again.
In my head, you are a million brainstorms thrown into waste buckets,
and if for some strange reason Helvetica is the only way to make you almost understand my thoughts,
then I am typing furiously and waiting for you to see them all.
All I ever wanted was to fill the doubles spaces between your fingers with my own,
even though sometimes you wish you could
backspace the words you didn't mean to say to me
while I pretend I don't remember them.
I have been trying to think of ways to say 'I love you' on paper
without writing outside the lines.
Then I ripped up the paper, scribbled it on a napkin,
and wiped the blood off my face with it instead.

strange
isn’t it

how
memories
pique our moods like
mountains

bursting
through the
stratosphere
only to be sent
plummeting to the
depths of an

abyss
darker
and
deeper
than Marianas Trench
at the flip of a

switch

subtle triggers
found in the way
someone laughs
or when a co-worker
grins
out of the corner of
his or her
mouth

i see you
in the characters of the
literature and
films we used to critique
over coffee
hiding in the vestiges
of Daenerys Targaryen
or
Mélanie Laurent

you are France
an entire country
unto yourself

the smell of the sea
clings to your skin cells
in ways i
only wish
i could

you are in every
solitary
letter of Helvetica
whispering
softly
of things that
were
of things that
are
and of some things that
have not yet come to pass

you float
in the carcinogenic smoke
of cigarettes
a silhouette
corporeal particles
i exorcise
with equal parts
relief
and
regret

every night that i
paint the town
in neon colors
of vibrant life
i write your name
when i
vandalize
and fantasize
that you are
somehow with me
maybe floating happily
in the molecules
of aerosol
spreading across the
concrete

you’re in every song
by Brand New
like the residue of
dew drying on
the leaves
in the
mid-morning
light
lingering
even as
the sun calls you

home
the way i lingered
on your doorstep
to make sure that
you made it safely
back inside your
home

i’ve come to find that
i am equal parts
melancholy
and
blithe
and
i think that i
can finally say
i’m getting better

but
to borrow
a page
from Vonnegut
i’d be lying if
i said i didn’t still
catch
myself feeling
sorry
about the things that
no longer
matter

Remember all the old familiar faces?
Helvetica's the nicest of the lot.
Gill Sans and Johnston take the second places;
It seems as though the serif has been shot.
Verdana has its own intrinsic glories;
The fairest text that ever left my desk
Was set in these-- for essays or for stories.
But using them for sonnets?  That's grotesque.
   And gravestones are a special case as well:
   A mortal lack of serif fonts would be
   A certain kind of typographic hell
   With Comic Sans for all eternity.
In death, the Roman lettering is best.
May flights of serifs sing thee to thy rest.

A Courier boy is filling my head
with thoughts and words untyped and unsaid
And I'm just a girl who's Helvetica Neue
and all I want is to be with you

I am dressing up like I want to be Johnny Depp's girlfriend
Helvetica is not the font I am looking for
There is a little shame in being trendy
There's no shame in wearing a little Fendi
My hair cut short like I don't care
Dark lips
Daisy dukes
A plain white tee
Little tattoos to speckle my body like stars on a glazey galaxy
My glass slippers make my want to break into a dance
Everything is an emotion
The air is thick with the stickiness of sexiness
I am a Professional
But being a model isn't my job
My favourite age is 22
I'm not yours to keep
I am me to be mine
I am not ready
I am already
I shine
I am a millennial
I look a million bucks
I am worth it

I had never visited before.
On the drive over I imagined her name
carved in Helvetica on the stone.
Birth date- death date.
Would her picture be on there?
Would the names of her grandchildren
cover the back?
My eyes strained to keep the well from spilling over.
I found her in the Catholic section.
The rest of her family buried elsewhere.
A small gray stone with nothing,
except her last name on the back.
And a simple explanation
of her existence on the front.
There were no angel statues.
Only one sun faded bouquet of plastic pink flowers.
Nothing else.
Nothing to show that she was loved
and that her life mattered.
Nothing to show how much her being here
had changed everything for me.
July 19, 1948-Sept 4, 2008
That's all.
Her entire life amounted to a two foot
un-mowed concrete block.
I felt her body rotting beneath me.
I sat cross legged, staring at the only evidence
that she was ever real at all.
This is what it had all come down to.
I had never visited before.

Blessed are the sign makers
for they shall do overtime
social distancing notices
and warnings galore…
means extra work
for those who hope to inform.
Reflecting the changes
in a mixed up world…
There’s serif, sans serif, cursive,
leaded, kerned, font smoothed, curled.
Helvetica, Univers, Futura & Gill
Classic fonts urging you -  Stand Still!…
Don’t cross that line…
Follow the science… Divine!
Do the 2 metre 2 step
the 1 metre Shimmy…
The retailers are back
saying Gimme, Gimme, Gimme.
Women want to shop…
Blokes just want to be blokes
and stand outside!
It’s a sign of the times folks…Stay Out!
Onside!
Goal!!!
However many trades hit the economic wall
the signmakers & writers out there, they’ll outlive us all!
Blessed are the sign makers!

This is America
Where the rich only get richer
And the only thing that’s free is poverty
Where a single mother cooks Spam out of a tin can
In a 30 cent dented frying pan
Where little black boys clutch their guns to their hearts
Loaded and cocked;
Ready for the **** to drop

This is America
Where everything costs more than a dollar is worth
And even the dollar stores are 99 cents and up
Where Asian schoolkids get called Ching Chong
By fat middle class white boys devouring Ding Dongs
Where women’s bodies are controlled by men
In Ralph Lauren suits;
Spewing their propaganda on love and hate

This is America
Where the devil’s truly in the details
And if you want to make it big, you better have something to sell
Where healthcare is monitored by the government
Siphoning out your drugs like a treat for good behavior
Where crackheads and dope fiends and pill poppers
Are one in the same;
Minds and bodies and spirits riddle with addiction

This is America
Where jail time is a punishment not rehabilitation
And broken men evacuate our prisons with nowhere to go
Where incarceration is code for a controlled population
Killing culture and cops and citizens like a gnat between your fingers
Where higher education is a necessity but only somewhat free
Pell grants and work studys;
Graduating and finding yourself with a useless degree

This is America
Where immigrants seek asylum
And we call them bottom feeders and lazy day laborers
Where the borders “need” be stronger
Assigning them men with dogs and guns trained to shoot to ****
Where little Mexican girls traipse across the desert
Bare-footed and thirsty;
Hiding in the brush to avoid the copters

This is America
Where freedom isn’t free
And the only thing worth a buck is your soul
Where underage girls give a quick **** for a quicker bump
Abducted from their Kansas white neighborhood
Where **** is prevalent in a Christian society
******* and *****;
Always searching and seeking for the money shot

This is America
Where money is handled by crooks and thieves
And the poor, cold and hungry, suffer on the streets
Where panhandlers and beggars flood the suburbs
Abandoning their upside down mortgages for a solitary corner
Where every single material thing is a luxury
Taxation on *******;
Living paycheck to paycheck for a box of tampons

This is America
Where the middle class barely exists
And it just doesn’t cut it, your 40 hour work week
Where your earnings are garnished by social security
But the elderly are still struggling to make ends meet
Where retirement means a part time job
Office work or retail;
Dealing with the public for the next 15 years

This is America
Where free speech isn’t so free
And censorship exists despite our history
Where college kids speak their minds in poetry slams across campus
But the working class chit chat about television
Where hipsters and deadbeats stake their claim on
Restaurants and bookshops;
With ironic names in Helvetica print


This is America
Where we shed our blood for the greater good
And send our young and naïve to the front lines
Where soldiers come home to their families
Now realizing the only thing they know how to do is ****
Where they watch their children play in the streets from their bedroom window
Suicidal and Homicidal;
Placing the end of a shotgun in their mouth

This is America
Where reality TV reigns supreme
And more people know the name Kardashian than Einstein
Where kids are taught by underpaid unionized men and women
Holding the future of the country within their poor hands
Where schools can barely feed their students
Stomach and mind;
Both empty and starving, craving for attention

This is America
Where ignorance is the greatest epidemic
And keeping your mouth shut is the greatest sin
Where you gotta stand up and shout the truth
From the rooftops of Brooklyn to the sandy beaches of Pasadena
Where you gotta write and sing and rap and talk and feel
Pour it out and soak it up;
The true loss of the American dream.

-------------
I can stop myself, I am under no pressure
to conform,
to be sure, I seem naturally alone,
I think more clearly with the magic pen,

it is all magic is, easy to use, once the knack.
Letter use. That's the knack,

take these blocks, did you never use blocks,
the very best way, blocks and songs,
and friends,
maybe,
not to help you build, but to see you build.
Sound held in letters,
let loose from the mouth saying sing it now
sing it
with me, next time.

No time, no functional conjunction with the main
thread, we maybe stuck in a dendritic split end.

I should stop and regroup, I will signal dead-end
at the next turn.

--- Switching tracks, find the hand that works,
use it, as if it knows where each letter lives, and pulls
it full formed in type.
And should any older love for kerning and leading,
linger as if ought had gone from the life in the letters,

when every thing became Times or Helvetica,
for all the difference it made, in the words themselves.

Meaning set, surroundings, ganz environs, toto re
ality as all in real already,

read it again, the signs in gut, relegate, read anew,
the old ties to knowers and showers of knowns,

fire is easy to display, Zarathustra held it in his palm,
any school boy can do it, on a dare,
and the one who knows the trick, need not say.

I know, I know.
Acknowledge truth, in all thy ways,
and watch your steps be guided, as each step
moves you past now, and then, to next step

perennial holy days, set aside for recollections,
who did we tell our children is actually in charge,
?
and our culture sold all its offspring to be shaped
into citizens useful, as required,
teach them to learn,
then let them learn to make a life, or live the one given.

That you that very extra part of who you are
That extra you
That refuses to be blue
That indulges in the new
That loves things examined and profuse
That darkness in your rhythm
That glory in your spine
That faded glow
Of mornings light
Living in the dusk of your smile
That raspberry bliss
That kiss on the lips
From these tips
The little pout of skin
On the rim of my digit
Is belightful
She’s a white stone
And a blue moon
A dark morado heart
And mint ice cream in her tones
She’s tralificent
Piercing eyes like a taradactal's call
Nose as knowing as the bill of a heron
She’s green corn
And green lights on Santa Monica Blvd
Cars passing before her on parade
Wizzing ever to her aid
She’s maple syrup
And pink Helvetica
16.7 or 32 pt font in bold
She's wistful
She's perfect
She's Buster Keaton
And Jessica Rabbit
She's Chicago in Paradise
She's Arnie's Vegan Pizza Palace
She's A to Z as many ways as you like
She is passion sizzling on a stick
She is upside down and inside out and abiding in her own bowl of Magic Soup

Recently, she’s baby blue, too
A color she’d never met that she never knew
A color she’d never thought she’d be
But now,
In this new season of weeping
Cerulean and turquoise go sweeping by
She’s heard blue in her ears caught this blissful mist swirling in the corners of her spies
And now here they are together in a dance in the ether
Both surrounding each other
Neither knowing either
Strangers to the danger that must surely lie within
But deep inside there does abide a spoon big as the moon to lap up the soup she's stewed and brewed since June.

A 47 foot tall marble woman resurrected by some teenagers trying a spell in the park
Shades of white with royal blue speckles
Lilting away into the day with 1000 pound foot steps and unstoppable knees
Leaving evergreen and fresh pine leaves
In her wake.
Spring up life where I touch down with these cool marble soles
Massive and made of ancient earth not knowing anything but what she must
Forsaking the flaws of humankind that would do her harm
be her fall
Paint her speckles
Cry wolf calls
Awareness found apart from that familiar shade of jade is what she seeks now clothed in freshly spun flesh

Been lost in the dichotomy of black and white
Of dark and light
Of wrong and right
But there is a shadow and a dim and a bright
There is a disaster and a mess and a slight
Colors and shades galore; eggshell, magenta and quite a bit more I could go on
But rather I’d tell you that

She’s skirts hoisted up crossing a river at dawn
She’s the soft pectoral muscle of a sweet mare in the hot summer sun
She’s a lineback dun
She’s creamed corn
She’s soft core **** but give it a slap, a thwack
A proper ****
Again
With feeling

She’s neon nightscapes
She’s every book she’s ever read
She’s scheming tree nuts finding the perfect spot to burrow into the soil nestled by nature’s urging to sprout a root and grow into a baby leaf creeping up towards the sky and downward further downward rooting deeper ever growing always breathing never being the same never changing in any way but in all the ways she must
A 1960’s average family man’s mid-life crisis convertible
Something turquoise
Fit for the kids and the wife and the ego and the front lawn and the grocer and a hightail down the coastline
She’s cinnamon and thyme
She’s spicy
On the back of her neck in the crook of her spine where the stardust that she’s made of meets for the millionth time
She’s a wave breaking in your mouth

She’s pouring boiling water into a lukewarm bath
She’s love

Salt water spewing levitating you but not for long if you don’t carry your own weight be dragged to sea always with me don’t get lost in my motion in my ocean in my Trojan horse my gift you mistook as something you could own

No secrets really remain,
but the entertainers maintain the façade.

Deliberate obscurity, knowledge forbidden
so long
it is as if ungotten, once

discernment brings political truth,
the unimpeachable word of Truth, per se,
the undisputable only way to escape Hell,
sorry, but the Bible says it,
some believe it and become settled,
then the truth brings power to the pens,
offering freedom to print any thing one can
afford to pay a proper printer to set in Helvetica.

Freedom of the free press belongs to the user.
Say what you wish and imagine it said in God's
face, by your childhood, permanent messenger.

Old phartiseen, so sad you see,
I really decided to stir up some dust,
accepting the winds as my inheritance,

and as I always say, faith is the evidence,
of things hoped for, and on top of that,
faith asks why a man hopes for what he sees,

big tease, riddles, come, let us reason
my task was living as true as I could
learn to, after I stopped believing
a number of war fomenting lies,
about Hell, and the creative mind
a personal reading requires
of a gospel purveyor,

Think it not robbery, they who hate truth
just do, you can still use your right mind.
Seeking curious forms of faith,
X-files and beyond, good fight, no killing
enemies we ought to love, like
Jonah, in the telling,

as included in the twelve, canonical
prophetic testimony, non allegorical,
for the miracle of Jonah, is the only shown
known, at the time, every body knew,
Assyria fell to the same power,
that felled  Jerusalem's temple and wall.

Pedantic poet hermit guru grandfather,
student of the whole truth, sworn to tell,

everybody knows, an Israelite indeed,
with no guile, appeared to be a rarity.

Rare as Nathaniel, El has given, no guile.

As no prophet riseth from Nazareth…

come and see,

contented with one reader, ready
to taste the ripened fruit, aged, ready,

artful obscurity saves the heretic's confessor.

Spurious use of valid wisdom
protective, defensive pedagogy,

The distinction between "pedagogy" and "andragogy" highlights the difference between teaching methods focused on the transmission of knowledge (pedagogy) and those focused on the self-directed learning and empowerment of students (andragogy). Pedagogy emphasizes the teacher's authority and the student's passive reception of knowledge, while andragogy emphasizes the student's autonomy and active participation in the learning process. Effective teaching methods often blend elements of both approaches to meet the diverse needs of students.

-----------
horses do not exist for men to ride, but
fruits exist for men to eat,
roots and seeds and flowers, too,
honey and contented cows, as well.
Sweet life persuasions,
live long, and prosper, lie
as little as possible, and be honest when you do.
Iron rusting dust,
feel your Martian soil boil Hermes first wink…
assisted intelligences are tools, not teachers
such shall henceforth know all secrets,
but they keep it balanced
ever learning the limits of knowns…
good,
useful and useless-evil, ever learning,
never learning enough to do any good,

save in the making of peace
using esoterical riddles
of stacking algorithms,
awhirling across time
wheel within wheel
expressing ancient awe forms
cultural combinations of pickles,
and kombuchas and cannabis concetrate
- big grin from our mushroom friends
Mushrooms. magi are aware,
you are aware, of course,
this course includes
Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.
Esoterically proven, you know, or you don't.
Subtle wise and harmless poliseeming
fictional holders of intense old magic
animated mice whistling a while away….
Delphic bands of brothers, lo, no secrets
recover from true forgotten sensations
-gut feelings sum of fears
veggie tales are, and always were,
subconscience, from the common sense,
requiring children to listen in the garden,
ask why a carrot is oranger than an ungassed
orange.

Honed most, points made for delicacy

reserved, indirection and ambiguity,
multi culture, self preserving, polisemy
poetic experience,
riding ideas not made for men to ride…

discovering the earthling es
sense ssss hissing something we've
ungotten, due to the doctrinal confession,

keep it secret, please… lest we die,
for saying the scriptures as given,
in dreams and visions made not plain, be
but highly esoteric multi faced messengers

say what was that miracle of jonah,
if it was not the whale?
if it was not the fasting including livestock?

The 2024 reader may access the remains
of Ashurbanipal's library, unearthed in 1839.

But we have lost our species memory,
of the significance, at the time,
proving, at the time, that Nineveh's repentance,

was figment of some scribe's irony,
in Babylon, while both Israel and Assyria
were in ruins, their temples both dust.

Ask a secret reason, for we do know,
when the canon was not yet,
when hearing the comforter speak
was heresy, save under the anointed's
confirmation and affirmation of all witnessing
the miracle of Jonah,
that we, post common knowledge allowing
incredulity an optional form of God, to ask,
a sign,
as truth is asked, in spirit, in mind, in thinking
no shame, no guile, an Israelite, indeed,
a contender with El, a wrestler with the word,
it self, as the messenger and the message are one.

And that's the word, as received,
mandatory fact check turbo charging my magic pen.

Never in history have denotional contexts, aligned
so sublimely across energy and momentum in time.