Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”

nuts, crazy peeps

whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped

me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included

the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)

they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline

though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs

so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!

so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

guessing must be something in the water and the wine

Walk slowly down the street
on the cold hard concrete,
with houses along the side,
and cars out for a drive.
Fire Hydrants that sit,
and mail boxes that stand.
And so many plants
put in this world by hand.
Nothing beats the beautiful.
The poise stance, the soft pink,
and the puff of the flower.
The Cherry Blossom.
Catching the attention and
arises positive thinking by the
neighborhood crowd.
The tree is rare
but the wandering strangers attention is allowed.
To eye,
the Cherry Blossom.

You sleep earthquake some nights
like a puppy
Whimper and swim

You dream like the grand canyon did when it was just a shallow river bed

You never expect to get so big
to create so much space

So I know holding you won't make you still

Your head in my hands like a sunrise
strands of gold
drizzling between my fingers

Your body
like a lonely bear living in a city
you miss home
eat only yellow things
Dandilions
and honey
bumble bees
and chips of paint from fire hydrants

Inside you belly it is always
daytime
always spring

So much light
you don't sleep well most nights

And I wish I could place my hands
inside the space between your shoulder blades

and take it out of you
hold it swirling in my hands

I will put it into a jar of water
and in then in the fridge
so that it might learn stillness in the cold

I will come back to bed to you
a beer bottle still in my hand

I will pull the blankets from you
and let the dark settle
Inside this new space

And maybe this night
You can sleep peacefully

What makes you so sure your sickness need not be heavily medicated?
You walk around, your body hanging like your favourite outfit that you never wear anymore,
stumped in a box
The street lights breathe like the cigarette that you smoke at the end of the night and regret immediately after,
the cigarette that tastes like glue,
The pads of your feet blink to the floor,
Your soft eyes watch the people and their smiles, they once represented jealousy but now sail past you like leaves of boredom from nowhere,
You chew on an energy bar as the purple plants, bike riders, suit case carriers and fire hydrants stroll by,
You make fists to fit eye sockets, but your hands stay by their sides
waiting for the courage to find the change that promises never to come,
You sit on the bench and wait for somebody who might chemically excite you
Your mouth clamps shut and your food rots inside of you molding your breath,
The dog walkers follow their excuses not to be lonely
and you crave a machine to make you feel better,
no human will do,
And the cats purr against tree legs and look at you as though you are stupid,
You sit around your friends wanting more intoxication
anything but this elasticated dribble of saliva they call ‘the gang’
Because another ‘gang’ is just another situation where you can feel alone and misunderstood again,
another metaphor for your life and incapability to feel comfortable,
You bathe in quiet awkwardness that only you feel
and cry when no one looks or when no one decides to see,
And you wallow in the self pity that sleeps in beer cans and wine glasses
searching at the bottom of them for someone who can relate to your loneliness,
And everyone thinks they’ve got the answers but you do too and you think the answers are no good either,
You call out on roof tops in the loudest voice your thoughts can muster
And the teachers who get paid to care have given up too,
So you sit like an old book being read over and over again melting to resemble an instruction manuel or something equally repetitious,
And you wait for the time to pass,
and the people too,
You wait to be interested by something,
anything that will comfort you,
But you seek solace in the smell of dustbins, petrol, sea salt, beer froth and your hands in the shower,
And hope that they’ll all
come together
and somehow
let you know
it’s going to be okay.

I was doing a little jig down the sidewalk
When all of a sudden
This red, bulbous, obstruction pounced into my field of view
I said, "Whoa, hotshot, cool down"

He/she/it did not reply
"I'm talking to you kiddo
Can you please communicate with me?"
It just sat there staring at me. Why?

You see, hydrants can be little stinkers sometimes
They'll talk your earlobe off one time
Other times they act like a sack of taters
They're just little drama queens

"Meow meow" said the hydrant
I take a look over yonder, than ask the **** target,
"Are you talking to me sir?"
"Meow," it said "I'm not sure I like your tone"

"You must be some sort of mind type hacker dealio
Cracking into my cerebellum, what are you doing in there?
Seriously man! Come on!
You must be going through emotional trauma. PTSD I don't know."

"Calm down buco, let's talk about this
Over a bucket of churned goat milk, I love that stuff.
How's Shirley? I hear she took up crocheting
I respect that"

"Grr, graa, paa?
Me oh my, this reminds me of pick up sticks all over again
Hey look at this man,
If you walk without rhythm, than you won't attract the worm."

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_______
The original poem:
  
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

Oh, this bullying.
Where everyone addressing the subject?
Only if they just visit our history.

We saw the worst of bullying in the fifties and early sixties.
When segregation showcased their true color.
And the ones they bully suffered more.

Then these present group crying of bullying.
Who have more?
Then they ever had.

We saw law enforcers turning lose dogs.
We saw fire hydrants turned loosed upon them.
And children's being beaten.

What thin skin folks have now?
We saw thick skin folks take a lot more of then.
This is a case of true bullying.

Being like is cool.
But like Jesus realize not all going to be adore.
He was bully way more than any of us.
Some weak folks needs to push others.
Which only happens until you stand up to them.

If one bully intimidate five.
Realize that bully has five to intimidate them.
Just to show them the other side.

Adults gets bully more.
Ask them?
That get blackmail by their employer.

Man, look at 'em go.
Zipping about.
Fast flying, like their fathers.
Fly fishing, like their fathers.
Dropping cones, scraping knees.
Crying, laughing, *****.
Wooden block, sidewalk chalk.
Old McDonald had a farm.
Mayor Daley had a city.
A whole ******* city.
Fire hydrants, parking meters.
Public parks, with wood chips.
Rubber wood chips.
For babies and kids and dogs.

(PARODY, SATIRE & TRIBUTE)

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_
The original poem:
  
Share |


Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

I’ve diagnosed it with industrialized rickets,

stomach is open and distended

metal is bowed with greenstick

fractures, hard and bendable,

compensating with growth

disturbances and wider wrists.


If I squint enough

there is movement

in permanent metal, micro-movements

as the ants shape sand hills

far from half-buried

fire-hydrants and barely there

Red Hot Chili Peppers

laced with frat-boy yells.


I’ve named it insieme

just far enough away to be together.

It’s body isn’t big enough

for all the purpose that it has.

At some point it’s been welded,

Atomic number 29,

add tin and it becomes 79.


Gold. It’s on fire, comprised

of a thousand tiny synthetic

flames fused together by rust.

It’s too open a place.

It should be found in ignorant alleyways

where half smoked cigarette butts marry

pavement, where brash teenagers go to cry.

The ants make sense though.

The angels are calling me home
to churches at night where concrete features
bleed with the blood of artists
who were consumed by their pride
in their search for God:
Hide and seek champion of all time
which is completely relative
I’ve been on this planet since the days where
creatures fled the Jurassic blackness
a pen is just a pen is just a pen is just a gateway
into a mind afflicted with rational thoughts
and freud would say a pen is just a pen
but sometimes a pen is a *****
and that’s the world we live in
I walk the same twelve square blocks of this city
and the police chase me away from
******* on fire hydrants
drunk on the steps of city hall
I bought myself a thick glass of self-esteem
and fed it to my ego
before I threw up all of things we never wanted heard
onto a piece of paper
a hotel bar napkin
which reads I love you
The angels are calling me home
but I falter
because I want my time to fly
so I fly on the wings of dead street birds
and childhood kites
and when it rains it pours
and I collect it in a cup and baptize myself in nature
a poet is a poet is a poet
but I say
a poet is a poet is sometimes a jack ***

Bill Wilson sat down for his 10th
and 11th drinks tonight,
drowning out World War I
with shots of top shelf
bullets.
Pulling the trigger on his own body,
satiating the burning in his gut.
He almost forgot what a
sober night
tasted like.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, practice makes perfect.
Months of one drink as too many,
and one hundred as not enough.
Written off as a man destined to die,
Bill downed bottle after bottle,
leaving the shelves heaving for
company, wonder how he drank himself
solitude, empty?
Or was he full gut war,
bodies stacked to his brim,
leaking post-traumatic stress into
everything he touched.
Each ****** drink a reminder
of too many sober deaths he caused,
each granite countertop
the cold touch of tombstone, the silent
wish for his own, not sure when he started dying
but determined to make this pub
his own battle field. Metal of honor turned
Jack Daniel’s bottle top, wearing it noose
hoping it won’t slip off, needing to
cap his own demons.
This kind of alcoholism takes
steps, 12 to be exact.
Bill created AA for people just like him,
Each meeting pouring out
unquenchable thirst, trigger warning written
inside the door next to the exit sign.
Trigger warning: real life
Trigger warning: you’ll wish fire hydrants were taps.
Trigger warning: communion wine looks devils blood,
looks so good.
Trigger warning: the small girl who wrote this
is shaking from withdrawal right now.
The creases of her palms ache in absence,
in remembering what sobriety tastes like.
5 days sober and her mouth waters
at liquid death, her own southern comfort.
She is daydreaming of the three years
she spent intoxicated, sitting down for her
10th and 11th drinks of the night.
Her expertise in lower-spine life
has recovery seem dishonorable discharge
with no health benefits.
Seem loaded gun, cocked in mouth,
brain matter saying brain doesn’t matter,
saying swim in the trenches of this
World War between Russian *****
and German schnapps. Would take this
over the war in her own head.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, takes steps,
practice makes perfect.
Bill Wilson made AA for the nights
I would drive by the meetings on purpose,
trying to trick myself into entering.
Bill Wilson taught me that the need
for liquor is laying dormant in my bones,
a monster who i know is only sleeping,
waiting to make me eternal dirt nap.
And i am just
so god ****** exhausted.

the guy on the walk,
beside the road

stopped to gawk,
spoke to goad

every car that
drove by, every

person walking
past, as he spoke

they moved fast-
er to get past.

Or be caught
up in the fracas

with the man with
baggy pants, spoke

to fire hydrants,
and spoke to the

telephone poles,
in a language they

had never heard,
but now my house

is silent and closing
in it is time to go out

in to the chaos of  
the city streets

a fracas needs to
move his feet, and

feed his hunger
a blood thirsty disease

dietary fracas one
encounter at a time

three times daily
taken with water or rain.

Beware of the clown who
has not a painted face.

Looks down at me.
Has empathy but mistakes it for pity.
Treats me like charity and never gives.
Has a car seat but no ******* kids.

She runs us.
She runs us.
Our lady of hope.
She is the future,
She is the horoscope.

A dream of white fences,
And black  and yellow dogs.
With red hydrants and green cops.
And fires burning the logs.

Dining and romancing.
Firehouse roses and  silk beds.
Miles Davis and the sweet soul.
The jazz we burn over a bowl.
Through the city streets, through the empty malls, and vacant houses.
As we pass brothers, and sisters, and mothers, and fathers, and lovers, and many haters,  and twice as many sheep.
To find home and self medicate while I can.

The elastic squish,
Of flesh and juice,
And sheets, and sweat.
Which felt like steam when it rolled.
Smoking. OH HOW SWEET!
HOW SWEET THE DRAG!!
How it filled and thrilled.
As we ashed and smashed.

The coma, the aftermath.
The limbo of luxury.
The ***** of salutatory.
In my bed, I mean her bed.
If we were one, I mean if we’re one.
Then the bed is ours.

Death and dying,
Life and living.
Lives desperately trying.
Love it and we will buy it.

Teach  me to be.
Help me to cry.
Hold  me till I see.
You can be me, and I can be you.

Walk together, all we do.
Fights for peace.
We’ll die for hate.
Oh delusion, how sweet the escape.

Bathe and bask in the smog
and let it become part of you
as you step out onto your
sidewalk cemented front yard
in the cold windy bitterness
that slices and dices your face
like an 80s horror slasher.
Accelerated footsteps in the
stampedes of raging bulls
alongside sewer rats
that scrape and scrounge
for dead rotting meat and
disease infected feces
in dumpster palaces.
Quasi-soiled bums and
bag ladies push shopping carts
filled with trifling treasure troves
and putrefaction in
filth and squalor
of the streets and gutters.
Panhandling and playing guitar
for loose change and lint *****
to run down to the local convenient store
and purchase their nicotine breakfast
and liquid bread
to get them through the day.
High rise buildings
in public housing districts,
where striplings dangle their legs
from fire escapes,
blasting boom boxes
and smoking spliffs
as they watch the adolescence
open fire hydrants on hot summer days
and toss lace-tied shoes
over power lines to indicate
the local drug hotspots.
Young suburbanites
swarm to the slums
to purchase the opioids and stimulants
that can not be found in their
utopia of the suburbs.
Urban ghettos are like combat zones
filled with mugging,
gang fights
and drive-bys.
As the world turns,
they're unscholarly minds
turn to murderous rage.
Parking meter maids ticket,
boot and impound
land yachts and puddle jumpers
to collect tax revenue for the
money grubbing municipality.
Anguished pregnant women
stand in overcrowded subways
while the disparaging
pussifacation of masculinity
comfortably sit as they
ride along the colored lines.
As the sun sets and
the hours of darkness arise,
the night crawlers and troglodytes
seep through the cracks of
condemned buildings to play
in the sandboxes of depravity.
The night is where the
hard concrete jungle comes alive.
Where the money is made
in this metropolitan playground
filled with libertines and temptresses
that prey upon *** deprived wallets.
Swindlers ring out every last drop
of currency from leaf peepers,
like a sopping wet towel.
Mad men run amok in the
wild streets begging for filled pockets
and sharing silly stories
and crazy conspiracies
to any ear that will listen.
Hot dog and taco stands
supply the most supplemental
nourishment.
Not a tree in sight.
Not a star in the night sky.
Under charcoal clouds,
planes soar through the
pink pollution and acid rain
showers down on all of them.
The banality of urban dwellers
filled with monochrome minds
and deep languor hearts
rest in twin beds of
studio apartments
and fall asleep to the
comforting sounds of
loud trains,
police sirens
and car alarms
as the city slowly ***** them in
and swallows them whole.

We had our Jesse Helm.
We had our George Wallace.
We even have a Clive Bundy.
Who reminds you of Bull Connor?

They speak.
And a few supporters support them.
And their off center views.

But they always fail to comprehend truth.

Who profited the most off of slavery?
Who gained the most off of segregation?
Who reflect back to the days of their youth?
When they wasn't treated harshly or cruel.

But during the days of segregation came across as fools.

Now that time is changing.
And many can't adapt.
They hold on too their racist ways.
Even support from kiss up politicians of today.
Who agree one minute?
Then back off the next.
When heat comes upon them from the news.

Yes, who profited the most?
Oh, they cry about Affirmative action.
Which wouldn't have been created.
If they only been fair.

Many minorities remember the hurtful scares that still there.

Many youth today support their elders hating upon them.
For the turning on of the fire hydrants.
And bombing churches.
Yes, churches of all place.

And the courts afraid to punish them.
Yes, who profited the most from segregation?

Who ran to far region of the city?
And fighting to change things back to those golden days.
Many minorities remember the black maid.
A role many Latinos are assigned today.

Many remember the black mothers raising the white child.

Oh, its true.
That the more things change.
The more things stays the same way.

That's one of the main reasons we still fighting bigotry today.

Buy yourself a masochistic combo meal
for the loose change and buttons in your pocket
the fish are thirsty
and the dogs won’t stop barking
I’ve got this itch and It’s just out of reach
would you mind?
I fell in love with your nightmares
and stole glances of you through the rain drops
string theory seamstress
running wild with jungle cats
you’ve got a little me in your teeth
white supremacist **** heads live ten blocks away
but they mostly stick to themselves
do you feel the paranoia closing in?
the sun sets behind a skyline made of fire
all of the fire hydrants in the world wouldn’t be enough
to sooth these burns
nothing makes sense anymore
so let’s just say **** the world and be done with it all
I’d rather walk down aimless avenue
than check into the jaws of life motel
for every drop swallowed
there are three of four dead children
we don’t take them for granted anymore
because we know they’re waiting for us
waiting to catch us when we inevitably fall

Only in a democracy
do the fire hydrants
and car tires
elect the dogs
that **** all over them.

Summer Is Wet

Like a water balloon fight with little bro

and pieces of rubber all over the street

With the fire hydrants going rampant

and kids in bathing suits and swim trunks.

Water-parks with the family

Standing in line for that water-slide you've been waiting all winter for

The Beaches in New Jersey

Going back and forth to the ocean to wash off your sea shells

And at the end of the trip when you have to rinse the sand off your skin

Man is it cold!

Those few nights you got to stay in a hotel

You couldn't wait to get into the pool late at night

because of how blue the water looked

Beach ***** and Marco polo

Trying to keep your hair dry

but it never worked because mom always splashed you

Summer is wet

I want to manipulate feelings, he says

I want to make them feel things, to make them cry, to make them die*, he says

He wants to make scenes in front of fire hydrants and dance to the sound of wild hoofbeats

He wants to make them cry, in awe of the beauty screened before them, the sunset awash in an inhuman glow

He wants to make them die inside as the heroine is killed, but dramatically makes her comeback all through the means of a tilted lens

He wants to make them feel things

And he, of all people, alone, has the power.

In here everything attempts
to be infinite – that when utterances
free themselves from mouth’s dungeon

it may all be but locutionary.
This is your leitmotif. To have your darkness
breed flaxen hair,

and in a split-second your eyes in their
deep epistaxis of blackness
follow me with the drone of such machine.

This unmethodical severance; something
drastic by necessity, but does not strike
with the same accuracy of necessary haunts.

Back when I was young, I had no picture
of ravens. You, screaming all across the yard
of your rawness, fracturing the morning.

The trees with their shadows strode
in stilts – the span of such winged vestige,
I thought, on the sterile concrete

was the virginal image of ravens.
Even the rain is able in that awning fount.
The sound of tranquil is the water pipe left pouring,

draining itself of its entirety. Fire hydrants
inflamed, grow jealous of such catharsis.
The bus, running over a pile of garbage, is never off-tangent.

I do not know if you have still the memory
of this place – if you look back too near, wide-eyed,
and surgery-precise, or if you are to trail back too far,

the settings will only pulse with a life you used to know,
and adjustments we are not inured to: if you are to take
this dream of fish out of sleep’s water, it will fade into a cathode.

It had in its forgetfulness, something still the moon is a raven
in a knell of silence. If you are to come back here, everyone
is stranger than they were when you left,

and that what used to pass on as answers are now
mauled into fustian of enigmas. The din of such
demeanor, electric and tense – so swell you can feel it close in

like some pain masquerading itself into
a close encounter with the sheen of pristine moment;
but pain is in media res and to look at you merely, a disappearance

      or a terminal finish .

My friend Greg is musically talented, a singer-like R-Kelly, and because of that he acts like a dog, around women. Who stand by fire hydrants. He plays with his instrument in front of people on the street. And sometimes, the piano too. When Greg plays, he always wears huge sunglasses. That’s because he wants to impersonate Ray Charles. Plus, it’s cheaper than doing ******. Although, he does make a lot of money and he wants to start a band. Band-Aid company. But on a serious note, Greg teaches lessons to his students. They have tiny fingers, so it’s hard for them to reach the keys. But that’s okay because they’re in his pockets. As a musician, he dresses in black clothing. Excuse me, he dresses in African-American clothing. Before shows at open mics, in front of the audience, Greg sometimes throws up. Gang signs. In all honesty, Greg gives a great performance on stage. He just pretends the audience is naked. And then he gives them five and half minutes. As his friend, before he stepped onto the stage, I told him, “break a leg.” He tells me, thank you for pushing me so hard. As he hops around on crutches. Greg’s really good playing the piano, but the audience always gives him a slow clap. But that’s what happens when you play for retards. He considers himself a feminist womanizer. He sleeps with a lot of women. But don’t worry, he always asks for consent, before he roofies your drink. I know this from experience. He’s a good friend though. Once, I was dancing with a girl and I slipped and fell to the floor. Greg rushed over to me and stuck out his hand And I was so grateful for his friendship, until he grabbed the girl’s ***. But you can’t blame him, it was really dark in there, how was he supposed to know that was his sister. Greg loves Shanghai Noon. He’s a huge fan of Owen Wilson. And me. Greg thinks all Asian people look the same. When he saw the Walking Dead Season premiere, he sent a flower-basket to my parents. Greg is so charming. Like the toilet paper. His favorite sport’s team is the Chicago Cubs, his favorite women are the Chicago Cougars.

Do not be offended?
For part of this poem is true.
Once upon a time in America there was segregation.
Which made America look bad in the eyes of other nation.

We uplifted one.
While degrading another.
Especially when it came to the segregated water fountain.
Even the movie theater and eating counters.

Do not be offended?
Cause truth is written in the correct histories books.
Not those that the revisionist want to over look.

Once upon a time.
One group learned in schools.
While others in shacks or least made up of one room.

Oh, please don't be offended.
For part of the truth is constantly told.
People over look that Rosa Parks was in the right assigned roll of seats.
Theirs ran out once they was completed.
Then they expected her to get up and stand.
We know, who was the woman?
And one was a less of a man.
But that was the accepted Jim Crow' law of the land.

Do not be offended?
For if you are.
Then you must question's your heart.
Cause God witness it all.

Ministers tossed in jail.
Three killed trying to make things better.
And this group lay blame on "so called, outsiders."

Churches bombed.
Children's killed.
Still they attended church.
Makes you wonder about the sermon's message.

Do not be offended.
For truth usually hurt.
When you see the acts of the governors and police officers.
Who wouldn't wanted to be Bull Connor?
Ordering attacks of dogs and fire hydrants.

I guess treat people like you want to be treated.
Doesn't always work.
Unless you are serious taking in the correct message at church.

A lesson we ALL need to learn.

how did those days turn into these?
How did our emotions morph into those burst fire hydrants, from
old summer days
how did our tears become frequent sprays of salt water
how come the sun went away, locked itself deep inside of us
afraid of the dark.
our rainbows turned monochrome when we
discovered no gold at the end. We found instead a mirror of ourselves
and we hated what we saw
so we took a rock and tossed it at the reflection, lost.
All we had left was a shattered image. All we had left was a landscape destroyed. We
defaced our skies by painting them black, tore out the daffodils of spring and
crushed them beneath our fingers, and then we cried because there was nothing
left for us. We learned to live without love.
Set fire to our souls just to feel the burn so we wouldn’t have to feel anything but the
pain. We let loose our inhibitions,
destroyed ourselves with alcohol and cigarettes,
and faceless, nameless, lips.
And when we cried for help our voices were drowned
out by the sound of our dysfunctional beating hearts! our screams weren’t recognised
as signs of distress, they were routine parties, and thumping
bass. Dark lit rooms with sporadic flashes of blue light. But
somewhere inside the chaos of ourselves, we froze
and did the one thing we swore never to do. we looked back and
broke down when we saw what we
had become.
        Instead of screaming we stood silent. Instead of crying we
smiled at the sadness and nodded.
    Accepted that it was time to
change.
Laid down in our beds at night, and whispered, ‘It’s not okay.’
Slowly coaxed out the long forgotten
sun and became night lights in
   the confines of ourselves.
Ready for love.
Ready for us.

Hotdogs, Mustard and Omelettes please
Yellow cabs, jay walking down Florida Quays
Four lanes, Juggernauts and Chevrolet cars
Lights,cameras and Hollywood stars
Palm trees, beaches and Hawaiian shirts
Gucci, Versace and loathsome old flirts
Fields, harvesters and barns full of hay
Buildings, boxes in lifeless decay
Piers, amusements and huge crashing waves
Soup kitchens, The Mission and a life it could save
Islands, storms and the hot lazy sun
Big Apple, Windy City, Graceland’s is fun
Sirens, Hydrants and never ending noise
Planes, Aliens and conspiracy driven ploys
History, Presidents wrapped up in Sams hat
Shrine, Humility where two towers once sat
Arizona, the desert, dry and ongoing
Vultures, Eagles and freeways never slowing

Gynecology appeals to the rooting instinct and not just among pigs,
apartment-dwellers too crave the spotlight especially in cheap digs
A tree puts strength in its cambium membrane, seeds, bark & twigs
whilst outgrowing the imperilment of remaining grounded as sprigs
It was not long before the Rolling Stones were being paid for gigs,
in the day when greasy Guineas plugged sheenies & cultivated figs,
decades before sainted negroes thrived as reactionary brillos & nigs
when a schweinehund on par with Club of Rome's lard-*** Al Gore
was realistic enough to accept his natural vocation as a male *****
even though no Avon salve could rescue him from being still sore,
he collected for prostitutional services that there existed no bill for,
while at Sea World Shamu can't fit through a pinniped or seal door,
as whale flesh ain't no antidote for pill-heads on America's pill tour
Keep whacking the side of your head to hammer out doubt till sure
you become of religious piety while acting out a radio-active story
that destroys tumors and fecundity while rewarding war-won glory,
for critical menticide administered to each Margaret Thatcher Tory,
to render brains slack so that each id's reduced to a formless slurry,
and made denser & dumber than the dumb-*** mind of Ann Curry,
who sits around picking fleas off her pet rats calmly with no worry
like a pederast whose name is Marion but likes to be called Murray
because of thickset hair that was as curly as Bill Clinton's was furry
it made Hillary's perverse predilection into a ****-emergency hurry
as she faced extortion rackets entailing mucho homosexy potpourri
It's I.T.T., A.T. & T., F.P. & L. and A. & P. in lieu of slave-holder
In a demi-godly role of being everyplace looking over my shoulder
Like advice taken to heart by a ***** the tenth time you told her
On the occasion of the hundredth time that a ****** **** sold her
Put down that rifle and also that cup as there are doggedly two ratty
trees of wood: wood I stole & wood I shoplifted as doggy eats pup
Congratulations *******, you won the Nobel prize for shutting up
Move from a hovel & put down that shovel as there are 2 unkindly
kinds of wood: stolen & discounted as my rabid ***** eats her pup
****** Mary Jane Christmas to Quakers winning gifts for rutting up
Return my shovel and **** a guppy as there are 2 hunks of wood:
wood I stole & wood shoplifted as a dog ***** eats a hungry puppy
Cheers cancer-ridden surgeon, here's the Shaw prize for cutting up
The tall first wife, who was fleet of feet, was the easiest to book for
she preferred rat tail over bat wing and won as a dream to cook for
she hid herself very obviously therefore she wasn't hard to look for
her manifold athletic talents made her the leanest witch to hook for
Give me your hirsute/textile/hombre love you lovely hairy rag man,
with your pointy nose, unlimbered leg & warts from Larry Hagman
who from the horse's mountable side snuck up like an airy stag ram
Don't take what little's left via state Santa Christmas merry bag ban
Let's dress like women in debt at the oldest Chuck Berry drag stand
My happiness is easily seen in blood-letting cirques as corpuscular
while my rippling backwards frontage is of a physique so muscular
that it is known by fat aunt Joan as socked-in and highly avuncular
In icy Florida I pine for Klondike my favorite Alaskan lesbian lover
who, in our gay igloo, resembled that big oily ****** Danny Glover
whose **** buddy Mel Gibson made him half less pockless gaining
☹a little more of plenty above Kenai's northern-lit blinding darkness,
and punctuated by those empty promises of ****-driving starkness
that were dogged by monster sightings quite common to Loch Ness
where **** Welshmen smoke Scottish-spiced cigarillos smockless
Fear not as chronically-starved people are traditionally not so tough
so feed the hungry & while they are eating steal their bags and stuff
as unarmed Cymry won't do more than storm off in a Goidelic huff,
akin to a Tom Jones hissy fit of ***-wriggling dancing and gay fluff
This normal man wonders: How much public ******* is enough?
Pushing Fukushima scenarios beyond the point of a no-return bluff
and extraneous of a federal Continuity of Government powder puff
while parked on a decrepitly-reliable-ever-burgeoning-lard-*** duff
white men, like coal miners, mine mineable depths of Filipina ****
gynecologically like the average gynecology enthusiast off the cuff,
rejecting Bicol pathogenetic carpet chaw to dip Copenhagen *****,
a sprinkling 'tween lip & gum proves that no slanted ****'s too tuff
A trans-orbital lobotomy's necessitated when plants are root-bound,
Hello Addisonian crisis dysfunction when adrenal glands are found
insufficient when production of adrenaline is diagnosed as unsound
Mormons note the absent look of foremen in the Book of Mormon
and an absence of the Book of Mormon in the outlook of foremen
You hid it 'cause I can't find it every elsewhere a package for string
this catastrophe that threatens tragedy above the tryst below a fling
With cords knotted tightly around something tumorous I won't sing
It is the chlorine that cancels detergent in that electric washer thing
beneath cellar steps that David Niven's wife fell down while hiding
I lost her you found her, it's a dollar for riding plus a fee for finding
all broads blinded to inequity and to chick Nazis' unguided guiding
Oh Lord with such ease the slippery have slid into slipshod sliding!
The frailties of free men're exploited by N.S.A.'s jingoistic deriding
General Ike exposed the military-industrial-congressional complex
which strikes against the citizenry by venomous rattle snake reflex
faster than a dope-crazy Marilyn Monroe could reach for a Kleenex
thru curvatures in a third-dimensional, spatially-pornographic helix
that approximated the Mexi-milkers of actriz: la doña María Félix
rutting elephants in musth must respect advisory: kneel-harm-****,
to honor the moon-hoaxing memory of chronic liar Neil Armstrong
as obviously for **** Rosie O'Donnell her gay meal alarm's wrong
Johns familiarized themselves with Lillian Russell by buyin' ** Lil
as masochists meet masochistic needs with movies of Ryan O'Neal
Sadists satiate sadistic surges sharing sermons sold Séamus Ó Néill
& beheld-redemptive pleasures for patrons of free mass soul appeal
I'm nailed in my sub-par carpentry by all do-gooders of the nail ban
to the point where I'm willing to mail my big sister to the mail man
who's part & parcel of a mail-fraud plot & brother's can't-fail plan
Escaped & uncaught I will be no prison monkey's cell-mate-jail-fan
'Cause shorts clothe Richard Simmons' lard *** he has a pale can as
oil-from-rock Daniel's been given the pétrole epithet Ol' Shale Dan
Latino block & cinder create distortive Hispano-Américano rubble
'cause stirring up spics & greasy wetbacks invites N.C.L.R. trouble
Stand back anti-pope as I am about to burst your pederastic bubble!
Your egg-shell-thick pate's no match for a black jack as this club'll
smash its way thru cardinals, reverends, ministers, priests & dukes
to make cream taste like ***** and turn cake into what a dog pukes
Under U.S./Euro socialism there'll be no guy who's a young codger
and popular forenames will be banned including Preston and Roger
Trans-national entities whip horse dung into curdled cottage cheese
while denying rescue inhalers to asthmatics enjoying a bad wheeze
so as to avail publicly purpled aureolae of ready women who tease
Now is the time to release the promised South American killer bees
as the hour's passed to exact vengeance for a beheaded Robert Lees
Mafiosos contract that Joseph Valachi-types be capped at the knees
then hanged by their what's-her-names from il duce poles and trees
in such a fashion that'll tighten the ropes by cough, belch or sneeze
Long legs, wrong eggs, strong pegs, King Kong begs with a song of kegs
Let us dog dealers of wieners & corporate schemers: those 2-bit reamers
extend a left leg into the sacred space of my right one for time remaining
It's easy to harp on topics commiserate with crap profitably entertaining
A man who courts dogs & a court manned by dogs quibbles over kibble
Dogs devoid of canine teeth are not as happy to gnaw and to nibble
The Arc of the Covenant bestowed ancient promises metaphysical
shedding cockroach-scattering illumination that set courses tragical
on a populace & citizenry that were more attuned to an era magical
Before Zionistic Elders prepared an Order within cabals strategical
Beneath plum sunsets & catchy maladies that deafened folks lyrical
“Turn me on dead man” the Beatles backwardly warbled mystically
as the means and the method to sexcite vampresses gynecologically
For all shoulder-locked movements sway men anthropomorphically
Let us seek bi-lesbians who fear concerted opposition diametrically
as their prized packages remain barren, as they spawn ineffectually
Sappho's ovarian host pouch is barren as ***** meld ineffectually
as Western, Fallopian-tubed freakazoids are ****-probed habitually
Sapphic ovarian balloons shrink when hens ******* reciprocally
On Pearl Harbor Loch a false flag blackened Mister Moto's beacon
by shadowy, white manipulators under a U.S. sinister, proto-deacon
who, as a cousin-marrying-pipe-******* *******, emulated Lincoln,
the war-loving queer who went above & beyond his task to weaken
the will of sovereign states to sustain free-market economic health,
by exacting confiscatory taxes resulting in punishing capital wealth
The Beatles were creatures of M.K. Ultra's institution at Tavistock,
lost to a shocking future as shown by Alvin Toffler in Future Shock
whereas nothing can help us from taking an epidemiological knock
by Mao a la Trotsky, a la starvation wages via phony-baloney stock
in the image of Pol *** a la Lenin contrary to righteous John Locke
Our fused-egg brothers gestate together, flying as a migratory flock
dolled up in vestry wardrobe: papal bikini brassier, ******* & frock
awaiting George Orwell's 1984 English socialism known as Ingsoc
X number of years before Nancy Kwan wed ski champ Peter Pock,
& after Bob Ripley's Oriental/Occidental miscegenation ****** talk
as it was curlier than was Nimoy while he portrayed Vulcan Spock,
whose sweetness was unrehearsed, unrestrained & of a sickly mock
once taken, out of time as taken twice daily on any ol' broken clock
flesh stripped & exploited as the flightless relic of Earth's great auk
enjoying the laze of Sunday oblivious to extinct Darwinian schlock
as chastised love is Leonard Nimoy-pitiable with chastity-belt lock
Upon a Massachusettsian shore puritans purified Plymouth's Rock!
Forever amounts to nothing in betrayal of Heinlein's empathic grok
Back off quack as I'll **** the next 1 of you applying scalpel to ****
as a dad must regarding neo-Kantian, fatherless-**** Johann Bach
Deep in hell's bowels fricassees Jew Elizabeth/***-to-Death Taylor
who did every Joe Nobody from Captain Crunch to Norman Mailer
A harlot ***** was she from 10 niggerly toes to scary mulatto tone
as hellishly deep in Liz's brain was a splinter of hamster wish bone
& her ***-end was broad from fat foods Safeway to her would loan
Beneath her 3rd world-chiding heft Larry F's lawn chairs did groan
as this princess of whales never said no to hog jowls and corn pone
which made an interesting cut-out to novices of the porpoise prone
There won't be another Liz till Rockefeller perfects a Warner clone
with the aid of sewing machines to hem-stitch hems that need sewn
& a positronic brain stem to achieve mortality previously unknown
since Alex Bell pilfered **** inventor Antonio Meucci's telephone
Truth is light that Illuminists keep shadowed, darkened & unshown
for Hank & Phoebe Snow and Johnny Winter who would not atone
Thomas Edison stole or bought the patents to ingenious inventions
that he was more than happy to claim as his brilliant contributions
to the wealth & state of inquisitive Mankind's Earthen conventions,
also he took credit for Biblical allusions to immaculate conceptions
Which Bible books Tom Edison wrote no G.E. employee mentions
as stealing, purloining and commandeering were his 3 predilections
True historians know well charlatan Edison's dastardly elaborations
To pinch a hairy, chapped man is wrong as it puts him in more pain
For century-old Harry Chapman Pincher pinching made him insane
His unholy joy was to lay prone with mouth open to catch acid rain
& then hop into the commode to affect a toilet-related ankle sprain,
not too unlike Richard called **** & Jean who liked the name Jane
whose corpulence demands a piano coffin burial with crawler crane
Formaldehyde replaced 7 quarts of blood that went down a drain as
the proverb fits: when there's nothing to lose there's nothing to gain
Alan Ladd snuffed himself over a self-destructive hatred for Shane
and because Sue Carol preferred men of height Ladd couldn't attain
without elevator shoes & leading-lady actresses walking in ditches,
the love-life that humbles a netted shrimp into paralytic twitches as
Alan often got nothing from Brentwood ****** & witches because
****** pimps don't scrape **** off them Hollywood swanky *******
Tragically it's true that God's in the details & Satan's in the glitches
when Hippocratic Oath-denying doctors say don't bandage stitches,
it promotes infection needing treatment that add to a quack's riches
Apply no anti-bacterial salve unless your unbandaged wound itches
Amerika will be a Marxian paradise after we guillotine the snitches
harvest their organs, cremate & consign their ashes to crude niches
Give me, give me, give me, I can subsist not on a mere, single bean
Hey cheapo, get off your greasy ***, take me to Dairy Queen as my
**** is shaved, bra's padded & all kinks are relaxed by Afro Sheen
Western ***** are fattened for slaughter as sloped slants grow lean,
for lack of appendix, tonsils, adenoids, warts, piles, moles & spleen
Refugees flee what's so repressively dangerous that it's forever fled
The bloodied blood biz passes pathogens to bleeders bloodily bled
It is a dreadful situation that ****** folks find difficult not to dread
A gent is obliged to face conflict face first short of living in a shed,
plying the rough trade, rough-necking with ******* or playing dead
When my cruddy teeth are encrusted I brush the crud off with Crest
while working drainward with this golden cake of soap called Zest
Like a woman on public assistance I refuse to let my choppers rest
There was a time when talk of quiz was a precursor to an Iowa test
My basic skills are determinedly under-cutting my housewife guest
whose stems run north to her malignant tissue free mammae breast
In movies shooting orphans with high-powered rifles is done in jest
'cause in Amerika making ammunition is what wage-slaves do best
When I'm not utilizing forks for recreational after-meal dog-jabbin'
I am staking out hog farms for the planning of gainful hog-nabbin'
or making log-planing modifications on my pine-logged log cabin,
before crossing teamster picket lines for wage-earning job scabbin,'
I take pains to avoid being skinned in a Jimmy Hoffa mob stabbin'
A thousand Confucian truths drive my happy dreams to nightmares
as bi-****** pass out on Calexico-Mexicali-low-calorie light beers
I haven't the moxie to skate through hydrants of fate terminological
as those 78 crumb-bums behind T.V. “comedies” wax scatological
Ernie killed Chip & Robby to stamp his father a cipher biological
He hadn't room for women for production smacking gynecological
The last time he looked skyward his thoughts weren't cosmological
S.O.B. Ernest cursed routinely at arthritis diagnosed gerontological
He gives not a harlot's hello for innumerable faults anthropological
nor to lend his energies to scopes that abuse harmonics hormonical
as he stumblingly falls prey to meanderings sickishly trophological
Lord of Hostesses salvage carcass mine from insults cancrological
Redeem me in sudden form humanoid of activities pathogenetical
We mourn in Gettysburg's city as unrepentant lesbians on probation
Defying errors inflicted upon soldiers who forsook proper vocation
Anti-poping Argentine Francis as he's ****** to Satan's invocation
It remains the best course to abide by stellar laws of spatial rotation
Whether one's nationality is Romanian, Finnish, British or Croatian
Lost people will eat food outside their region &

be over the clouds behind the mountain or over a hill
may a lottery winning be one dollar away or
Publisher's Clearing House knock on my door?
Might Audrey Hepburn be eternally young stalking me,
might cat bark and dogs not **** on fire hydrants
or ants be less numerous
or gone be alive or time slow down, might
the rainbow shine, all the colors combined into bright.
All the wishes be at her end in a *** of golden
love and eternity?

My lines are so sick, that all of them are in the clinic with a cough later.
This force is so strong with me  that I was the father to Darth Vader.
Your lines are dead, and don’t blame it on the approaching storm.
And you couldn’t get reception because your tone was wrong.
So you trying to get a signal, but you couldn’t even get one from  Dark Knight’s violence
Trying to bring the drive in all that you do, but you parked right by hydrants.
I did not need to pick up a hammer because I was already worthy.
And Thanos snapped his fingers to avoid me, because he could not hurt me.
So in this life of written word, you can call it a modern Shakespeare sonnet.
They look down at my paper like they look at a casket, to see a wake here on it.