there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
So
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted?  No.
Back then,
no.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be hell to pay,

-----
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
sayings
aphorisms, proverbs,
memes 'n' such.
Confusion sayin'
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa

Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)

commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
nomenclature.
Those are experience.
Lesson learned.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.

We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,

"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our God,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth. 
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.

From <http://biblehub.com/kjv/daniel/9.htm>
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,

We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.


Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
Oh,
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
know.

"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.

The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,

tale-swallowing feats,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to slave labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by God.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…

The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Comfort thought.
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
stop. think

Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
sweet
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
I know

There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
helping
crazy ideas
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
far
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.

A thought on my neuron is impinging,
If it ain't Armageddon, do stop whinging,
"A happy heart makes a cheerful face,"
A notion apt for our global race,
Smiles to each one are a grace,
Blessing to all as we set our pace,
Way too much negativity.
Largely a waste of futility,
Instead of daily positivity,
Way too much 'stinking thinking',
If it ain't Armageddon, do stop whinging,'
This thought on my neuron is impinging.

As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.

I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.

Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.

There is a world that no one knows
Where life unnoticed grows and thrives
Where birth and death and all between
Are scrutinised, yet are unseen

Where innocence and purity
In white are welcomed, full of hope
Impinging slowly, edging in
Life’s colour forming character

Where independent yellow gloats
In fierce teen triumph ‘Look at me!”

With fun and laughter orange glows
And reaches high in happiness
Experience and independence
Rich lessons teach and edges darken

Their lives on show, rough judgement falls
And ‘I prefer the red’ is thrown
About and listened to and felt
And colours deepen, darkened hue

In wind and rain and sunshine showers
Red develops, life impinges
Bright happiness or blood-red wisdom
Growing older, growing wiser

Where petals turning in reveal
Quiet pom-pom introversion
While out-turned fingers stretch with glee
Prima donnas, dancing, twirling

Where purple self-awareness turns
Each pink and mauve and lilac from
The bloom of youth towards life’s wane
Yet far enough away, rebelling

Where days grow shorter, sliding past
Yet hands stretch out and cup each face
And noses breathe and fingers touch
And bees buzz past and voices rise
And babies cry and old men laugh
And yet unknown, unseen, life slows

Bright-eyed the purple-rinse brigade
With sparkle-induced energy
Remembering and reminiscing
Their days they fill with endless chatter

Late Autumn falls and nights draw near
White heads do droop and slip, like snow
Fine petals drift into the breeze
An echo whispering til Spring.

In the silence of my heart I feel this flowering;
budding with every whisper against my soul,
calling; enwrapping me within his ambrosia
as each silken petal brushes against softness,
I bow demurely into his maleness.

Looking out upon the horizon; I glimpse our
silhouettes entwined in the midst of golden
rays, haloed as his lips partake in loves
sweetest nectar and his tongue articulates
in heated breaths, I linger in its aftertaste.

Adoring the twinkle in his eyes as they take
in the beauty of my flowering chasm, awaiting
its calyx approach; slowly impinging in its
fragrance, savoring; hovering and dipping as a
honeybee suckles nectar.

I tremble like a softly blown breeze in his wake;
as his hands glide upon my countenance,
teasing each contoured petal; placing me gently
upon our flowered bed of strewn petals;
languishing in his arms as each whisper hums,
delighting in passion's rose.

that
which is breathed,
and blown

well
do not exhale me a soul

exile me
to the cold

impinging
sinking, stinging
pity

no

be brief;
be terse

without a kindness to me

cast me off;
trade the scald
for the scoff

no mercy

leave

go, love
go and love
at the cost of me

I see a hill of jade rise o’er the sky
Engulfed in silver, silk-like, morning haze
Like ghosts of dewy moonbeams roaming by
Kissed by the bright and golden morning rays
The sun, a spider lit with crimson flame
Climbs slowly up the yarn of the clouds, white
Setting alight each cranny and each plain
That once stood shadowy in the deep night
The air is fresh, all nature sings a hymn
A clear harmony of impinging day
The burst of sunshine fondles the world’s rim
Dispelling the deep black of night away
I sip my morning coffee as I glare
Upon the morn’s bright, topaz, springing flar

mourning in our mornings of the sickness of lack of love which has dawned upon us
So dark a world, the angels would frown busking at the thorns of dusk to awaken us
How women loved when they vowed to die for love
how much more when they lived to love and lived by way of loving


oh but material, this fake monster that dares go to war with the ethereal
succumbing norms embrace the watmth of the hug of the surreal
and it keeps on knocking and knocking but the ears of the people were shut and soon they would forget what it felt like to love
and man or wounders of earth would rip the purity once more overwhelmed by the magnitude and magnificence of woman
helpless and bewildered, man he turns to violence to fight for his own right

but in these bouts all these fights; they leave scars so deep that they become  orifices
and the essence of woman is darkened to sin and repels all things good
becoming a vacuum that ***** out the purity and well intentions of kind men
birthing underdeveloped zygotes that populate the thinking in society
these halflings tattooed with stereotypes and false beliefs impinging a doctrine that overthrows the goodness of the male gender


so all she will know women are the evil deeds of men and the good becomes illusive
somebody rigged this program , new versions and updates are slow to process
so the image woman has of herself is low
an image of weakness, inferiority and inadequacy
the few men who do come to love, barely make it beyond the firewall of servitude of self-righteous gods and and immortal godesses but what does this have to do with love?


How is it building up the image of the possibility of good men and the freeing of violent and dysfunctional men?
How do these systems and rituals build and culminate once more the image of divine woman?
where man was and is and shall be maleandfemale integrated


There are many religions and sacred beliefs but if God or Divine Source does indeed exist then we as descendants of It/He/She/Them; should have their encoding in our DNA and that is the scribe within our conscience
our hearts
our sincere feelings
our authentic being
our celestial roots

when women loved; men went to space during *******
men built houses as fit as temples
love and marriage were separate entities
children never left home
self was fulfilled because of the freed feminine energy of creativity and spirituality within each of us
before patriarchal systems and woman-oppressing religions
when women loved men forgot about war because to their women they were equal and complete


so now relationships fake and dysfunctional
angry men and vindictive women
children at the helm of injustice
some spend time in the garden to restore
some are in the park not to look for a parking for they have found their place on the bench
they warm the bench not to get fired up before getting onto the field but to keep warm from the coldness all around:
the lack of love and sincerity or refining tranquility

Many have forgotten how to feel for many things are manufactured like products
and people engineered like parts sold off into the market
each business protecting its culture and creed no matter who bleeds
what would Mother nature say if woman still loved?

probably cry that love is being aborted and darkness recycled so material continues to industrialize.

When women loved
love was the only deal and righteous will

hey i don't you
remember the sea    ?
       ido
it was speaking little wet enormous. a tooth
         hey!don't i you?re a massive collapsing
ocean deep perfect. the waves crack back
an oblique smell of crying swollen.
                     it,s a god's face; a bruise blushing on his cheeks
maybe

                we taste the shore. it's gray enunciated sky impinging the
dry with damp teeth. or the mountains thinking on the horizon:

                blotting truculence

                        they stand  so still

this unruly night
is macadamized on the wall,

whit its bare-knuckled steel mangled
to a ferruginous glaze of rust.

the dismal kiss of
      cold on the unclenching fist of the dark
is irretrievable in the grass,

soon, glass-faces will break as my simian jaw
was once shattered by a scuffle in the twilight-bells
      of recess.

  it is like the night dances and in awe,
struck by some rude awakening, we sit forever
  emptied of beauties.

even the flesh rouses to startle the reared relation
   of calla – its hot-flush widespread of petals
  thought I am given always, an intone of forgetfulness.

   such pure lunges and gyrations – we all have
spaces to cross latching us in total placeness like
    black hooks impinging voices to a shriek,

  yet surely they go off wandering in sunsets
waning in the formless crepuscular, waiting the night
  to pour stringencies,
  
    small-breathed furies futile
        like arsenic.

Shallow syntactical grappling
Love songs forever rearranged
Hook is loose lips exchanged
Spying your mind for crackling
Let me in, I hear that rattling

Fire imagination and singeing
Marbles liberating love call
Pow perplexes inspiring awe
Superficial burn's impinging
All hung on passion's hinging

Pay no attention grammatical
Cryptanalysis of undiscovered
Love themes and talents discolored
Smothered a world so fanatical
As true love very mathematical

Like glass ***** zipping out ringer
You shoot beyond my orbit
This game I am about to forfeit
How dared is this heart stinger
Winner of game, a zinger

The thin, green tendons curl and creep along the unrelenting metal.
Sprouts cover the abandoned trail, growing, climbing, maturing.
White buds surround the path like a floral passageway, awaiting its next guest.
At times, the beaten track disappears beneath thorns, grasses, seedlings
And the way is concealed, a missing link between the beginning and the end.
You almost become displaced from reality, but then you find yourself at a modest clearing surrounded by weeds and beautiful little blooms
And an old, wooden bench.
Inscribed in it are many different names, holding the remembrance of people who visited before,
but who have now gone their own way.
The scratches in the ragged wood are memoirs of the ones before us, who have spent small moments in this opening when it was pristine, fresh, neatly pruned.
Sitting on that moth-eaten bench, you can see the glow of the sun reflecting off the tide as it murmurs gently to the sky.
Gone are the days when the path was easy, when the seat was sturdy and the metal was clean.
Leaves now tickle your neck as you walk through the thick shrubbery, and reach down to touch your legs, your arms, your back
as though wondering why a perfect stranger is now back in its home,
Invading the serene area,
after so long being isolated.
When it's sunlight, the ocean glistens and whispers its secrets to all who will listen.
The hills stand tenacious and guard over the innocent.
Everyone below goes on with their lives, without glancing at two figures sitting on the hillside, barely visible amongst the thicket and brush.
When nightfall comes
It seems as though all the stars have fallen upon the city, one for each person,
And the dark expanse of the hushed sea stretches on forever, the ending out of sight.
The heavens and the earth seem to have merged together, so it is now one.
No movement below, except for the wind slowly pushing past weak branches, tugging at leaves and sleepy flower buds, humming a song while the city slumbers.
All man-made objects obscured in the dark, and now it’s just raw nature,
Pure and simple.
When the rain begins to fall, it becomes even more beautiful.
The greenery turns silver under the faint glow of the moon breaking through its prison of clouds.
The raindrops fall off sodden fronds, silently soaking into the dry earth, petrichor filling the air
Seeming to relax the world.
The air sounds static, the constant sound of the droplets impinging the clammy terrain.
This is our place. It is where we spent our days when it was easy to access, when there were often others sharing the space with us, but also once it was fenced off and deemed too treacherous to enter.
Still, we, sentries, go up to our lookout,
And watch the world go by in front of our eyes.

Life is like a twelve-pound cannonball,
Hurled at me at the age of twenty-one
After the propitious graduation is done;
A darkling abyss of despair and a free-fall.

Life is like a half-cocked single-action gun;
One bullet in cylinder and Russian Roulette.
Everything around seemed grey and dead
When the search for employment had begun.

Life is like hooves of trotting horse in turmoil
Impinging deep grooves upon my soul soil
When the neighbour inquires and informs,
"Have you this time filled up group d forms?"

Life is like a hand holding a dagger in the air;
Twisting it deeper in my chest when I overhear
A domineering well-wisher mocks my failure,
"Hah! He made tufts plucking his ***** hair"


Now
Climbing
On my back,
Alack! Sisyphus,
Life is like a mountain
Of lidless responsibilities
And of heaping impossibilities;
A barren land and a dried fountain,
Life in front of me is like a beautiful ape
With a grotesque face laughing at me agape.

Neurological Tinder Box Doth Hotly Kindle
(okay, yukon axe me whatsapp pinning,
     though beep pre spired, cuz mess sigh key
     threads experience didst rubber awe
     as if spun as a micro spindle.)

Woolworth (Penneys on
     the Dollar Store) their electronic,
     dynamic and atomic weight
cumulated decades of suppressed
     crackle, snap,
     and pop, triggering

     psychotic sans tete a tete
legal tender visa vis
     bit coin block
     chain payback daily
     quotidian fits and starts
     trigger torrential spate

impinging ability to relish potential
     existential joie de vivre
     finding me (I rate)
analogous to suffocating
     unbearable pressure, yours truly
     doth eek quate

     to Metallica Mega-death
accessing, hammering, and pinpointing
     (excel lent lee powerfully)
     every square inch
     of mine pate
strewing, sparking fiery

     fingerhut sized explosions,
     and slamming incessant
     psychological torture akin to
     a pernicious hidebound mate
and as of this date
November 20th two thousand eight

scored entrenched occupation
     of my fifty plus
     shades of gray matter
     becoming more agonizing of late,
where suicidal ideation,
     where repressed self hate

sprung from cumulative
     (albeit cloudy with
     a chance of at least one
     meatball i.e. me) psyche subject
     to verbal whipping (yours truly),

     the gloating mean
     bullies didst denigrate,
without doubt half life of
     Matthew Scott Harris

     aint at all great,
yet to some degree, this saturated
     scorpion poisoned, mauled
     and jackknifed fate
in some measure
     duet hoo war ton internalized

     emotions griffins
     hound, feast, and delight
     (more so ravenously
     throve) on Hawaii,
     and seamy to Maui
     didst successfully, (particularly

     throughout earlier decades)
     emasculate, under estimate,
now (in retrospect) execrate
at invisible monster
     on par with beastie boy

     Doctor Frankenstein didst create
only upon death doom
     he part wretchedness
     will hoop fully abate.

my heart starts racing
when I realize that I will never be able
to see you again
It is like an endless pain
that has been caused
by a sudden wrenching of my heart
and a sudden bitter twist
when you sprained my soul
an impinging scar
a never to be cured bruise
an unrestorable rupture
"sprained ankles are healed by ice and time"
but sprained hearts are never fully healed
cold makes it worse and time too...

Pathogens spontaneously perforate the way
When ideological madmen infiltrate the day,
When fools bearing doctorates infect with excess
Where halfwits in spandex concur in distress.

For intimidation's message of ignorant plight
So paves this pathway, cadenced in fright,
Belligerence caste in a dark hue forlorn
Obliterates normality's wavering form.

A flight of justice, flung far away,
Impinging the right in this wrong on this day.
What price this quest for stark racial gain
When the conquest won, is a recidivist's pain.

M.
24th February 2021

They've infringed too much
and invaded all our lives
ask them they'll deny

                      Kelly McManus

Keep to yourself
your boredom
you are impinging
on my freedom.