Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

There was a house fire on my street last night …well… not exactly my street, but on a little, sketchy, dead-end strip of asphalt, sidewalks, weeds, and garbage that juts into my block two houses down. It was on that street. Rosewood Court, population: 12, adjusted population: 11, characterized by anonymity and boarded windows, peppered with the swift movements of fat street rats. I’ve never been that close to a real, high-energy, make-sure-to-spray-down-your-roof-with-a-hose-so-it-doesn’t-catch­ fire before. It was the least of my expectations for the evening, though I didn’t expect a crate of Peruvian bananas to fall off a cargo plane either, punching through the ceiling, littering the parking lot with damaged fruit and shingles, tearing paintings and shelves and studs from the third floor walls, and crashing into our kitchen, shattering dishes and cabinets and appliances. Since that never happened, and since neither the former nor the latter situation even crossed my mind, I’ll stick with “least of my expectations,” and bundle up with it inside that inadequate phrase whatever else may have happened that I wouldn’t have expected.



I had been reading in my living room, absently petting the long calico fur of my roommate’s cat Dory. She’s in heat, and does her best to make sure everyone knows it, parading around, *** in the air, an opera of low trilling and loud meows and deep purring. As a consequence of a steady tide of feline hormones, she’s been excessively good humored, showering me with affection, instead of her usual indifference, punctuated by occasional, self-serving shin rubs when she’s hungry. I saw the lights before I heard the trucks or the shouts of firemen or the panicked wail of sirens, spitting their warning into the night in A or A minor, but probably neither, I’m no musician. Besides, Congratulations was playing loud, flowing through the speakers in the corners of the room, connected to the record player via the receiver with the broken volume control, travelling as excited electrons down stretches of wire that are, realistically, too short, and always pull out. The song was filling the space between the speakers and the space between my ears with musings on Brian Eno, so the auditory signal that should have informed me of the trouble that was afoot was blocked out. I saw the lights, the alternating reds and whites that filled my living room, drawing shifting patterns on my walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and shelves of books, dragging me towards the door leading outside, through the cluttered bike room, past the sleeping, black lump of oblivious fur that is usually my boisterous male kitten, and out into the bedlam I  had previously been ignorant to. I could see the smoke, it was white then gray then white, all the while lending an acrid taste to the air, but I couldn’t see where it was issuing from. The wind was blowing the smoke toward my apartment, away from Empire Mills. I tried to count the firetrucks, but there were so many. I counted six on Wilmarth Ave, one of which was the awkward-looking, heavy-duty special hazards truck. In my part of the city, the post-industrial third-wave ***** river valley, you never know if the grease fire that started with homefries in a frying pan in an old woman’s kitchen will escalate into a full-blown mill fire, the century-old wood floors so saturated with oil and kerosene and ****** and manufacturing chemicals and ghosts and god knows what other flammable **** that it lights up like a fifth of July leftover sparkler, burning and melting the hand of the community that fed it for so many decades, leaving scars that are displayed on the local news for a week and are forgotten in a few years’ time.



The night was windy, and the day had been dry, so precautions were abundant, and I counted two more trucks on Fones Ave. One had the biggest ladder I’ve ever seen. It was parked on the corner of Fones and Wilmarth, directly across from the entrance into the forgotten dead-end where the forgotten house was burning, and the ladder was lifting into the air. By now my two roommates had come outside too, to stand on our rickety, wooden staircase, and Jeff said he could see flames in the windows of one of the three abandoned houses on Rosewood, through the third floor holes where windows once were, where boards of plywood were deemed unnecessary.



“Ay! Daddy!”



My neighbor John called up to us. He serves as the eyes and ears and certainly the mouth of our block, always in everyone’s business, without being too intrusive, always aware of what’s going down and who’s involved. He proceeded to tell us the lowdown on the blaze as far as he knew it, that there were two more firetrucks and an ambulance down Rosewood, that the front and back doors to the house were blocked by something from inside, that those somethings were very heavy, that someone was screaming inside, that the fire was growing.



Val had gone inside to get his jacket, because despite the floodlights from the trucks imitating sunlight, the wind and the low temperature and the thought of a person burning alive made the night chilly. Val thought we should go around the block, to see if we could get a better view, to satisfy our congenital need to witness disaster, to see the passenger car flip over the Jersey barrier, to watch the videos of Jihadist beheadings, to stand in line to look at painted corpses in velvet, underlit parlors, and sit in silence while their family members cry. We walked down the stairs, into full floodlight, and there were first responders and police and fully equipped firefighters moving in all directions. We watched two firemen attempting to open an old, rusty fire hydrant, and it could’ve been inexperience, the stress of the situation, the condition of the hydrant, or just poor luck, but rather than opening as it was supposed to the hydrant burst open, sending the cap flying into the side of a firetruck, the water crashing into the younger of the two men’s face and torso, knocking him back on his ***. While he coughed out surprised air and water and a flood of expletives, his partner got the situation under control and got the hose attached. We turned and walked away from the fire, and as we approached the turn we’d take to cut through the rundown parking lot that would bring us to the other side of the block, two firemen hurried past, one leading the other, carrying between them a stretcher full of machines for monitoring and a shitload of wires and tubing. It was the stiff board-like kind, with handles on each end, the kind of stretcher you might expect to see circus clowns carry out, when it’s time to save their fallen, pie-faced cohort. I wondered why they were using this archaic form of patient transportation, and not one of the padded, electrical ones on wheels. We pushed past the crowd that had begun forming, walked past the Laundromat, the 7Eleven, the carwash, and took a left onto the street on the other side of the parking lot, parallel to Wilmarth. There were several older men standing on the sidewalk, facing the fire, hands either in pockets or bringing a cigarette to and from a frowning mouth. They were standing in the ideal place to witness the action, with an unobstructed view of the top two floors of the burning house, its upper windows glowing orange with internal light and vomiting putrid smoke.  We could taste the burning wires, the rugs, the insulation, the asbestos, the black mold, the trash, and the smell was so strong I had to cover my mouth with my shirt, though it provided little relief. We said hello, they grunted the same, and we all stood, watching, thinking about what we were seeing, not wanting to see what we were thinking.

Two firefighters were on the roof by this point, they were yelling to each other and to the others on the ground, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the sirens from all the emergency vehicles that were arriving.  It seemed to me they sent every firetruck in the city, as well as more than a dozen police cars and a slew of ambulances, all of them arriving from every direction. I guess they expected the fire to get really out of hand, but we could already see the orange glow withdrawing into the dark of the house, steam and smoke rippling out of the stretched, wooden mouths of the rotted window frames. In a gruff, habitual smoker’s voice, we heard

                                      “Chopper called the fire depahtment

We was over at the vet’s home

                He says he saw flames in the windas

                                                                                                                                                We all thought he was shittin’ us

We couldn’t see nothin’.”

A man between fifty-five to sixty-five years old was speaking, no hair on his shiny, tanned head, old tattoos etched in bluish gray on his hands, arms, and neck, menthol smoke rising from between timeworn fingers. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drew a hearty chest full of smoke, and as he let it out he repeated

                                                “Yea, chopper called em’

Says he saw flames.”

The men on the roof were just silhouettes, backlit by the dazzling brightness of the lights on the other side.  The figure to the left of the roof pulled something large up into view, and we knew instantly by the cord pull and the sound that it was a chainsaw. He began cutting directly into the roof. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, wondered if he was scared of falling into the fire, assumed he probably was, but had at least done this before, tried to figure out if he was doing it to gain entry or release pressure or whatever. The man to the right was hacking away at the roof with an axe. It was surreal to watch, to see two men transformed from public servants into fingers of destruction, the pinkie and ring finger fighting the powerful thumb of the controlled chemical reaction eating the air below them, to watch the dark figures shrouded in ethereal light and smoke and sawdust and what must’ve been unbearable heat from below, to be viewing everything with my own home, my belongings, still visible, to know it could easily have gone up in flames as well.

I should’ve brought my jacket. I remember complaining about it, about how the wind was passing through my skin like a window screen, chilling my blood, in sharp contrast to the heat that was morphing and rippling the air above the house as it disappeared as smoke and gas up into the atmosphere from the inside out.

Ten minutes later, or maybe five, or maybe one, the men on the roof were still working diligently cutting and chopping, but we could no longer see any signs of flames, and there were figures moving around in the house, visible in the windows of the upper floors, despite the smoke. Figuring the action must be reaching its end, we decided to walk back to our apartment. We saw Ken’s brown pickup truck parked next to the Laundromat, unable to reach our parking lot due to all the emergency vehicles and people clogging our street. We came around the corner and saw the other two members of the Infamous Summers standing next to our building with the rest of the crowd that had gathered. Dosin told us the fire was out, and that they had pulled someone from inside the gutted house, but no ambulance had left yet, and his normally smiling face was flat and somber, and the beaten guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his messed up hair, and the red in his cheeks from the cold air, and the way he was moving rocks around with the toe of his shoe made him look like a lost child, chasing a dream far from home but finding a nightmare in its place, instead of the professional who never loses his cool or his direction.

The crowd all began talking at once, so I turned around, towards the dead end and the group of firefighters and EMTs that were emerging. Their faces were stoic, not a single expression on all but one of those faces, a young EMT, probably a Basic, or a Cardiac, or neither, but no older than twenty, who was silently weeping, the tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks, his eyes empty of emotion, his lips drawn tight and still. Four of them were each holding a corner of the maroon stretcher that took two to carry when I first saw it, full of equipment. They did not rush, they did not appear to be tending to a person barely holding onto life, they were just carrying the weight. As they got close gasps and cries of horror or disgust or both issued from the crowd, some turned away, some expressions didn’t change, some eyes closed and others stayed fixed on what they came to see. One woman vomited, right there on the sidewalk, splashing the shoes of those near her with the partially digested remains of her EBT dinner. I felt my own stomach start to turn, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

                                                                                It was like I was seven again,

                                in the alleyway running along the side of the junior high school I lived near and would eventually attend,

looking in silent horror at what three eighth graders from my neighborhood were doing.

It was about eight in the evening of a rainy,

late summer day,

and I was walking home with my older brother,

cutting through the alley like we always did.

The three older boys were standing over a small dog,

a terrier of some sort.

They had duct taped its mouth shut and its legs together,

but we could still hear its terrified whines through its clenched teeth.

One of the boys had cut off the dog’s tail.

He had it in one hand,

and was still holding the pocket knife in the other.

None of them were smiling,

or talking,

nor did they take notice of Andrew and I.

There was a garden bag standing up next to them that looked pretty full,

and there was a small pile of leaves on the ground next to it.

In slow motion I watched,

horrified,

as one of the boys,

Brian Jones-Hartlett,

picked up the shaking animal,

put it in the bag,

covered it with the leaves from the ground,

and with wide,

shining eyes,

set the bag

on fire

with a long-necked

candle

lighter.

It was too much for me then. I couldn’t control my nausea. I threw up and sat down while my head swam.

I couldn’t understand. I forgot my brother and the fact that he was older, that he should stop this,

Stop them,

There’s a dog in there,

You’re older, I’m sick,

Why can’t I stop them?

It was like

I found I was inexperience the very day
I experienced my first experience,
So I decided to do wrong because
I was engaged in over righteousness,

I have sown a particular seed of truth
In the strange garden which I planted,
The seed must be allowed to germinate
And grow until it is ready for harvest,

It shall bear only one fruit,
The fruit shall contain only one seed,
This seed shall be the seed of crime,
Oh, some crimes brings much
Experience in liberty and justice,

We have been liberated in the
Mist of their inhumane crimes against us,
I wonder who really invented the name Africa,
They think we are poor and needy
But we are rich with excess
Untapped human and natural resources,
We are not lost
But have found the Black Star
Which is the compass for all mankind,

We never went to them,
They came to us,
They came to exploit us by cheating,
Deceiving and bringing confusion among us,
Oh, that old serpent, the devil,

They began colonizing us,
But with ***** on our side
None sustained into the twenty-first century,
They claim to be superior to the black man,
But this is just the beginning,

Within forty-years, we were able
To gain our independence
First with the spirit of Ghana
And finally crushed apartheid triumphantly,

We gave them a hospitable atmosphere
When they first arrived on our shores
As orphans and beggars,
Not knowing, they were looters and murderers,

They pride themselves as the introducers of
The Christian faith in the land of the Blacks,
They have no idea about Makeda, the Queen of Sheba,
Who later marriage King Solomon, the wise king,
No idea about the Ethiopian ******
Who was baptized by Philip in the name of Jesus,
No idea about Ras Kabutu Munhunutapa,
Was Jesus Christ not nursed in the Land of Blacks?

They realized the beauty in the
Black woman and had the gut
To propose to mother Africa (Sudan),
Upon refusal, they ***** and brutalized
Some of the daughters of mother Africa,
But the Almighty shall restore the excellence
And pride of Africa,
Like the excellence of the Garden of Eden,

Oh, what a devil with an attitude,
None of them speaks the truth,
They are full of injustice and deception,

Yes, Ethiopia is our home
And the Land of the Pharaohs is our pride,
We do not only boast in our ancient glory,
But we have a future glory of an Africa,
Which a future Mentuhotep II shall unite us with,
Yes, a future glory of black superiority,
Which a future Ras Kabutu will make us behold,

We are all pilgrims walking on the same
Road with different destinations,
Yet they are afraid of a united African force,
They shall surely give an account to Him
Who is ready to judge the living and the dead,

They sold us as slaves in order to
Steal our pride, depopulate and demoralize us,
So that, they can use their secondary
Intelligence to exploit our resources,
But they will not succeed for long,
For we know their ways of deception,
Yes, we are the prisoners of hope,
Very soon, we shall be like Jewels of a crown
Lifted like a banner over the earth and space,

Is it normal to be normal?
Oh, see how the Balance weighs down
The opportunist and the Group of Eight,
Inequalities have taking over the
Impartiality and fairness of man,
Who got away with the last hit?
The answer is always in the naive one
Who has purposed in his heart not to answer,

For they built themselves towers,
Heaped up our silver and diamond like dust,
And our gold and timber
Like the mire of the streets,
Behold, the Almighty will cast them out,
He will destroy their powers in the sea,
And they will be devoured by fire,
For we are the children of Tweaduampon,
The ones made from the richest part of the earth
The cradle of mankind,
The true descendant of Ras Kabutu,

We are the Africans
We are the survivors,
We seek a Heavenly Nation,

We keep our faith in the African Personality,
We keep our eyes on the road of African Unity,
Keep your head up on the Black star,
Keep on keeping on in the Black mentality,
Without defying the establishment!


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

Do you feel better now?
Now that you think you've figured me out?
Found out what makes me tick?
One hand clasped around my throat.
The other tangled in my hair
Pulling my head back so I'm forced to look in your eyes
So you can control me
So you can make me love you
Red marks on the backs of my thighs
A strict set of rules so you'll never worry
Punishment and reward
Equal gratification
All those things you want from me
That you can gain from tying my wrists together
Leaving rope burns across my stomach
Alone in a room
Exposed and waiting for you to come back
And love me
Just like I did to you
But in such a different way
You say that you're dominant
And that I'm the submissive one
Yet you want to jump right in
And I'm going to consider our options
Because your inexperience
Doesn't blend well with my needs
You can't collar me just to say you did
You have to mean it
And you don't know what it means to mean it

i write for an injection of a venom, for a sense of disorientation, poetry shouldn't be about the skill of narration, a clear Renaissance painting of some school, it should invoke a ******* random macabre, a sense of disorientation, there's no real technique to practice with poetry invoking a tarantula's venomous bite... poetry the art of disorientation and a fulfilling disillusionment, nothing else, nothing more... to prescribe disorientation... upon charging into a blank page... the brute of squalor and slashing of grime, marbles and marrow!*

as quoted by Bonaparte (oddly enough
a psychology student and former
girlfriend of mine who i lost my virginity
to, while she got drunk and slid into my
bed at a party, and asked dreamily for condoms
scolding me about the three pictures adorning
my student room: marquis de sade, Bonaparte
and Plato) - quicker the goat in the frying
pan than on the steep cliff face - mooch kiss
you Isabella i would a second time,
you remind me of Annie from Masterchef -
the way the stiff upper-lip is missing: signature of
french girls, the curling and cuddles -
ooh mooch chuckles and mushy peas -
p p p - belinda carlisle melted cheese goo in my heart;
stony ******* i ain't, but my drinking habits
are not boyfriend material, sorry... try next door:
se vie se la - the french know their eccentricities,
and therefore exploit them in the grey -
the english stiffen up and exploit the same
but to a too obvious exploit: bowler hats and umbrellas,
nothing will make this London gloom repent
even if you're donning St. Petersburg's architectural
multi-colour... did i mention Bonaparte the patron
saint of the Duchy of Warsaw?
over here there's Adolf with a heretics hat
never bothering to read history twice,
history you read in a blurry haze of being drunk:
reminiscence is hardly nostalgia, but sure as ****
history save Moscow from the French and the Germans
but not the Poles and Mongolians...
the Russians know this and hush thing over,
sweeping stories under the carpets using
a babushka as an excuse for the prime propaganda
technique - go on babushka ride the Ferrari
on the stairway! canapé mit crayon caviar?
yes, Isabella, if i weren't a ****** i'd move to
Grenoble - sheriff's honour.
                                                  you weren't
the first, you weren't the last,
i need bragging rights - and a hot colt to shoot with...
then the lacrosse initiation ceremony -
Lycra tights, drank a whole bottle of whiskey
of Glaswegian whiskey, stumbled into
Isabella to my shame parade of whatever that was
lad banter etc etc. - pleaded on my knees, my knees...
apologies for the inexperience,
she was seriously into Japanese cartoons,
studio Ghibli;
                          so she scolded me over Bonaparte,
and i said: it's not exactly Piłsudski - in my town of
birth they praised him, raised statues,
later with communism desecrated them, then later
raised new statues - but what's bothersome is that
she didn't mind the Marquis... a psychology student
after all... she wanted native speakers for a little
psychology experiment, that got me,
learning from scratch aged 8,
pitch-perfect elocution and she didn't bother to use me
in the experiment... that ****** with me...
hey! i'm hardly a cockney! coached croquet pears
ready for a beating... what's the rhyme, ah yes:
apples and pears = stairs... seriously, musically
cheese sometimes works, they had a Monday cheese
night at the union - all the usual buggery of
a mid-life crisis...
yeps, that Annie from the current Master Chef reminds me
of Isabella - dracul - RA!
a bit of high culture (Ezra's cantos) and a bit of low
culture (marco bailey's Enter the Dragon)...
while sitting on the throne of thrones (a toilet)...
it's like my dream... although better... Ibiza two-point-oh.

When deciding whether it's better to
avoid
ignore
go numb
than to
feel
hurt
and cry
remember why.

Why you'd rather
work
talk
and clean
than
sit
lounge
twiddling thumbs.

Why you'd rather it
rain
snow
or be sunny
than
equilibrium
gray
with thin clouds.

Why
idle
steady
clean
hands are a sign of inexperience, and
sore
throbbing
tired
feet are worthwhile.

Remember
every
single
time
that you're only happy when it rains
but
sun
and cold
will never get old.

Bodies have limited shelf life.
they are not entities in their own right.
They are like a suit of clothes,
put them on--wear them for a while,
take them off--throw them away.
They are used as a vehicle for the Isness
but they are not the Isness.
The Individual Isness is a small but equal,independent,individual,nameless,
formless,genderless and non physical being formed from the Isness of the Universe.
You are the Isness.
Bodies are conscious but do not have consciousness.
Only the Isness has consciousness.
You are the Isness--and are unable to be your true nature,
because you have given control over your brain centres to the Mind
and you are defining yourself by identifying with the Mind created Conditioned Identity as yourself.
the body is a fusion of two seeds at conception- brought into seedling state in the womb.
The seedling is brought to become the mighty tree of ****** existence in the mulch of a life lived,
watered and fed according to taste or custom or commonsense
or so-called expert advice.
Like the flower and the fruit on the tree-- all bodies grow from seed--live a period of time-- wither and die.
Bodies exist as the human vehicle for all Isnesses,female or male equally,of any of the five skin colours,to travel through each lifetime
until the individual Isness they carry fulfills Isness realisation,
until the Mind dies,until the Conditioned Identity dies.
If you miss realising your true nature as the individual Isness  in this life
then  you MUST come back and try again--whoever you are.
There are NO exceptions to this rule--.
birth  life death rebirth--the system is paramount.
The Wheel is ever turning.
Until the next time around.
Bodies come and go--bodies come and go
karma chamelions as George says.
Until Isness realisation is achieved the process of
birth-life-death-rebirth goes on its merry way--lifetime after lifetime after lifetime ad infinitum.
The wheel turns and the empty bodies burn on
the funeral pyres  of a thousand Varanasis worldwide.
Sleek shining dogs seizing scraps of cooked meat,
crunching on a tasty thigh bone,
Doms laugh at their insouciance and daring.
Existence provides every possible bit of information you could need for reaching the state of existential realisation of your nature as an Isness.
Existence also provides every possible distraction you need
for avoiding reaching the state of existential realisation of your true nature as Isness.
You the Isness have to choose.
Between either self realisation or eternal mind games.
The Isness is a small but equal individual,independent,nameless,
formless,genderless and non physical Isness made from a small portion of the Isness of the Universe--incarnated lifetime after lifetime in order to realise,existentially,your nature as the  Isness--or NOT, as your choice may be.
And it is your choice.
Isness are the small portions of the Isness of the Universe-- integrating, atom for atom, into the shape of physical bodies,
like fingers in a glove or a favourite winter topcoat.
We become the Isness of the Universe,written small,  incarnated in a human body if only we can let go of the falseness of
Minds and Conditioned Identities.
If not we stay as confused humans--la luta continuata.
You,the confused Isness, are the one who exercises the choice.
Isness or Conditioned Identity?.
You cant be both--no way.
To be or not to be?.
These are the eternal questions.
What  am I?.
Why am I here?.
The answer lies inside--in existential beingness.
It is the easiest "hard" work youll ever encounter.
No one can do the work involved for you.
No one can give you a free pass.
No one can "grace" you,the Isness,into realisation of your nature..
No one can forgive you anything--except you.
No one can wipe out your accumulated Karma--good or bad--except you by living a life generatin neutral Karma.
No becoming a "budda".
No becoming an "enlightened one".
No becoming a"christ"
No becoming a priest.
No becoming a prophet.
No becoming a pope.
No becoming a lama.
No becoming a rabbi.
No becoming a"sheik"
No becoming a prosletyser of any "religion" or "god" or "goddess".
No expert.
No becoming a child of god.
No monarch.
No dictator--elected or otherwise.
No military leader.
No "mystic".
No "son or daughter of god".
No "wise one"
Nobody!!!
No one  but you,the Individual Isness can dissolve Mind and Conditioned Identity.
Only you--and you alone-the confused Isness incarnated in  the Mind and Conditioned Identity  controlled body you pass through life in--can create neutral Karma.
The internal struggle goes on until it ends.
Only you,the confused Isness,can let go of identifying with the
Conditioned Identity as the "real"self.
Grasping at the conditioned belief you are the Mind and Conditioned Identity guarantees you will not reach Isness realisation.
Letting go of the conditioned belief that you are Mind and Conditioned Identity guarantees you will realise your true nature as an Isness.
Deconditioning through reconditioning
Does the rain fall upwards?.
Does violence bring peace?.
Does the sky exist?
Does anyone "save" anyone else?.
Does it all matter you may ask?.
After all existence is totally indifferent whether
you or anyone realises their true nature as Isness or not.
Until you do realise your nature as an individual Isness--
that's when the real fun begins!!.
There are NO "gods" or "goddesses" to gift you with this state.
Never have been any "gods" or "goddesses".
Never will be any "gods" or "goddesses.
There is only the Isness of the Universe"behind it all".
Not the intellectual "creation" of "poets"--with all their middle class narcissism--and piteous weak  Conditional Love.
Trying to appear as a "deep sensitive poet"
when all that they can do is scribble strings of
meaningless associated fine sounding words.
No life .
No passion.
No truthfulness.
Just deadness and truth.
Spoken from inexperience.
Meanwhile the Isness of the Universe sleeps and snores
while the world bursts into flames around us.
And we are culpable in choosing to stay ignorant.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

I can't tell you that I don't love you,
I always will.
I can't tell you, you don't matter,
You are my best friend.
I can't tell you I can live without you,
Because that would be a lie.
If I tell you I love you,
It will change everything.
When I tell you how much you matter to me,
I know you won't believe me.
I won't tell you I can't live without you,
Even though the world can see it.
I will continue to push you away,
I will continue to flirt with other boys,
I will continue to push you to date other girls,
And I will wait for the day when I know I can hold onto you forever.
I will wait for the day I know I can always call you mine.
Because at this moment in time youth and inexperience is our enemy.
And I'm hoping my decision to beat out those obstacles will help in the end.

They also came for you in the middle of the night,
But found that you had gone to Buenos Aires.
The Guardia Civil questioned your wife in her home,
Surrounded by your four young children, in loud but respectful tones.

They waved their machine guns about for a while,
But left no visible scars on your children,
Or on your young wife, whom you
Left behind to raise them alone.

You had been a big fish in a little pond,
A successful entrepreneur who made a very good living,
By buying cattle to be raised by those too poor
To buy their own who would raise them for you.

They would graze them, use them to pull their plows
And sell their milk, or use it to feed their too numerous children.  
When they were ready for sale, you would take them to market,
Obtain a fair price for them, and equally split the gains with those who raised them.

All in all, it was a good system that gave you relative wealth,
And gave the poor the means to feed their families and themselves.
You reputation for unwavering honesty and fair dealing made many
Want to raise cattle for you, and many more sought you out to settle disputes.

On matters of contracts and disputed land boundaries your word was law.
The powerless and the powerful trusted your judgment equally and sought you out
To settle their disputes. Your judgment was always accepted as final because
Your fairness and integrity were beyond question. “If Manuel says it, it is so.”

You would honor a bad deal based on a handshake and would rather lose a
Fortune than break your word, even when dealing with those far less honorable
Than yourself. For you a man was only as good as his word, and you knew that the
Greatest legacy you could leave your children was an unsullied name.  

You were frugal beyond need or reason, perhaps because you did not
Want to flaunt your relative wealth when so many had nothing.
It would have offended your social conscience and belied your politics.
Your one extravagance was a great steed, on which no expense was spared.

Though thoughtful, eloquent and soft-spoken, you were not shy about
Sharing your views and took quiet pride in the fact that others listened
When you spoke.  You were an ardent believer in the young republic and
Left of center in your views. When the war came, you were an easy target.

There was no time to take your entire family out of the country, and
You simply had too much to lose—a significant capital ******* in land and
Livestock. So you decided to go to Argentina, having been in the U.S. while
You were single and preferring self exile in a country with a familiar language.

Your wife and children would be fine, sheltered by your capital and by
The good will you had earned. And you were largely right.
Despite your wife’s inexperience, she continued with your business, with the
Help of your son who had both your eye for buying livestock and your good name.

Long years after you had gone, your teenaged son could buy all the cattle he
Wanted at any regional fair on credit, with just a handshake, simply because
He was your son. And for many years, complete strangers would step up offering a
Stern warning to those they believed were trying to cheat your son at the fairs.

“E o fillo do Café.” (He is the son of the Café, a nickname earned by a
Distant relative for to his habit of offering coffee to anyone who visited his
Office at a time when coffee was a luxury). That was enough to stop anyone
Seeking to gain an unfair advantage from dad’s youth and inexperience.

Once in Buenos Aires, though, you were a small fish in a very big pond,
Or, more accurately, a fish on dry land; nobody was impressed by your name,
Your pedigree, your reputation or your way of doing business. You were probably
Mocked for your Galician accent and few listened or cared when you spoke.

You lived in a small room that shared a patio with a little schoolhouse.
You worked nights as a watchman, and tried to sleep during the day while
Children played noisily next door. You made little money since your trade was
Useless in a modern city where trust was a highly devalued currency.

You were an anachronistic curiosity. And you could not return home.
When your son followed you there, he must have broken your heart;
You had expected that he would run your business until your return; but he
Quit school, tired of being called roxo (red) by his military instructors.

It must have been excruciatingly difficult for you.  Dad never got your pain.
Ironically, I think I do, but much too late. Eventually you returned to Spain to
A wife who had faithfully raised your children alone for more than ten years and was
No longer predisposed to unquestioningly view your will as her duty.

Doubtless, you could no more understand that than dad could understand
You. Too much Pain. Too many dreams deferred, mourned, buried and forgotten.
You returned to your beloved Galicia when it was clear you would not be
Persecuted after Generalisimo Franco had mellowed into a relatively benign tyrant.

People were no longer found shot or beaten to death in ditches by the
Side of the road. So you returned home to live out the remainder of your
Days out of place, a caricature of your former self, resting on the brittle,
Crumbling laurels of your pre Civil War self, not broken, but forever bent.

You found a world very different from the one you had built through your
Decency, cunning, and entrepreneurship. And you learned to look around
Before speaking your mind, and spent your remaining days reined in far more
Closely than your old steed, and with no polished silver bit to bite upon.

I’m the type to holster mental index cards of things to say on a first date
But no matter how much I study, my words never withstand the test of time.
Eventually, sweet nothings cause ear canal cavities from sultry words too often indulged.

Love made me want to rip my pulsing heart out of my chest and place him on a table just for interrogation.
I would ask, why he would trust so easy when he should know better than anyone that no love, melody, or beat goes on forever.

But what an exceptional construction worker you’ve become.  
Demolishing hearts as if the blueprint to my soul has become obsolete.
Words spewed from your mouth with the power of a wrecking ball that collided with my 5’7 frame.
So unpredictable that I doubled over from the pain.
I crumbled as if I was an ancient building way pass my prime.
And I’m still searching through the rubble to find any salvageable pieces.
Maybe I can recover a missing part of my smile and plaster it back into place, though it will never fit quite the same.
You ****** slowly on my bone marrow and your lack of concern made me insane.

Before I slept, I sprinkled immaculate images of you on my eyelids as if I was the Sandman.
Thoughts of you embraced my dreams, and it was the only way I could find serenity in my slumber.

I will never again activate the synapses in my brain that saw you as a god that descended to earth.
You ripped my psyche to shreds like a cannibalistic cupid who lost sight of the agenda.
To create love, not to pierce it with vindictive arrows.  

Now all you are to me is this poem.
A poem.
Letters, words, and stanzas.
You don’t even deserve the time it took me to write this.
You do not deserve the effort of my joints smacking the keys when I find the next thought of how you hurt me.

Like sacred paintings in newly discovered caves, I tattooed the inner walls of my cerebral cortex with memories of you.
It would be there forever. Waiting to be discovered by the next person that walks into my life with a torch filled with hope.
Illuminating my dark, damp and lonely cave.

When the next woman crosses my path and wonders why I get a verbal tic from the word love, I will unlock those same chambers of my mind and show her the walls that you’ve left your worthless signature on.

I hope she will be able to understand that I can let her onto the front porch, but it will be some time before she gets to see my home.
Because, it’s really messy in there.
***** dishes in the sink, books thrown on the ground, an unkempt bed, and my confidence and self-worth hung up to dry on the clothesline.

You cannot just rent a space in someone’s home and then leave without a month’s notice.

You were my addiction,
I injected your ******* essence and I was high on life when you were near.
So close that you coursed through my veins and made me feel alive.
Every now and again I get that familiar itching of an addict.
I am itching, just to text you.
Just a simple hello.
I get urges to find you.
To cop another one of your addictive glances straight into my two liquid pools of inexperience.
I never thought addictions were this hard to kick.

Youthful ignorance wishes
    that life meant something
    external

But nothing means anything
    to anyone until one gets
    involved

Meaning follows experience
    inexperience has no place
    demanding

Maturity destroys innocence
    self-indulgent egocentrism
    encourages

Failure to find deeper meaning
    is failure to build the bridges
    connecting

How convenient to blame life
    for meeting the low expectations
    we've sown

I'm not a moral compass
I can't say what's right
But
I can say that what i want to do
tonight
Is definitely wrong
And i want it to last
As long as i can
I want you to be satisfied
With red marks on your back and ***
And pleasure induced tears in your eyes
Despite
My inexperience i aim to please
I hope i can fulfill your needs...
And i can't accomplish that I'll at least have done the Deed

-Neroamee Alucard

President Reagan sat by himself in the White House
Trying to understand what had happened.
He heard his wife scream
What have you done with my husband?
I want the real Ronnie back!
He sighed.
This is what happens when you listen to experts.
Reagan had been in debates before.
From Kennedy to Brown to Buckley to Carter.
He did it his way.
He won his way.
Reagan always liked stories and humor.
Details and data, not so much.
He always thought that statistics don’t feed people.
Because people can’t eat an equation.

But the experts said that he should have more knowledge.
Reagan listened to them.
The thing was, it was too much knowledge.
And Reagan had to be president.
So when he debated, he was tired.
The youngest looking 73 year old man.
Just looked ancient at this point.
He held onto the podium
As if it had answers.
But the podium gave him nothing.




His actor’s instinct called up an old line.
There you go again.
It worked against Carter.
But Mondale neutralized it.
Mondale was good.
Not like Kennedy, who was more passionate.
He remembered Bobby very well.
He would have made a great president, if he had lived.
Or like Buckley, who had the scholarly instinct.
Because he read books when Reagan played football without a helmet.
Reagan defeated both of these men.
But he did not beat Mondale.
Because Mondale had answers for everything Reagan said.
Reagan pondered to himself.
I must have something for which Mondale does not have an answer.
I must make something that Mondale cannot answer.
But I cannot tell the experts.
They are nice people.
But they don’t know debate, I do.
So I can file it away.
It would be a break in case of emergency punchline.

The phone rang and it was Roger Ailes.
Ailes said, Mr. President you were not at your best.
But the sun will rise again.
Use a laugh line as your life line.
Rely on personal experiences, not dead data.
Remember Mr. President this is your re-election.
Reagan took that to heart.
And the second time around, Ronnie was back.
He grinned because this time it was fun.
But Mondale was still good.
And then the question came.

The question for which Ronnie was born.
It was about  President Kennedy’s working hours during crisis.
And if Reagan had the stamina to match Kennedy.
Reagan smiled.
It was time to pull out the joke.
He said, I will not make age an issue in this campaign.
I will not exploit for political purposes my opponent’s youth and inexperience.
Reagan delivered it perfectly.
And suddenly, he heard laughter
Laughter from the questioners.
Laughter from the audience.
Even laughter from Mondale.
Tears of laughter.
Reagan drank his water and smiled.
The Gipper scored a touchdown again.
And hit it out of the park.

I'd heard horror stories in the playground, seen embarrassment and tears.
Shared in secrets that were passed around like candy.

Not for me.
All the messing about and the working it out. I didn't want Bad *** by misadventure.

Like you said.

I waited. Not as long as the good girls, but longer than my mates.

You were worth it.

I was a bundle of nerve endings and inexperience but it was perfect, you were brilliant.
Just the thought of you sends shivers down my spine.

My best kept secret.

I wonder about you, at times. About your life, what you do, if you're happy or feeling blue.

Your children: Would I know them in the street? I guess now they're all grown up.

Just like me.

her fantasy fulfilled
she guides him by pack-horse
up the craggy mountain trail
restrained by his inexperience
their destination above
her beloved secret valley
river far below, a faded blue memory

spying snow-coned peaks beyond
she fights the urge, for his sake,
to gee her horse the last few feet
almost there, past the jagged rocks
gap's a beckoning finger now
welcoming her home
so many years of separation

the valley bursts upon them
a composite of wondrous sights
compelling her to bring him
quickly through to hallowed ground
how many times she had returned
alone
she turns to him, a stranger here
only he deserves her secret place

watching his face
seeing elation and her radiance
mirrored simultaneously in his eyes
an expanse of horizon
mountain, aspen, florid fields, and water
nature's precious jewels adorn the vista
dressed with utmost care
to steal the unsuspecting heart

she leads him into the meadow
overlooking the turquoise cirque
cool waters in which she bathed
naked and contented
when last she'd journeyed here
meadow flowers cloak
the blanket she spreads for him

her fantasy fulfilled
his body framed against the sky
-limitless as their love- and
boundless beauty in this valley

Rob's father came up to him on his eighteenth birthday, and tossed a *** of cash at him. "Time to be a man", he said in his usual gruff manner, "Get yourself a hot one".  His grinning face seemed more like a sneer, but Rob wasn't all that surprised. Throughout his adult life, he was thankful and glad that his mother kept him fairly grounded, did the best that she could, molded him into the man that he was, and he marveled at how she put up with such an *******.

Her name was Kat, but there were no introductions, not while he was soliciting her for ***. She was a few years older than he, but Rob never asked for any details.  He just wanted to get on with it, for he felt not only awkwardly nervous and ill-prepared, but halfhearted in his approach to buy some time, to hook up with a stranger in the shadows of the street lamps.  

Sure, if his old man wanted to give him some money—free cash—why the hell not? Instead of finding a "hot one", Rob was face-to-face with a burned-out and vulnerable, young woman who tried to hide behind her ****, seductive exterior. She was equally as halfhearted as he was about getting it on, for business-as usual seemed to weigh her down like a heavy chain wrapped about her ankles

So Rob opted out of this whole thing. He asked if he could buy her a cup of coffee. Why not? It was a chilly night, and they wanted to warm up—in  a legitimate way.

They found a small, late-night diner. It wasn't long before Kat admitted she made a huge mistake, and would do anything to get another start. Her regret was leaving Nebraska, leaving her hometown—her mom, her little sister and brother left behind. Her father was the dearest man she ever knew, but he died when she was eleven-years-old. If only he could see her now. She would be so ashamed to face him, and glad he wasn't around to witness this sordid path she regretfully chose.

Once, Nebraska seemed like an insignificant blot on the map of the world, but now it was inviting to her. She longed to make amends to her family and to get back to the basics.  She wasn't sure what she would do with her life, but what she had right now wasn't what dreams were all about. It was a world of unscrupulous pimps and men who lurked around, wanting their fill, their lusts exposed discretely, yet so ****** upon her to be met.

She had enough. Rob was the first guy that came along in a long time that really cared to listen to her, though he seemed more a boy than a man. Yet she's been with his kind before. She has seen all kinds—white and blue collar, old and young, married and single, the well-experienced and the sexually inept, the *** addicts and first-timers, the boring, the daring, the *****—yet safe ones—as well the creepy kind that a street-smart lady needed to have eyes in the back of her head for.  

When they went to the bus station, together, Rob admitted, "I got to tell you, straight. I'm still thinking you could be scamming me for drug money...and I'm maybe a complete *****... but I want to take this chance." Kat smiled, a tender sort of a smile, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek, along with a big bear hug. "You're an angel", she declared. She really was beautiful, with big, lovely eyes surrounded by big, fake lashes.  Seen through eyes of his inexperience—his innocence—she really felt beautiful, something she hasn't felt in a long while.

Kat wanted to pay Rob back for giving her the needed, extra money to buy her ticket. She offered to do that in the best way she knew how and made him an offer. Having a night of free *** wasn't what Rob ever wanted. No, there were no strings attached. So she jotted down her mother's address in Nebraska, and told him to be in touch. "I want to prove to you that I'm turning my life around. I'm going to do it, too. I promise", she said, sincerely. She had no trouble looking him in the eye, tears beginning to well up, and she began to choke up while saying, ”I just can't thank you enough".

Whether he did the right thing or not, Rob would wonder. He would never forget her—even if he wanted to forget. Only a brief couple of hours with her, but she made an impact in his mind, like a branding iron that would sear the hell out of his brain. Later, he lied to his dad, and pretended to be thrilled that he got the chance to have such an awesome night—just rocking! It was the best birthday present so far!  For a moment, he thought of telling him the truth, but he pictured his dad saying, "You *****! You wasted your chance and my money!"

Rob decided that he wasn't going to write her. He just didn't want to know, instead wanting to assume she made it out okay. He decided to keep the paper with her address, anyway. It took him several months, after mulling it over in his mind, to actually write her a brief note to ask how she was managing. Did she really go back home? Was she doing alright? Did she put her ****** life behind her?

It was only a week when he received a letter back from Nebraska. Rob kept that letter to himself, never telling a soul about Kat. She was back with an old boyfriend from high school, staying with her mom and working part-time as a cashier in a supermarket. She was so eager to write him back, thrilled that he finally contacted her, and wondered why on earth it took him so long.  Rob believed her, like he first did about her story, and it was a relief to hear from her.  He was glad he took the chance. It seemed to pay off.

He heard nothing back from her until over a year later. This time she sent a picture in her letter. Kat and her boyfriend broke up, for the second time, but she was now married to her good friend's cousin, Nolan. She was glad it didn't work out with the first guy, because now she was pretty happy and couldn't imagine her life any other way. Rob smiled as he saw the picture of the couple, and she was holding her little girl in her arms. He name was Willow, a cute, little girl with strawberry blonde hair.

Thanks, again, Rob! It is all because of you! You’re a sweetheart. My hero!!!

He didn't want to take the credit. He was no hero. It was bound to happen, with or without him.  Rob was quite sure now that he would not write her another letter, but did pick up a card to congratulate her, to acknowledge he got the good news and was glad for her.

He still had that picture of her, and the last news he found out about Kat is that she moved to Colorado with her husband, and now had a son, Nolan Rob. Her husband got a better paying job, and she felt at home near the mountains. A picture of the kids came with it, and her two smiling children conveyed the innocence that she once had and cherished.

Wanted you to see my boy. His middle name, Rob, is after you! I figured you'd know this, but I want to tell you, anyway! :D Much love from us to you, Robbie!

Time has passed, and during that back-and-forth.  Rob's parents split up, sold the house, and he had graduated from college and was on his own. Contact with Kat waned down to nothing at all, and it probably was just as well. Were things still going good in her life? Rob still wondered and hoped so.

Now he was married, with a nice house and boy and girl of his own, thinking of Kat, now and then. He envisioned her doing well, a far cry from the young woman in a scene that replayed in his head, a night when he helped an unhappy and desperate lady get a chance to find her life, again. If ever his day ******, such thoughts could pick him back up.

He'd never cease to wonder about her, but what he did for Kat belonged in the past.  If it wasn't happily-ever-after for her, he'd rather not know.  He did his part, was glad that he had enough maturity and integrity to do the right thing, but no way was he a knight in shining armor.  Still, he was a hero in her eyes, a reluctant hero of sorts. He could live with that.

And just as I had thought all my problems were solved

He dropped me

The smile fades from my face

And that glistening happiness leaves my eye

I was wrong

Laying there with my face in the sand I deal with the pain

What else is new?

Bitter thoughts returned, “I told you so” they sneered

I wipe the blood from my hands and the sand from my eyes

And re-organize my thoughts

How could I have been so careless?

He had a hungry heart but an empty mind

But all I saw was someone willing to hold me.

Guess this place really was just a fantasy told,

To those stupid enough to believe it

I walk alone along the water’s edge and throw stones

As tears start to burn my face and cloud my vision

Once again I find myself laying in the sand thinking, looking, wandering

A heavy sigh takes away the burden of my past love

As I tell my story to the ocean

It sways and crashes as usual

I laugh at myself for expecting a response

No one hears me anymore

So I try again this time talking to the moon

As I finish telling my tale

He hides his face away behind the clouds leaving me in the dark

Again I laugh

No one cares

But saying what has happened, hearing myself talk

Helps ease the pain

I hear the sound of quick feet behind me as yet another boy approaches me

In my unstable mood I tell him everything

Finally what I’ve been waiting for,

Pity, sorrow, someone else who can relate and give me security

As he goes to wipe the tears from my eyes I apologize

And start running

Leaving him in the same pain I'm feeling

I'm sorry but it’s too soon to start again

As I deal with the guilt of causing someone else pain

I start a journey

I realize I’m not ready to be on the beach

And I must **** up my pride and return

To the place I left, in my haste to get here

I was wrong

I was blind

I come through the front door expecting hatred and get hugged

I was loved

Why would I throw that away?

I cry at my lack of inexperience

And lock myself away in my ocean of a room

Return to the thoughts

Return to the memories I tried to run from

And embrace them

Look for the universal meaning for their occurrence

Then I sleep

When I was a child,
Watching a wayward world through a lens of wonder and possibility,
Bound to an unusual captor of bats and gloves,
Reaching towards the rest of my life,
Over the head of the life I was already living,
I fell in love.
Not with a person or an object,
Nothing but a symbol of everlasting youth.
A team,
A place,
A game,
It was baseball.
Not just the game but everything that accompanied it,
A family,
Brothers becoming brothers.
A world,
The smells of trees and rain and concession stand hotdogs,
The sounds of a ball thudding into a catcher’s mitt and cheering fans,
The tastes of early morning Starbucks and corn nuts and bubble gum,
All of it stuck between basepaths,
Sitting on a bench in a dugout,
Spilled on the seats of my father’s car.

All of these little things,
All of the memories,
Just moments passed,
Lost in the depths of my mind,
Taunting me as I wish to return to them.
Although not yet old, I am older,
Reminiscing on the good and the bad of my youth.
I can still remember the veil of paralyzing loneliness,
Pierced by the family found in my brother’s team.
I remember the tears shed as I watched my father devoting his life to that team.
Those bad times were outshined by the good,
Team dinners in faraway towns,
Sunsets over outfield scoreboards,
Driving back to hotels in the dark with the windows down and classic rock blaring.
This is the way that I grew up,
Lonely but free,
Unhappy but secure,
In love with a thing that took so much from me,
Lasting Stockholm Syndrome bleeding from my life as it was to the life that I have.
I have lost this love,
No longer experience the ups and downs that can only be described as the reality of life.
I cannot weep over this lost love,
Cannot wallow,
Knowing that this is how it must be.
I must let go,
Grow up,
Get old,
Move on away from the family I found and the world I discovered,
Life doesn’t slow until it stops,
Barreling towards a hollow canyon,
Disappearing over a cliff to be covered by fistfuls of dirt,
Watered by the tears of loved ones left behind.
I must leave my love to rest before I lay in that hollow canyon.

Why must we grow up?
Grow out of our innocence and naivety, careless inexperience?
Why must we take for granted the memories of our youth?
Where do we retrieve them when our age returns to us and we miss the forgotten beauty of the world through a child’s eyes?
I wish the softness of the summer breeze would return to me,
Find me again in my days of regret,
In the sea of sorrow following me from my youth,
Sending waves crashing over my head.
I am not yet old, not yet wise,
But still, I mourn the loss of days past,
Loss of sweet summer softness,
Of the relentless rain ruining the chances I had of forgiving my father.

I have forgiven him since.
I forgave him like I forgave myself,
Regretfully.
I often miss that swirling storm of emotions I felt,
The loneliness, the worthlessness, the heart sickness.
So young and so filled with pain, balanced only by the Children of the Sun radiating from my chest.
Views of the maple-*******, the leather-launcher, the grenade-catcher,
Smells of earth and freedom,
Sounds of gentle violence, drawn-out intellectualism,
Overwhelming my senses and filling my days.
Those memories will follow me into the reaper’s grasp,
Rest with me in my eternal cradle.
Despite the storm, the pain, the sickness,
I dream of that cradle where the memories, the bitter and the sweet, will come together in the storm,
Meet like lightning and thunder,
And follow me into peace.
I am not yet old, but I long to be,
To once again feel my love and its infinite reach.

Job searches getting me down
I wait a few days and build up expectations of a keyword,
only to be hit with my inexperience in strange computer programs
Secret knowledge, have the behind the curtain research consultants
No one wants to understand a fleeting past

It’s all about what’s profit present
an internet job board is a long look at the priorities of this nouveau world "culture"
The top jobs are in marketing,
turning spy loot into algorithms that explain to magistrates how
the top brands can stay above the clouds
It’s the only way they can look down

My college has a vapid radio commercial
advertising zesty summer programs
- and I thought my prestigious public college
was above that

Oh Aztec watching from your
Rustic home, for my dignity
Do you have any advice?
For my poor state of being,any riches?
No wisdom for my inexperience?

Oh Aztec warrior who lays brick
For homes he will never own,
Don't you understand by right of
Superiority and sweat and blood
And tears from tyranny this should
Be your dream as well?!

Don't you see the Spaniards robbed
You once and the Europeans once again
Stole what is rightfully yours?
Don't you know you are Aztec?

Aztec, mighty spear in hand,
Or is that a shovel?
Your eyes with proud gleam in them,
Or is that a tear of despair?
What are you here for Aztec?
Why have you silenced the dreams?

Oh race of my forefathers,
Bring about the impenetrable heart,
The joy with pleasure,
The suffering with grief;
Tears of the Aztec sun!
Yours is the blood in my veins,
By that blood blank stares at the
Liquor stores,
I swear by that blood that I will
Rise once again and once more
Into the day of my life and fill
My song with a forgotten pride,
I will wonder where the Aztec
Has gone, though his dream
Remains unseen, his people
Remain in shards.

old school game
like saying exactly how i feel
when i feel it
not waiting the allocated amount
of time before responding to texts
to feign aloofness

making out outside like
when i was 17 at my parents house
afraid of getting caught
with enough surrounding trees
to obscure vision
oblivious to the freezing
nature of this rain falling upon
our skin, it's slick against
my fingers, the perfect complement
to lips connected, the sound
of rain in the background, the feel
of it falling from the brim of baseball cap
(i'm wearing one for some reason?)
the taste of peach (it was apples before)
the fumbling of hands against clothing
(where before it was inexperience,
now the cold hinders movement)
your stunted giggles as my tongue explored
the movements in sync shortly after starting

this dance feels familiar
like slow song, hands on hip
nostalgic yet current
it's something i never knew i craved

I live alone, and am locked inside the confines of my own mind, where i reside in uncompromising thought.  

Sometimes, i try, to tap into the solar weather, or something better than what I know, in bestow of what is lost.

I can feel a storm, and shout to warn in the lore of a great beast, but marble mouthed I mourn the forlorn obliquity of my distorted screams.

I can only be what i wish to be, in the instability of free will, capturing my kills, instilled, beyond my thorn and ivy shields, in the fields of yield-less building of my feelings, kneeling to the appealing satire of your sanity.

I randomly, embrace the humanity i disgraced, in my show of force to this spineless space of failure or inexperience, a mockery of my silliness of childish textbook deliverance to my serious concerns, as my success is earned in the blood of burned books, unlearned through the worming risks, of listless bliss with the dying kiss of incompetence.

Not sure what to make of it
I felt comfortable--
Knowing that the fire extinguisher was there
It made me feel safe
If anything ever caught fire I could put it out
I was a selfish child--full of arrogance and naivety
The world mistook my insecurity and inexperience for apathy
All I wanted was a place to call my own,
Something to hold on to
I did not worry about the still-lit cigarette
Not even when it bounced from the sidewalk to the grass
The red hot embers glowed among the dying grass
I did not worry when the fire began
I took my sweet time in getting the extinguisher
By the time I came back my world was engulfed in flames
Scrambling, I tried to smother the heat
The extinguisher let out a pathetic puff of dust
And I stood as hell fire consumed my home
Acrid smoke muffled my screams and floating ashed blinded me
All that was left was a charred fire extinguisher and the frames of my glasses

Soft Spoken Deals
A Rough Caress
and No Common Sense

Lead me to you

Cheap Whiskey
Inexperience
Flirtations

Made it come true

for one night

Hours pass by
fogged up windows
backseats
reeks of regret

Lost Innocence.

A notice to a person:
Get out of me;
I can feel your
Jarring fire in my bones,
Rattling wind hiding
Between each of my ribs.
You're a ghost in my thoughts,
Sleeping between each word and
Disassociated idea,
Waiting for the opportune time
To connect it all
And force me to look.
I won't look.
Force me to look.
I won't look.
Force me to look.
I won't look.
Writhing around in the pits
Of my nethers,
Feeling the claw marks,
Exasperating the
Prickling sore
Of social inexperience.
It's your fault,
In the end,
Though you may
Warp it otherwise.
I doubt you have such tact
To trick me,
To force me to look.
I won't look!
To force me to look.
I won't look!
To force me to look.
I.
Won't.
Look.
Distort it otherwise but
I doubt you have such grace
To undermine me,
To force me to look.
I won't look!
To force me to look.
I WON'T look!
To force me to look.
I WON'T LOOK!
I WON'T LOOK!
I WON'T LOOK!
A PLEA,
A DESPERATE,
LAST DITCH PLEA
TO SOMEONE-
SOMETHING:
GET THE **** OUT OF ME.
I CAN FEEL YOUR STINGING COLD-
I WON'T LOOK-
THE PRYING ANTENNAE-
I WON'T LOOK-
THOSE HAIRLESS CLAWS-
I WON'T LOOK-
THIN, LITTLE EYES-
I WON'T LOOK!
I WON'T LOOK!
A THREAT TO MYSELF
I WON'T LOOK
COMING FROM WITHIN
I WON'T LOOK
THOUGH COOKED WITHIN THE PIT
OF MY BODY
I WON'T LOOK
AND ENACTED WITHOUT
I WON'T LOOK
MY PERMISSION
I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOOK I WON'T LOO-
I looked.

I think of an end, and it will appear
I think there is no end… and it’s the beginning of my life each and every year
I choose where I am, by having chosen where I've been
A number of wise decisions… with a lot of nonsense in between
Epiphanies hit me and I see life in a split screen
Shared blunts with street urchins, with no idea where the spliff’s been
Arrested a couple of times… in holding cells I have been
Series of unfortunate events unfolding… in short spells?
I was reckless and immature… I was seventeen
But I stayed on, believed in the blessing…
From above and realized that between God and Satan… one of them must have been testing…
Me
My resilience, my ability to learn from experience…
My brilliance?
I yearned to play in the big leagues with the main players
I could have sworn that I could see the future like Soothsayers
I was going beat them
Despite being riddled with inexperience
I tried once… tried twice, made a step
Tried the third time, another step
The fourth, a leap
And I’m still at it, hoping to reap…
From this artistic thing
These poems, this music… when I rap, when I sing
This is the breath of life to me… it’s more than just ‘a thing’.