Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Thia Jones Apr 2014
This is how it goes
your hands will be proxy for mine
my hands will be proxy for yours
your fingers my fingers
and my fingers yours
what I describe, you enact
told in detail so exact

Just to begin
I squeeze your *******
knead and pinch
tweak a ******
give it a tug

Stroke your tummy
work over your thighs
move up the inner
where skin is smooth
circle around, moving in
till soft contours are caressed
through pants that burn
to be removed
that pain you to wear
and I see in my mind
as you describe
the spreading, darkening patch
that fills the gusset

Now they're pulled down
removed quickly, completely
and you are revealed
spread, opened, shameless

Gentle fingertips tease
dance in circles, barely touching
yet the fire within grows
back and forth, round and round
dance the fingertips
as both reciprocate
with growing pace
and firmer touch

I hear you gasp down the line
and your breathing quickens
as you hear mine
as your excitement fuels mine
as mine fuels yours
in our feedback loop of lust

And I tell you how
my fingertip would give way
to tonguetip if I could
that I can taste you
in my imagination
fragrant, salty sweetness
with musky undertones
the tip of my tongue now circling
then flicking back and forth
beating out the rhythm
that you best harmonise with
bringing forth your moans

Then darting down, back
between wet, glistening folds
exploring each ridge and valley
working remorselessly

Breathing faster now
with animal grunts and moans
directions of pleasure gasped
breathless down the phone

As fingers again
take the lead
find the opening
slip readily within
probe, explore, ****
find that place
on your front wall
yes, just that spot
that's a little rougher
and feels sooo goood

Add a second finger
working and *******
licking and rubbing
moaning and gasping
barely intelligible now
...yess...more...yess...ohhh
are all that have meaning

Finger three joins one and two
then the pressure builds
demanding release
and shaking and thrusting
grows to shuddering
and...yes...yesss...sooo clooose

******* faster furiously
till we both explode
hearing each other's
voicing of our ecstasy
in language intelligible
only in this one context

Brains and voices return
as we bask in the afterglow
and what passes between us then
in those moments
is the deepest intimacy of all

Cynthia Pauline Jones 01/02/2014
False Poets Feb 2018
there is no value in a poem that reads
_____
_____
____­
M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t

just

nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft

seek the intelligent intelligible,
kiss the sensational thrill that
emotion harvests with resonating tenses
that beg our brains to differ, sense

this claims,
there is no value in no words is
a hoax cloaked as art by the weak,
make thy metaphors metastasize,
my every cell, a preposition,
preposterous and precious and
comforting in their
privations and provocations

speak to us in alpha and
line our eyes wide,
with pictures at an exhibition
of a faun immobile and beauteous

let me hang on every word of yours and
let it be the raft that sees me happily
unsafe home

take your bs line poem  
shove it down your silent voice

this is not avant garde; this is insulting

p.s.  write me a smile and all will be_____
.
M Clement May 2013
Mixy-Twixy
Atom-Smasher
Take my brain
I hope it's matter
Break away from all the things we said we'd be
Internally

False pretense
On happenstance
All my socks have holes
Breaking molds
Of wither and tither
I keep your family on standby
Hand-holding lullaby

There was a cake on my doorstep
And a front porch on my brain stem
Again and again
And Asian
And never have I ever
Played a game with this many fingers

Following muffin-tops to your local coffee cart
There's a joke there

Breaking, breaking
Silence retaking
I haven't heard from you in a fortnight
Mind's eye
Zip-tie
Bedroom follies

I hope you get better
As I write letter by letter
And hope that you're not mad
Sad, enraged, but glad
****-mad and tired
Fired the liar
Who broke the back of the cat next door
Heart attack on front porches
Cause distress and sores
On the back of the man
Who did nothing  but hoard
For more and more and more

God be with us, I do pray
But Mary take my prayers away
Make them better, I ask, I say
And send them to who needs them most
Today
PoetAnon May 2018
The worst part is
I loved you back
Adulterous affair,
Absolutely abominable!

Maybe you didn’t mean to love
Me, the girl inside
the young woman’s body,
you only thought you knew

Flirtatious banter
once hinted at thoughts

Unsayable;
Intelligible abyss once linked
unsuspecting minds;
Understanding so
Deep, so
Accidental.

Praise me, praise me.

Be careful,
Time is taking over,
How could you, you fool
You can't beat the clock!
You're in love now.
Did you intend for this?

But was it Me you sought to love?
Or was it just my body?
The thrill of the ilicit,
The power
Over a child?

Origins unknown

Grown out of your control.
Say goodbye to reason
I’m your master now.

What’s happening to you?
You’re afraid and I, well
I am the child
who will destroy you

Words, your last weapon
Escalating, no wait, stop
You’re killing yourself.

It's too late
I tried to warn you
You failed me, embarrassed
Me.

I egged you on.

I loved you back.

I’m sorry.
#MeToo
Reflections on my confusion and guilt after I reported my university professor for sexually harassing me.
THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
Fizza Abbas Apr 2015
Your forked soul and tasseled persona,
Penetrated through the orifice of anomaly;
Intelligible; Marked by an insane cognition,
Quadrangle of engrossment preceded by revolutions.
~F.A
stéphane noir Apr 2014
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.

but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.

yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.

with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.

a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
and then some men are lost on the surface of the Earth, content to be a shell for others to fill, caught up lovingly in the nonsense, and welcoming the World and her pleasures. Some stars fall, and others still have never flown.
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny ***** and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Julian Jul 2020
Although flummoxed by the gabble of hibernaculum I seethe with the verdant quiddity that is a cross-pollination that spans the gamut of historical memory and owns the usucaption of infrastructure equipping our bootstrapped capacities of literacy tethered to the ecumenical capacity for proliferation through amplified discernment that percolates at decorative gallop into the stridor of unified apothegms that quantify the visibilia of the broadened universe into the nexility of formula bounded by the parameters that equip synergies of space-time to envelope its own reification and magnetize urbane freebooters of coalescence to grapple with the ineffable mathematics of absorbed losses in the human fraternity becoming overlooked because of the providence of shepherded acrimony to escape the oblivion of barely marginal exponential extinctions of impropriety into fast-paced panoramas of expedited dalliance with optimums constrained by the effluvia of hinderbaggle which exist only by domineering mercurial lability of manufacture enabled by the siphon of Promethean reason to catapult the slogmarch of advancement by punctuated achievements registered by canonical gravitas to revolutionize society in longevity and interplanetary awareness that places a 1000:1 premium on a 165 IQ in comparison to a 110 IQ. Although bewildered by the beaucoup of raxed originality the anoegenetic flux of slogan achieves but a petty solidarity in comparison to the galvanized bronteum of registered invention that provides decisively seminal locomotive prowess to the foisons of promulgated ingenuity propped up by the capacity for raltention that exceeds the inherent longevity of humans on Earth into the permanence of memory to achieve radical vanguard frontiers within diminishing frames of a once vapid time recorded only through the lens of finicky preoccupations of crude retention rather than the kinship of the perceptive unity of the authors who remarked on history to share the same vantage with the distant onlookers upon that very history with such a convergence of judgments the photons that trespassed on inquisitive eyes of inquierendo are the very same blueprint for the modern savory traipse with selfsame perceptions embedded in canonical history like the spool of an exact daydream unfurled before inoculated eyes differentiated by context but achieving the same visual footprint of historical lineament provided by the original exemplar. The luxury of our provisional prosperity is the unique ability to browse spontaneously a two-century travail of perceptible records embedded in the same perceptual rudiments captured by the original vetuda thereby enabling the specificity of prowess to vicariously encounter distant gulfs of time with the simultaneous realization of past becoming present tense because beyond the revisionism of the censors the human lineage originates in approximated design tethered to the aboriginal photographs and hallmark expenditures of celluloid digitized into annealed constellation to provide separate junctures in space time with the same indelible percept decontextualized but potent by showcase of the verdure of the generosity of shared perception rather than cleaved faint traces of divergent imagination conceiving junctures by distal lurches of insular harbors of private registries of tact and discretion without the shared raltention of the plevisable entities that populate the fragmented lineage of space-time to achieve full congruence in percept first and abstract eventually as neuroscience slogmarches with the nockerslug of invidious depredation of sanctanimity. Adrift in iconoduly sustained by lambent monasticism of abnegation we were lost widows of insular idiosyncrasies of similar concepts separated by the longevity of imagination redacted into communicable formula to ensure the divergence of impact of liturgies heterodyne by vast distances but linked to archaic designs that formed the paradigms which eventually merged with the wiseacres of Renaissance conserved in momentum over centuries into the information capital that forms the futtocks of the girdle of a womb matrix of society sustained by a newfangled uniformity of exposure that slowly churns the collectivism of memory and the syndication of the cartel into the ubiquity of prominent thorns of perception magnified by iconography of the megalography of historical permanence evasive of censors and embracing the entelechy of coherent perceptions siphoned by different engineers but arriving at precisely the same conceptual imprint thereby unifying the perceptual world with the usucaption of leveraged networking of browsers of antiquity. The finesse of leapfrogs of modern human impediment is to scour the reaches of the troves of the most vivid imagination and expedite the turnstiles of conserved rollercoasters of enthusiasm probed by the cadasters capable of castophrenia to syndicalize the autonomy of human perception sejungible from indelible vivid footprints of abstraction upon an interface of truly hard-won vehicles of transmissible abstraction to win the arduous relish of once a vacuum of infested instinct into an algorithm of an intelligent source that creates the precise conditions of parallax to seed through celestial hosts the flourishes of stereodimensional traces of permanent cadaster into something that elects beyond the ethereal snatches of oblivion the provisional apportionment of sentiment above continence to set ablaze the rarefaction of raltention and quantify the intelligible impact of one artifact of civilization over the constellated taxonomy of all apothegms within the divine grasp of a sublunary eternity revived and recycled into syndicated scrutiny that bows to a convergent entelechy of instantaneous improvisation of perdurable registry into indemnities that litigate the humorous quizzical trangams of vastly outmoded obsolescence borrowing from panspermatism of technocracy to the edgy appeal of scintillating horizons of peerless scope that approximate the ommateum of approximated omniety but never span far enough for the distant riometers to see for deputized galaxies to be evoked in concrete human-alien achievements sempervirent and virulent guardians of the toil of sensation to refract off of its overhang because of redundant upbringing to shelve the incendiary impediments of the chary into the corsairs of revelation beyond gamuts of lurch and bypassing elapsed regress to arrive at ceremonial progress to trespass upon many minds with a unified concrete hypostasized entelechy of a fielded incorporation of organic life into a manufactured cycle of the most prolonged and beatific longevity capable of digestion and implementation from the toolsheds of hubris accelerated by the vainglory of subsidized harmonies that break through the barriers of language to sprout convergence in direct opposition to entropy to achieve oculate ommateum.The opponents to the logical syndicalism of positivism emergent as the verdant drape of homogenized pasteurization of raw lavaderos that capsize swallock and devour consciousness with predatory mobilism is the tregounce of the ponderous imprints of recapitulated stupidity which is easy to quantify in terms of human rarity because the difference between a 130 IQ and a 155 IQ is a difference in ingenuity power than exceeds 25:1 or an even higher margin of liquidation of indebted concatenations forming the flombricks of capitalized language finessed into burgeoned growth to radically shift postulates into abstract precision that observes the flanges of the dominion of inculcation into the filibusters of gainsay that supersedes hearsay in an evolution of the dialectic to exert transformative esemplastic rejuvenation that transcends creed and ingeminates the festivity of spectacle with the alvantage of albenture to such an extent it predicates new modalities of persiflage grounded on the aggressive patented expansion of the noosphere to inherit the instincts of orthobiosis while simultaneously inheriting the flair of redoubled ingenuity swarming with the vespiaries of predatory discretion working to ***** out glaring beacons of sapience so that intellectual capital is a local rather than ubiquitous emergence because of the prizes of urbacity enhanced by systems of masonic creed that preserved foresight with varying degrees of exactitude knowledgeable about outcomes but incidental in creating those outcomes out of the alchemy of the convergent sphere of spacetime to curve to synclastic pancratic refinement realized in the taxation of the most domineering figures of canon to indoctrinate the inkburch of wernaggle while the panorama of peripheral obscurity adduced by the resourceful few provides the progeny for a seminal equation that encounters the quandaries of precise retention amplified by the synergies of language exponentially grown by the depth and breadth of lexicon siphoned through mechanisms of percolation seeded by the convergent progeny of hindsight meeting foresight to a truce in the elected interests of the filagersion of the spotlight highlighting a universe that only exists with self-aware reification rather than plodding animated instincts of a stagnant match with a slowpoke evolution that scrawls the gabble of the vacuums of faint oblivion knowing only pain, agony and brief felicity but never registered into ecosystems capable of enriching themselves with artifices of origination rather than vapid retrenchments of the stale vapor of the exigencies that plague the intellectually bereft with tertiary deskandent perfunctory desuetude outstripped by the parsecs of the 170 crowd who secretly orchestrates the think tanks that run the furtive cryptadia of regional governance with foisons of fruition realized as dividends of exponential bypasses of even a linear route of the streamline by warping time itself to a spontaneous entelechy that triangulates a warped trigonometry that fathoms what can only be mapped on an imaginary flickering plane of fluxed existence that achieves sub-Pythagorean travel by altering the vacillating distances predicated by the theory of relativity into shortened tracts of abbreviation separating the bridgewaters of locomotion from the vast lurking prowess of reconfigured geometries lurking beyond the shadowy grave of reconnaissance into the penumbra of conservatory refinement. The punctual symmetries of thermodynamic decay met with a conversant offset in reverse acceleration of thermolysis converge with the centripetal prism of annulment to make stalemates of atomic precision appear grandiose to the economic principle of leverage acquired by debt because the discounted cost of symmetrical approximations of sentiment, abstraction and the already syndicated unity of perception vastly scale the scope of the reach of the amenable universe to tractions bound more by eccentricity of parameterized volumes of competing hyperbolas of a warped unity of tugging forces spawned by the differential weights of a flummoxed calculus that provides obeisance in ecumenical uniformity that was absent by degrees through the tinkers of time to adjust the orbits of consideration by tilted warbles of the songbirds that swim in abysses reaching sizable celestial tutelage providing reprisal for quintessential crudity mapped into a syntax of evolved refinement amplified by conserved concatenation accelerated into mastery by the coalescence of new lexicon to probe conceptual space unchartered by the nexility of normal human conduct and therefore bound to a different pattern of evolution that is oleaginous to the engines of revved ostentation in intellectual prowess that is selfsame from the majesty of heaven because of preordained populace meeting transitory flickerstorms twinged with the irony of discursive disclaimer and discretion of disclosure of emissary vehicles that power synaptic vesicles to burst with signal strength harnessing the unity of conscientiousness into a coenesthesia that fathoms interdisciplinary bridges rarely exacted by the formulas of a more rudimentary mind demarcated in taxonomies of scope that are taxemes for unrealized entelechy bristling against the headwinds of doldrum rather than zephyrs of accelerated approximations of the enumeration of elaborate sveldtang into seminal traversals of the inhibitory grasp of narquiddity exceeded by the alacrity of provident discretion in apportioned judgment enough to parameterize vast distances with instantaneous wiseacres rather than rippled mirrors of faint simulations of simultagnosia bounded by the regional scope of subliminal etches of harnessed flombricks invisible to most aptitude measures of working memory but evocative of subroutines that flourish because of the cross-pollination of exasperated sapience clambering for a perpetuity of renewable raltentions conveyed widely and succinctly in indelible tacenda broached by the wisest sophrosyne inclinations to survive the onslaught of traditional nexilities that make obtuse minds hardened by slowpoke myelination and hidebound parameters of achieved convention recursive on reiteration but not expansive on the tracts of genius reserved for the asylum boundary between insanity of delusion and bountiful riches of harvested non-conventional imagination which sometimes pollutes the integral provenance of rapid conveyance. True transcendence is summarily defined as outpacing pace itself to visibly outfox the forsifamiliation of events perceived as distance sworn by the ability of the accelerated frontier to understand the vestiges of the outmoded to the extent redintegration can surpass with imagination beyond the tethers of quddity that narrowcast swallock but refine the space that distances itself from magnitude and achieves a limited vetuda that phenomenalizes the redacted plucky perjury of self-anonymity to identify a novel visibilia of characterized clarity only specialized to the extent the vast sphere of retention exerts a gravitas over footloose fragments of disunity to surpass the skeumorphs of the trailing bolides of distant comets to avoid by meteoric trajectory the lapse incumbent to E=MC^2 which guarantees implicitly in the barter of nebbich chalky rigmarole that the energy of refinement is an abstraction limited only by the coherence of marginal dumose decay to estrange inertia as plevisable from motion and thermolysis as sejungible in partition what cannot be summarily be filibustered by the succedaneum of shortchanged shorthand convenience of the credulity of those who perceive dynamism of delivery as an easily fudged quandary not restrained by the logarithmic slowdown of conservatory inseminations of panspermatism of invention. The riddle of the enigma of neuroscience that presides over classifiable qualia is that the outstretched rax of rectiserial reorganization must gradatim invoke spurious prestige to predicate the entrapment of narrative exponentially slower than the impregnated literacy of an integral harpsichord of mind to finesse the octaves so that sublime majesties become superlative ringleaders of seditious conventions embedded more by absorptive brocrawlers than expressive werniques. We must fashion an orthobiosis that is leniency embodied but plenitude outnumbered by the progeny of its sculpted riches for extravagant spools of tapestries of refinement to be the imprints of legacy compounded by the complexities of inheritance in lineaments situated in the context of overhanging specters and domineering prospects swimming by commonwealth acatelepsy in a maelstrom of revived gammerstang notions of impetuous apostasy benighted by the macroscian and macrobian spans of the captive capture of a Taylor Series of infinite expenditure assuming perpetuity that necessarily converges on organization because of conscientious reversals of entropy into ladders of betrayal against the hegemony of ******* over the synquests of hortoriginality that spurn the castigations inherited from its immodesty of permutation to fixate on global problems of intricacy ragged in salebrosity bereft of the marginal galvanization of hidden inquirendos into artifice contingent upon elapsed epiphenomena of compounded rigmarole resonant with a simplified system of hostage complicity to a least common denominator that belongs to suboptimal refrains issued by Procrustean forces against demassified parsecs of bounded limitations exceeding the volume of perceptible shadows recessive in the alleles of culture but eventually transmogrified into teetotaler totalitarian principles of grave gravities of tabanids to the aceldamas of territorial joust rather than annealed irony of the recidivism of the plucky thorns of percurrent but latent vehicles for oppression to swamp the lethargy of durative formation such that the hambourne atrocity of hambaskets of hinderbaggle grapple mostly with the adolescent excesses of milked pleonexia becoming the downfall of cagey imprisoned syntax bereft of capable constellation and thereby stranded in vagrant proclivities that net positive only in the rare grandeur of my formative axiom of the axiolative excesses of my recensed definition of transcendence. The vacant harbor of asylum of abiding auctions of flexible transistors of wealth is inherently a poolswap of attractive chocolate-box travestime of incurred wreffalaxity suborning the lewd machination of funneled flipcreeks to the commerstargall of incendiary glaciers basking in boardrooms of ataraxic placations of commiseration found in dynamos lamenting degraded embodiments of regaled regelation as seasonal flictions of submerged vanity vaporizing the wisps of whimsical bloated grievances of paltry imparlance to the defalcation of a filigree of mind only sustained by the steady churlishness of preserved relic hibernating in brocrawler pleonasm to grindole the welter of spates of vapid deceleration of successful vibrancy measured in the gamut of hues to exact a penultimate ruse before the finitude of the capstone of capers of fiat remission slick with glamborge of gallionic sciamachy prone to revelry in the cretaceous extinction of monochromatic mathematicization of gradgrind visagists toying with the treacle of blue-sky action billowed into toxic spurts of contrarian aggression of herculean appendages of hackumber providing the bronteum of recidivism to vanquish a righteous trajectory on a pause of Canada Dry conveniences sultry in daft hipsters of tilted stage grafting conclusion prior to rapport of introduced variables of poignant tethers of necessary succor for a desiccated bastion of hidden unspoken reach fizzling into trangams of obsolescence because of perennial inebriations that thwart strong character to scandalize a pinhoked vessel of conscientious objection to the radiology of centerpiece hapless forlorn arid squelches of the vibrant verdure of macrobian dumose shelter for reformatories that invent incidentally accidents otherwise precluded by the ommateum of wasted foresight guzzled on the premium of disaster for a showcase of verve going awry steamy with livid filagersion aimed with a reluctant enmity against the cagey headwinds of recalcitrance inveterate to the scruples of the otherwise unscrupulous who foist lewd licentious philandered paragons of philogeant mysticism to forefront cowcatchers that eliminate kumbaya rijuice of gridlock impressionism guarded by the sentinels of rambunctious destructive attempts to evict intellectual propriety from careens of subtlety barnstorming with polyacoustic nuances of differential gradients of vapid bastions of strident but backwards versamily froward and bountiful of Head Hunter specters rather than heaved recombinations of orthotropism wed with mangers of savory dilettantism of the lionized array of brooks branching into rivulets and the fluminous barnstorm of pelagic awareness interrupted by the finicky prevarications of piggybacked fair-weather allies who secretly fund the slander for the mainour of dirt fundamental to meteoric rises acclimated to dissipated moral vacuums of disbelief of evidentiary miracles among the jostle of scientific regency that slakes opprobrium to illiteracy while benefiting greatly from my perceived barathrum that is rather a crowning ravenous achievement of appetite above substance and distinction varied from prediction that my Titanic zalkengur spared from the unnecessary sacrilege of less accommodating curglaff to the metaphorical hypothermia of albatross in dramaturgy rather than a pause glowering with mastery against my jarred enemies preying on weakened reach due to preeminent dirges of inkburch and swallock to ravage my sanctity with a hyped stage without a starlet daydream fantasia spectacle that is calculated to upstage even in the coverthrow of intelligentsia against the plodding boweries of pestilential raving resentment absconding with elusive enmity rather than cherishing a true trident champion of the seized seas and the traindeque of emulated intellectual accordions of claptrap chockablock pedigree that outlast gallywow afflictions of rapacious venality tenacious to the detritus of constructive detriment building the ashes of effigy before I am dead and buried with the storge of perennial legacy rather than scandalous privation of the obolary tenets of desecration above reabsorption of mendicant bodges of the bodewash of freedom’s counterstrokes of maskirovka ineradicable and plenipotentiary wit deniable but legacy ineffable by degrees of exponential long-winded flambeaus of filagersion swiveling with recessive rubble in a crenellated fortress guarded with tripwire insubordination against cordslave dependencies liable to recurrent reproach rather than sustainable filigrees of electrified balkanization toxic to the aquifers of modernity streamlining Roman imperium. To this flajoust I owe eternal behest as the captaincy of time is not a perishable whangam of superstition an affront to a provident rejoinder of verifiable prestige because the curvature of time favors the ripple effect of magnetized reninjuble charms alerted to upward soaring skies of inevitable peerless dominion in the  perceived symphily of competing benevolence with a shared stake in Earthly pulchritude emanating a sworn allegiance to the best interests of philosophical enlightenment
1:43 PM MST 7/18/2020
notification of fire evacuation 
     slated to occur 
April 12th, 2018 (between the hours 
     of 9:00 am and 12 pm) did spur
me to validate Google asper,
 
that direct object heave ving, 
     his pro noun sub bull, verb bose, 
ingenious American historical figure 
     attired in tailored clothes

careful, sans his just keen 
     liberal mien pro
     claiming maxim necessity to doze
when body politik needs to *** juiced up

     and doth need restorative source 
     analogous to drained battery expose
zing lack of electricity 
     mechanisms need did tubby supplied 
     (in one direction) flows

accorded stealing thunder and lightening 
     from Zeus where prominence glows  
vis a vis via leaving 
     his tell tale fingerprints 
     upon flame inextinguishable hose

imprimatur of renown Founding Father, 
     a one man gifted born
improved quality of life 
     during Colonial American stage 

     buttressing forlorn
during his deux score and four years 
     fledgling United States heed add horn
bequeathing blueprints 

     (functional contraptions, 
     posthumous patents procured 
     after populace did mourn
     gadgets kickstarting leveraging more novel 

     Ongepatshket prescience, 
     quietly revolutionary, 
     strikingly timesaving), 
     utilitarian value shorn
tattered stitched timeless totemic tenets torn 
     unimagined visionary watershed worn,
where underworld webbed wide world burned 
with thermal coupling that churned
ferocious infernos 
     describing how Hades learned

tubby managed 
     to maximize efficiency 
zealousness zeroed Zyder Zee 
     in said Netherlands

and hellish hot house turned
into a near utopia (More
     or less nsync) with Doubting Thomas's,
where many mortals yearned

to escape corrupt fat cats, sans
     those condemned to mortality
     found minimally a mew
zing, and doggedly trudged 10,000 leagues

     under the sea, entombing
     jewels for vernacular speaking Josephine shew
wing scars from fire 
     that threatened Philadelphians thorough

lee hence, forcing many civilians 
     to dive vining Davy Jones's locker pre view 
     in 1736 after swallowing embalming fluid 
     ha I did "FAKE" you
     tubal heave poetic pablum from human zoo!
Emily B Mar 2016
Edgar Lee Masters. 1869–
  
Silence
  
  
I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea,  
And the silence of the city when it pauses,  
And the silence of a man and a maid,  
And the silence for which music alone finds the word,  
And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,          
And the silence of the sick  
When their eyes roam about the room.  
And I ask: For the depths  
Of what use is language?  
A beast of the field moans a few times  
When death takes its young.  
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—  
We cannot speak.  
  
A curious boy asks an old soldier  
Sitting in front of the grocery store,  
"How did you lose your leg?"  
And the old soldier is struck with silence,  
Or his mind flies away  
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.  
It comes back jocosely  
And he says, "A bear bit it off."  
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier  
Dumbly, feebly lives over  
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,  
The shrieks of the slain,  
And himself lying on the ground,  
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,  
And the long days in bed.  
But if he could describe it all  
He would be an artist.  
But if he were an artist there would he deeper wounds  
Which he could not describe.  
  
There is the silence of a great hatred,  
And the silence of a great love,  
And the silence of a deep peace of mind,  
And the silence of an embittered friendship,  
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,  
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,  
Comes with visions not to be uttered  
Into a realm of higher life.  
And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech,  
There is the silence of defeat.  
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;  
And the silence of the dying whose hand  
Suddenly grips yours.  
There is the silence between father and son,  
When the father cannot explain his life,  
Even though he be misunderstood for it.  
  
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.  
There is the silence of those who have failed;  
And the vast silence that covers  
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.  
There is the silence of Lincoln,  
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.  
And the silence of Napoleon  
After Waterloo.  
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc  
Saying amid the flames, "Blesséd Jesus"—  
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.  
And there is the silence of age,  
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it  
In words intelligible to those who have not lived  
The great range of life.  
  
And there is the silence of the dead.  
If we who are in life cannot speak  
Of profound experiences,  
Why do you marvel that the dead  
Do not tell you of death?  
Their silence shall be interpreted  
As we approach them.
Michael Crowley Jul 2011
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought.  What?  You say you bet you could

rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?

I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé.  I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.

I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod.  And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
judy smith Mar 2016
Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Ciarra Reneé Jan 2014
being mixed is the least of my  
problems,  but it's an issue never recognized all anyone ever thinks is how great it must be. how great it is to have  light skin and have good hair and to be "ethnic" but they never realize that behind these brown eyes is a person. a person who doesn't know who they are cause they've been asked what they are too many times. a person who has put themselves in a box, limited to one race because they're afraid of being called fake. all for being themselves, who ever that is. if I act this I'm not enough this, it's hard enough being bi racial but deciding who to act like is the hardest  part. having to check one in the race box when you're really four having to repeat what you are to people so much that you just stop answering. just say yes to every question to make them go away. judging you like the color of your skin really matters. I thought we resolved this idiotic issue  over a half century ago when African Americans united to find equal ground and now the same group of people are tearing each other down based completely on the same ridiculous idea of pigment. hearing "she's not black enough" "you're too light" "shut up you can't say that you're just mixed"  because the n word is surely something only said by purebred black people and because I'm tall with a big **** I must be black but I'm pale on a scale of one to Akon so their must be white somewhere but where did those hips and those rolled R's come from she just might be Hispanic and in fact so my story is not a cliff hanger as if you care and I can't believe that this is what we fought for. the idea of equality in the black community  is being destroyed by ignorance and misplaced hatred towards ourselves. So if I'm being told through history books that we won this battle in the 60's then I'm wondering why are we still fighting ? When  we were kids it was all well and fine cause we all spoke the same strange optimistic language of curiosity but now I can't hang out with the people I grew up with that I promised to never grow apart from because somehow the language we both once spoke evolved differently over time. And now I'm stuck up because  I was taught there's a time and place for everything. Including speaking like you have an education and speaking with people your comfortable with. stop asking me what I am like it's who I am don't take the light skin and the intelligence for a weakness. I don't think I'm a chola cause a few of my friends are Mexican my name does not have an "esha" or "niqua" at the end of it cause I play basketball and I don't want to be  white because I sound intelligible so next time you ask me if my hair's a weave or where I grew up or if my mom's white as if by you knowing my racial backgrounds you may actually know a speck about who Ciarra is and  Even if I answer these questions you still don't know me. so next time you speak spanish at me or you try to ask me what I am like it's my life story. remember ignorance isn't bliss.
Third Mate Third Jan 2015
count thy words
like you count your breathes -
not!

the estimable statisticians
can estimate
the proximate number
of breaths
our lives will take,
the inventory of words,
we shall on average aggregate

we breathe recklessly,
never stopping
to slow down the rate
with which we tirelessly
consume ourselves

think of the
mess of words,
a brain store,
like a breath,
use it and then
purposeful lose it,
once employed,
nevermore,
so write often,
even longingly,
as in,
write long,
write hard,
every word expelled,
a treasure,
returned to
brother poets
for their
consumption and reutilization,
the monoxide,
of a shared oxide

when thy stock of
words in trade,
almost all used up,
perforce,
must write only
short little sweet nothings

well,
in happy desperation,
compose
alliterative allegations,
nonsensical noises,
aiming to pleases
summation of essential humanness

remain few breaths,
issue rhythmic sounds,
colorful grunting noises,
outed

one last intelligible poem
that cannot ever be read
aria xero May 2014
terror in portals of rapture
twin mirrors reflect possible dolor
untrusting, yet entwined
so amenable.
immediate submergence,
reverence of marred flesh
intelligible infatuation inevitable.
howbeit, efflorescence devotion
find a way through;
transude into pores
inebriated in their fumes.
reverie becomes eternal sleep.
Eleanor Rigby Dec 2016
What has life made of me?
Where has life taken me?

This body has never been mine, nor will this mind ever be.

There is a terrific sadness in every time
I look in the mirror and pretend to smile.

Dear Adam,
I have missed the spring and I am coming to you soon
The eyes that flicker, the stories behind the eyelids
The heart that ***** in the air
Like a flightless bird that dreams to fly.
Make sure you open up those heavy arms of yours
Make of my thin body your prisoner
Forever
See me for the second time,
Look at me as if it was the first time.

Adam, the ground has never been mine to walk upon
This Earth is selfish, she wants us all
But I am weary, just like you.
Everywhere I look, I find wrinkles
Old objects full of dust
Young people full of lust
Golden hearts full of rust.

Adam, I have been reeking of desolation
Since the day I died
Right there on grass that has never been greener
Under a sun that has never shone brighter
Since I died
Of longing
I have been reeking of desperation
If it wasn't for the books you left me,
If it wasn't for this letter today
If it wasn't for the hope of finding you again
I would have long turned into a portrait
Copied off of a portrait of a portrait
Of a portrait someone painted off the back of their mind
Intelligible and faint.

Adam, the lines on my palms are fading
Drip by drip
The water in me is adding up
And drowning what life has left of me
Poor little soul, good for nothing but the sadness

Adam, I wish I was sad like you
But I am not sad
I am bored,
Like a writer that never learned to write
A painter without paints
A mermaid on land
I am bored like the zoo.

I am coming to you soon.
But I know you're not there.

Goodbye summer and everything that's as clear
I will miss you my dear.


-- Watercolour
xyloolyx Sep 2014
burning celebrities in effigy
chaos as all we know
a huge mess
a strong fear of anything important
core meltdown
frustrated with life and love and writing
invisible invisible
self-immolation
just broke twitter and made everyone's day
pretending you don't exist
pretending nobody exists
pretending nothing exists
nothing exists
growing old and staying that way
covering myself in bots
hi bots
thots and bots
bots > humans
bots do what humans fail at doing
bots are the master race! eliminate the human race!
neutral garbage
say something intelligible and see what happens
chaos prevails
high heat
stranger zoned
learn the ******* etiquette
life nomadic Dec 2012
Analytical minds share symbols like currency, defining the present's possible.
Tip an 8 sideways and infinity tumbles out,
but sadly for us, there is no word for          , so it doesn't exist.

Modern idioms can string together only hints of divinity:
A Hebrew Prince raised by Egyptian Pharaohs wrote a book about the I Am.
Our language fails pathetically, scarcely the words for what Moses saw in that burning bush.

We know he saw God, lived to tell in writing.
Grasp the Key for the 6th Angel's Little Scroll, unlocking his original Ancient Hebrew.
Like math, each letter is a picture hieroglyph, and a meaning, and a number.  
Add letters together, each word is a painting, and a poem. 
One sentence is paragraphs of meaning, on four dizzying levels.
One concise chapter speaks a vertigo of encyclopedic volumes.

First to Analyze the most important hieroglyph in Genesis,
so important, do not pronounce it, so its sacredness will never fade:
At top, the sign of Life, then doubled, and the sign of Intelligible Light between.
So becoming a unique verb; all other verbs derive from this, the Creator.  
Then add the sign of potential manifestation, with foundation in eternity.
IHOAH  
a verb/noun signifying exactly The-Being-Who-Is-Who-Was-And-Who-Will-Be
A vertical hieroglyph pictorially resembling a Man.

Then:
The letter with the sound of A looks like:     , and means the physical manifestation of  
A= the physical manifestation of, D= man, A= the physical manifestation of, M= woman.
ADAM, with its root word in red clay.
A noun, collective humanity in physical form resembling spirit. (one meaning)
Vertically hieroglyphic one sees a man; but it is smaller  (another meaning)
Adam, a shadow of IHOAH.

Let me explain how Moses reveals DNA....
.
.
Part one of two
.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
Jordan P Sanders Apr 2013
Moral depravity is a commercial asset
*** is love
Love only happens to beautiful people
People with chiseled jaws unstrap silken bras
Bras are meant to be **** and not intelligible
Intelligence is secondary to primary skill sets
Set up the idyllic world in your imagination
Imagine that you will one day know the answers to everything
Everything will be simpler and no one will hurt you
You, the delicate breadwinner who scored perfect SAT's
Sat down by harsh lessons that cannot be studied with the help of Adderal
Add up all your triumphs and they will only be a 63 percent
You have failed life
Li[F]e.
derelictmemory Oct 2014
It was just like this.
Being without you was just like this.
Uttering that I hate you under my breath
and letting it carry through the wind
while my mind screams that I love you
Because on a late September night,
you held me like I belonged somewhere
besides the cracked sidewalk under
the tears of the moonlight.
And in an intelligible dream, you held me
like there was no other place and time
and state of existence you wanted to be.
Being without you was being reminded
of the times I was with you
when you didn't want to let go.
Being without you was knowing how it felt
to be a portion of a soul that was not mine
and walking about the next morning
with an arrow stuck in between the arteries
of my bruised heart.
Being without you was feeling you tell me
you loved me while you hand rested on
my thigh and living every night wishing
we had stayed a little longer.
Being without you was not being able
to tell the difference between reality
and a daydream because it was all real.
It was all real.
Being without you was being torn apart trying
to explain to my heart that your hands
never held it and that you never really wanted
to stay for longer than needed.
Being without you was hearing your voice
telling me you wanted a few minutes more
before you had to leave
and waking up to a cold bed
far too big for one.
Being without you was like being haunted
by phantom limbs trying to inflict their torture
of making my hands feel yours intertwined
with my fingers and feeling what it felt like
when you lowered your walls and let me have you -
or at least, a part of you.
Being without you was having a constant nagging
in my head telling me I should've kissed you.
I should've kissed you when you were close enough,
when you reached out for me and knowing that it's too late.
And it was just like this.
Being without you was just like this.
I think I love him. If even a little.
JM Apr 2014
Now
In violent light,
shadows are sharp, crisp and clean.
Heavy is the night.

The salt of your skin
rests uneasily on my swollen tongue
as I ******* like your life
depended on it.

How many times have I wrenched
the impossible from the ether
and left you slick and aching,
bereft of any intelligible thought
save for the feeling of having
been entirely filled and
completely consumed
in the same
endless moment?

One moment can change
your universe.
How long
does it take to lose an arm,
to come for the first time,
to surrender?

How long does it take to cut too deep?

I can become your
deity in the violent light
of our sanctuary
and you can take my
blood while I sleep
in your hair.

Heavy is the night
but your skin is cool
and all I want is to
die inside you.

The salt of your sins
my only meals as I
burn in the furnace
again.

I can't take my eyes
away from the edge
of our shadows
in this
violent light.

I can't take my eyes away.
Ryan Galloway May 2014
My mind swims when I see you
As I say "hi"
All intelligible thought leaves my mind
To only leave behind
Stick figure drawings of me and you
I mean that figuratively for given enough time
I would paint you a masterpiece
But this drawing was all I could muster for the sheer surprise
Of seeing you before my eyes
I try to regain myself and maintain my "suave" facade
Yet I find myself looking more like an awkward giraffe
I continue to jumble my words like a frustrating jigsaw puzzle
Also I'm pretty sure that my last sentence was in pig-Latin
I sprinkle in incorrect quotes from obscure 80's movies
And you still look at me with that unfazed look
A third party looking at my performance may have thought they were watching some sort of comedy routine and a poor one at that
I try to close my mouth to stop this mess
Yet my brain doesn't spare me such pity
I continue till I am sure that I have buried any chance of ever knowing you
Yet when I look up, I see a smile spread across your face
Linaji Nov 2011
He wears lots of light blue and close to gray
so young I wonder where does he come by
such tender knowledge with King Kong depth
I fantasize;

Here I am in his world
and my hands are on his shoulders as he writes
Stolen knowing
(must be lifetimes before, how could it be otherwise?)
I see the mist that circulates and falls like dust
dancing round the light
filling up the room we share
and I take the temperature from his body
as he makes love to me where inside his mind
already brewing
a becoming
of a thousand different ways to express
his heady stroke of my skin and darling wet flower

Books spewed (so many) about
are dog eared
all the greats are here
and a few I must purchase oneday

He is contained and unsure just because he is
young
but his heart beats like a grand scale of octave notes
who’s perfection between pitch
sirens those who want to feel his world
(like I do)

Lounged and laid back, surprising shapes of figs appear
In this… my own version of the best lover for me

Figs, pear shaped and small and dark purple
All ripe with my desire

I love his smile

It’s mine in this scenario
the parting of his mouth is like kings table
desserts
endless like his words; delectable, pungent, foreboding
far reaching
Sometimes un-intelligible for a less than writer like me.

But that’s why I wrote this,
It’s still delicious to find power in flesh and word.
I’ve simply fallen.

Linaji 2011
Salvador Kent May 2021
You were here before…
Searching for something,
Your hands fumbling from spine to spine
Inferno, Paradise Lost, Michelle Obama,
Bertolt Brecht. Glance to see a figure serving coffee,
You will amount to nothing. You or I?

Life is a series of disoriented imitations…
Strange noises slip from your throat,
Strange because… you see…
You're intelligible. Bertolt Brecht.
Something more absurdist… but no…
Sisyphus. Observe him push a boulder
Over and over… Sartre…  ****.

Why do you believe a reference
Reflects intelligence? Stupid boy,
You're a pseudo-intellectual.
Why rage against the standardisation
Of mediocrity if you yourself are
Mediocre. Why use enjambment on
Lines previous for convenience?
See the banal intolerance of your poetry?

You were here before,
Stroking spines… whatever that means…
This was about a feeling…
But even that is null.
Bertolt Brecht rots and laughs…
A small child picks fruit.
Reference to Inferno and Paradise Lost, two texts about the fall of man, and his conflict with evil.

Reference to Michelle Obama, I will not elaborate.

Reference to Brecht, theatre practitioner who emphasised detachment.

Sisyphus, used with the implication of Camus' absurdist masterwork "The Myth of Sisyphus".

Sartre, existentialist philosopher. Life is meaningless until you find your own meaning. My understanding is that Camus differs. A juxtaposition.

The passage of time is a strange thing, so is my state of mind.
M Solav Jul 2020
Must there be the voice of an old man
To be inspired by wisdom?
Must there be intelligible words
To guess out the intention?
Must there be vulnerability
To presume the proper truth?

  There ain’t a single channel
  On the interface of dialogue.

Must we lie only in whispers
To keep hurt under the seal?
Must we sigh only in earnest
To show others where we bleed?
Must we die only in peace
To pass the torch with ease?

  There ain’t a single channel
  On the interface of dialogue.
Written in November 2019.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
James Gable Jun 2016
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated by sea-sick phrases

Somewhere a long way from our
shore a man or woman, very desperate
to find their way on board a ship
going in the right direction

When those who could speak
a second or even third language
were called forward
this person’s mind reached far,
back to french lessons at school,
every country visited and greeting noted
and piped up: I speak very good French!

But French speakers were common
Try harder! shouted a polite man
I can speak Zulu!? silence...
Pashto is very useful…
Ah! my mother tongue,
I dream in that language
Yes I am still in touch with my mother
with whom I speak, of course,
in Pashto


Setting sail on the lonely sea
There is nowhere to hide
besides the engine room,
And in there you will be used as fuel
Put to good use




*—Well I did think once that I was being summoned to an underwater land but in fact it was a ruse, a trick to rob me of wallet
Part Four of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster
A simplistic paradox;
Infinitely finite and finitely infinite.

Now and Never,
Once and Forever.
Logical and Mythical
Real and Illusion.

Reality is all of these things
yet is it none
for these are but words
which oversimplify, by definition.

Reality is a state of mind.

Nothing can convey the true vividness of Reality
except the whole experience of Life itself.

Art tries and comes close
and is a sort of Temple in the Mind
to the once and always infinite;
the secular Divine.

Inexplicable and intelligible
Ineffable and described.
Secular and Holy
All and None.

There is a pattern here
of polarity as unity
of duality as singularity
of simplicity as complexity.

Humans make of simplicity, complexity
and of what's singular we divide.
Of a unity, we polarize.
There is a pattern here.

Reality and all it's subsequent domains
are both holographic and tangible.
It is a paradox of obvious nature,
with an obvious answer hidden by Mind.

It is what it is.
Live it as such.
anneka Nov 2013
I reckon every day is another page, another chapter to the storybook of your life. Some people have every sheet numbered in neat chronological order or categorised according to A-Z, while others are blank pages waiting to be filled, waiting for words to come. Occasionally there are stories that have been left unfinished, tragic end or dire fate, and there are those that end in the quiet melody of unsung heroes.

Of all the life stories in the world, mine is fragile at the spine, paper thin and translucent. The ink is splashed across several pages, words intelligible and smudged with tears; blood stains dotting the edges. There are countless tales that lurk beneath the binding, and even more lives entwined with mine. You, for instance, pressed thorns between the pages of the book that is my life, leaving flowers wilting amongst the splotched ink words and tears in the paper. It is funny, because only when you look back do you realise that nothing would ever be the same if you didn’t exist.

I am older now, the accompaniment to the author that is destiny and fate, overseeing the paths I am to take, the people I still have yet to meet, the places I will go. There is no promise of calm ahead, and with every recollection there are flashes of hurt and pain, of times when my heart was torn apart at the seams, shattered beyond recognition. Despite this I continue on, the naive hope that things will get better and that I will recover, lingers in the core of my soul; sparking a new hope down to the ends of my fingertips.

And while page after page is filled with cutouts and photographs of the memories I have had, none will ever shine as bright as you.

-

"When you’re here it’s like the sunrise, and when you leave it’s like the sunset."

(A.H.Z)
James Gable Jun 2016
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope:

Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated and sea-sick.

Sometimes you come across
an object, and in no way
can you explain its origin,
it’s purpose, or the frame of
mind of the person who last
encountered it,

The letter was dry and slightly
smudged but the envelope (and stamp)
could not be made out at all

I could not send it back
If I could I would be lost for
words, as it seems they were in ways:


...and I have little leaves, I love you and I miss you so much.
When he finished the day in the ocean waiting for you to choose from Aserahosov read our son and apricot. My shirtsleeves damp in your memory. Our subject is expected later to the rest of the flight path of the earth ready to kiss a little faster on the planet.
I broke a strong bird while I like the cakes, I break the strong current. Love my *** I strongly flow. It has been Pecan pie is to say...


My understanding of romance is minimal
But to have leaves seems morbid
Even more so than the breaking of
the bird...
Why should a bird get hurt in this
gross courtship?
and a strong one too,
what act of love can break
anything but a heart?

I like the cakes, I break the strong currents

Perhaps the words of someone rushing
Across oceans in the name of love
Slicing through the chunky waves
But the cake is a bit out of place
Surely no one would rush across oceans
Wide and rough and restless
For a cake that was simply ‘liked’
This must all be a prank...

This one then—

Love my *** off I strongly flow…

Now, I hope the flowing is another
Nautical reference, it would tie in nicely
With the breaking of currents-
I cannot comment on what precedes it
There is much I cannot discuss
In this disgusting letter, I wish
I had not been given it.
****.




*—If I were a seahorse, I know that just being a seahorse would be enough...
Part Three of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster
Deana Luna Jul 2013
conversations had
at the dinner table at
8 pm.
polite curiosity
gentle pushes

my friend has 4 grandsons
who are all around your age.

mom stop. they're looking for brides.she's not ready.

hmm. perhaps. i am
not ready
not only
because i am young
but also perhaps.
perhaps
because i am
with someone.
yes his name she is lovely
the death glare comes from mama bear
nothing will be said
don't worry this secret will fester within this body--
it will stay contained until it
bursts open from its own box--
because protection is required
for the bravest of minds
fooling the ones we love
oh aren't we all too familiar
with this little game

but the ones i love the very most
grandma grandma grandpa
who are shielded from me
as if i am a deadly disease
too strong for their weak bones


you. who gazed in awe upon the ink
on my skin. you.
you who caressed my weary head until it dropped onto
your pillow. you who told me stories of pirates and
princesses.
you.
you are who i will never disclose to.
you are who i must shield. and bite my lip
to stop the tears.

you. you all are my lifeblood. my only loves.
and i can not bear bestowing this pain
upon your intelligible souls. i am selfish.
so very very selfish. but this is love.

and love is selfish.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2016
A choking and desperate voice reached my ear this morning. It was a friend. One of my best friends who lives in Michigan.
What she said was barely intelligible...

"Cath... Cathy... I'M D...YING!
C..C..CAN'T B... (cough) B...BR... BREATHE!
(cough. .. cough. .. cough. ..)"

Immediately I knew I had to be calm. I had to get her anxiety level down. In a very soothing voice I stated...

"Baby, you have to calm down. Sit down in front of a fan... slow your breathing. THEN I WANT YOU TO JUST LISTEN & AGREE...

I said a five-minute prayer with her. I first praised God for the miracle that He was going to bring about. For His miraculous nature. For his Power and Glory! I said I wanted to glorify Him with the miraculous healing that was about to take place!

Within 2 minutes she was breathing easier. She was not coughing as badly. And she could talk. Then I instructed her to go lie down with the fan on her and her back propped with pillows...

I called two friends to pray with me on a conference call. We all prayed together. We prayed like our own lives were depending on it! We prayed the Word of God...

"Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man (woman) availeth much."
James 5:16 KJB

I called my friend 30 minutes later. She had been healed! She still had the congestion, but was calmly coughing that up too! She was beginning to blow the congestion from her infected sinuses!

So don't tell me God is no longer in the healing business. He most definitely is...!!!


♡ Catherine
Please pray for my friend. Her name is Mary. She lives alone and has no medical insurance or money. Her credit card is maxed out. She doesn't even have money to pay her property taxes this year. But she's trusting in God. And we have found over the years that HE CAN BE TRUSTED!

Also pray that the Day of Rage doesn't ignite full on racial riots. Please pray against the forces of Darkness that are undoubtedly going to use this demonstration to stir up chaos.
My hometown Tucson Arizona is going to have one of these demonstrations. Please pray for us!

THANKS!

I'm going to start reading now. Please forgive that I have not read your work yet! This crisis came about this morning and now I have a lot of catching up to do...

L♡VE YOU ALL!

— The End —