296

One Year ago—jots what?
God—spell the word! I—can’t—
Was’t Grace? Not that—
Was’t Glory? That—will do—
Spell slower—Glory—

Such Anniversary shall be—
Sometimes—not often—in Eternity—
When farther Parted, than the Common Woe—
Look—feed upon each other’s faces—so—
In doubtful meal, if it be possible
Their Banquet’s true—

I tasted—careless—then—
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World—Did you?
Oh, had you told me so—
This Thirst would blister—easier—now—
You said it hurt you—most—
Mine—was an Acorn’s Breast—
And could not know how fondness grew
In Shaggier Vest—
Perhaps—I couldn’t—
But, had you looked in—
A Giant—eye to eye with you, had been—
No Acorn—then—

So—Twelve months ago—
We breathed—
Then dropped the Air—
Which bore it best?
Was this—the patientest—
Because it was a Child, you know—
And could not value—Air?

If to be “Elder”—mean most pain—
I’m old enough, today, I’m certain—then—
As old as thee—how soon?
One—Birthday more—or Ten?
Let me—choose!
Ah, Sir, None!

I feel a little confused
Like I have something to figure out
A little twisted up and chewed
My mind is racing on doubt.

I'm trying to put my thoughts
Into words in this writing
My hand it jots
The nails on my fingers I am biting.

It's hard to say how I feel
But I definitely know that I am feeling
Everything inside is real
I just have to find it by peeling.

My skin it itches from nerves
I look sallow and wrecked
I've stretched myself thin and over all the curves
I can no longer object.

I had to cry today
Because I drove myself up a wall
Repressing things I've wanted to say
Has somehow made the mountain I have, to climb, very tall.

It's not like my problems are anything important
But I guess they tend to wear me ragged
It's sometimes because I can be expectant
Of people and things that are jagged.

I have some things I still need to learn
But I'd rather be learning then at a stop
Like how not to expect and sometimes not to yearn
And when to skip, rather than to hop.

I try to keep my heart open wide
But that leaves it to be bruised
I have to let some things subside
And not let myself feel used.

I'll learn to be compassionate
But still protect myself
Though somehow I feel like I'm in debt
To all the dolls on the shelf.

I conclude this work of emotion
Still upside down and withered
At least I've crossed further, the ocean
But I have yet to meet the blizzard.

Goodbye , . . .
Yes goodbye . . .
(Blah , blah , blah)

In the shortness of his breath
All desperation was taking place

I walk off
Looking at the far off , into space

The game is over
Nobody . . . no one
Scored and won

We all lost . . .

The then ,
In a notebook
While sitting on the park bench
Where he once was
A poet king
The old man jots down
(A poem about lost youth
Past days and dreams of
better days to come)

Meanwhile . . .

The sun crossed the sky
East to West
And the day was never seen
Or heard from again

Late night scribbles
with late night riddles
maybe morning made dribbles
with half thought out middles
whether it's wood you whittle
or a cello you fiddle
it's never too late to jot down those scribbles.

Half of a stale croissant,
A cupcake with no icing,
Partially consumed slice of cold pizza,
A special computer file,
Called old and cold,
Some files nothing more
Than titles on a snowy screen.
A smorgasbord of delicacies,
A mason jar with a lidded hole
To keep the prisoners alive but in,
The insides of my refrigerator brain.

Where the partial poem pastries reside.

Some jots and dashes get microwaved,
Served up instantly, hot n' piping,
Read me read me now for I am
Ready to be served.

Ah, the others, miserable creatures in a
Special Victims Unit,
In a ward where the doctor has no more
Release forms to sign,
Dream on, awaiting a super nova,
A comet tail, a torn screen window corner,
To engineer an escape.

Kitty, my kitty,
Give me your tired, poor scraps of prose
Yearning to be free,
I have a place for them, where
They will reside unhappy, but free,
In good company,
Waiting for the day they get to see the
Statue of Liberty.

Until that day, when,
Your happy love poems yearning to be whole,
Say, "now I have the ending,"
To let them breathe...
Now I have the closure,
That is the opening,
I will guard them closely,
As if they were fragments of mine own
Blood, sweat and tears.

♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓

Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.

Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.

Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.

Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.

A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.

If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.

Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.

Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.

Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).

Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch

compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.

(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”,  since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)

Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.

I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.

I hover over your words
not for perfections.

don't paint me an azure sky
cotton clouds
a field of sunflower
gold crests of afternoon waves
dark labyrinths
inner demons
or even angel faeries

for my life of half drawn images
half digested joys
faintly lit phantoms
rough edge
rugged walkway

write me out
a flawed poem
imperfected to the hilt
no structure
no style
wild jots of your thoughts
just like you and me

*flawed but heavenly!

She jots down her feelings into that black journal with the red rose on the faded cover and the spine made out of red yarn to keep it held together. She writes about a boy, and how he has one green eye and one blue. I guess you could say he was a beautiful human being to her. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She never experienced any touchy touchy feely feely crap, but he had the veiniest arms and it's as if he had the roots of a tree clinging to him. She wanted those hands, those send, around her body. She wanted to kiss his lips to see if he tasted like a hurricane or a tornado, or simply even a raindrop. When you're around her hands get all clammy, her palms are soaked, as if she's holding the ocean in her hands, this is what sweaty palms of nervous love is. She wrote about how his eye was as blue as the ocean she was drowning in after he had gone and how the other was as green as the leaves on the tree she fell from when she first met him. She wrote about how that was the same tree whose roots clung to his arms and when she fell she lost her roots. His lips that she oh so dearly wanted to kiss were as red as the rose whose thorns pricked her heart and made it bleed and hurt every single time it beat. And his blond hair looked to be as yellow as the sun that she could find even on the cloudiest days, where the clouds were thick and the rain pouring but she found shelter being held in his arms. She loved counting the freckles on his face that were as numerous as the night stars. She fell in love with every single detail about him, yet she never saw the way he looked at her. She could paint a perfect picture of him just by memory, making sure every perfect detail was included, but she didn't see herself as beautiful as the boy with the blue eye and the green eye did. She's scared of him though, no matter how beautiful he may be, no matter how much he reminds her of the sun, or the roots of trees clinging to him like cobwebs clinging to her un-kisses okays. She wonders, what if she keeps quiet, what if she won't destroy you, but she's really hoping she doesn't destroy you with her smile, she doesn't want you to look for a way out when you haven't even made your way in. She finds her dad in silverware, as it clatters and falls to the floor, especially knives, dressed in memories, they stab her in the back like he stabbed her mom, he's why she's so scared, her Father up and left without reasoning, she's scared to put her trust in you like she did him. But, she'll find you in scalding water, as she's washing years of giving up off her history book hands... You're that abandoned building with a Danger sign hammered to a white chipped paint door, she's taking a chance and she's going to judge you for what's inside, and hopefully no halloween masks are covering up your heart, making you someone you're not. She's scared of what she will find inside but also knows she can't turn back when she find out. No matter what wires are broken and how unstable the building is she'll take her chances knowing that she very well can die in there but that would be better than dying before exploring the heart of her lover. She takes her adventure to learn more about this mysterious boy to find what lies behind his eyes hoping to glimpse into his heart and soul so she can jot down her discoveries in that journal. So she can see the truth in why those eyes are two different colors and why he never gets too close to anyone that loves him. He's just as scared as going in that abandoned building to find what lies within as she is, but he's even more wary of what he does ready to fled at the first sight of danger, at the first fallen wire he's ready to run but she keeps going trying to dig deeper into the mystery while he just doesn't want to be hurt by the girl with the brown eyes.

Joseph's sons are still in Egypt
All is not fulfilled as yet
The elder child, Manasseh
calls himself a Christian these days
and still seems mightier than Ephraim
as foreseen by Israel
but has this small problem
keeping Father's commandments
having been suckled on
papal leaven
with that false gospel
girlfriend he likes to call
prosperity ...
I'd rather remain a gentile, thanks
Invite me to the wedding
I'll come visit every Sukkot

He really needs his younger brother
to come of age and stop fussing ...
to stop copy-catting Judah
and feed Yeshua's lost sheep
from that double redeemer's portion
Jacob blessed him with ...
that which speaks of BenDavid
and the keeping of true Torah
which is the tittles and jots
'Jesus' said would remain
a blessing till all is fulfilled
till His Torah shines forth from Zion
once again

Jealous Judah awaits him too
Prays each day the prodigal will come home
and tell him who Meshiach is

There really are no Gentiles or Greeks
except in diaspora
No, not even Jesus freaks
Just a faithful, obedient remnant
in Jacob's trouble

going to the promised land

The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.

once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't  interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.

"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's  enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.

It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.

This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far,  a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.

A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"

This.* This is her. This is the girl you fell in love with. And it confuses you so much to see yourself right where you are right now, because you've had your fair share of battle scars and open wounds in this half-struggle, half-relationship. But you're still here, and she's still here, and you're still together. Sometimes you get lost in the middle of your sentences just thinking about the way she never tells you everything, the way she forgets to comb her hair, the way she doesn't like to hold your hands. This is her, and you still have yet to know some things about her that will make you even more baffled.

She's born to walk the face of the earth, to explore the world and all its nooks and crannies. She's made to take care of herself; she spends her time writing paragraphs about the places she's never been to, and how she'll meet people and try to get a place to stay in for the night after wandering around foreign cities. I'm telling you, never ever try to enclose her with your arms, trying to assure her that you'll never leave her and that she is your home. This is her. You fell in love with a traveler, and she'll never stop discovering things. But you're her home, and she always tells you, "Leaving home feels good, but coming back feels even better." And that is when you know she'll stay.

She's born with the sharpest tongue, but with the softest heart. You know this all too well to deny this. All the arguments, all the heavy silences, all the walking away, all the screaming, and all the other things that made you feel so brittle and feeble -- it's all because of her. She has, inside of her, all the words that she knows will break you apart, but chooses to hide them all away somewhere in the room inside her head. She's born to confront, and she does it out of love. She sounds like she has the guts to snap your ribs and kick your teeth out, but the only truth is that she wants you to take her fists and kiss her knuckles. This is her. You fell in love with the girl who can't tell you what the truth really is. You fell in love with the girl who could only use rage to mask whatever it is that's shaking inside her. But she holds herself still and plants kisses on your forehead to calm down, and she holds your trembling bones from the aftermath of her words. She ends up quiet, as if the silence is the only apology she can offer. You need words, but she says nothing at all. And that's when you know she'll stay.

You fell in love with the girl who's got the emptiest eyes among the people you know, but that's only so if you don't look a little closer. She's born to be frustratingly inconspicuous, and you never get a full grasp on her. She's vague, in too deep in the thought of finding whatever it is that she's meant to find, and it kills you to know that you can't keep up. At least, not yet. You fell in love with her -- the girl who never stops making art, who never stops writing songs, who only jots down the sad things and never the happy things. She's born to keep things from other people, especially the ones that she finds special. Her eyes are only the emptiest after a fight, and only the fullest when the tears cloud her vision, forgetting to concentrate on you and the rest of the world. This is her, and it confuses you because you still stay. And then she unravels, and you watch her, like a flower bud opening up in fast forward. She breaks apart in half with sighs and tears, tired limbs and heavy eyelids. She opens up for you to see. Then you remember why you stay. Then you remember why she stays.

This is her, and this is only the tiny part of her quiet existence. And you're still you. This is the both of you, and you can either take it or leave it. There is no in-between.

A deterioration of thought
As time progresses
Words turn to scribbles
Jots, lines, scratches
Knowledge hides away
Between the ink blots and
The misspelled words
Nonsensical terms
Incoherent definitions
Nothing makes sense
But simplicity shines through
Common sense saves the day
What is common about it
Questions
Is it shared
Question
Common sense
Common knowledge
Common non-existent thoughts

I gazed at the moon that night
My eyes looked on at that light
A welcoming shine was that sight
The urge to keep staring I tried to fight

Would I miss such beauty of creation?
Not my own wandering sense of imagination
Can create such enchanting beautification
I laughed at my own artistic limitation

Look! There comes those twinkling dots
Little, but amazing in all sorts
They fill my lingering turbulent thoughts
And tales of theirs I write in jots

Darkness engulfs the vast land
Nighttime brings down its hand
The beauties rise in their lovely band
All made and placed by the Creator's hand

The cracks in the tile, the foam
on the glass, coalescing iotas,
joined jots, and I see your face.

Mis-en-scenes of sweat, alone
in my room at morning, the
second time I've seen your face
today, and I want to leave some
on my chest.

This is for you. This is for you
And it's all I'll ever be.

So have me taste you - and
consume me. And glut over the
sinewy linings of my edges. Let
moments on the insidde of my
eyes. Show me.

So have me feel you - and splinter
me. And love me til I shatter.
Let me watch, as hands that smell
of honesty and your roughness
press knuckles into my thighs
and bruise them. Show me.

So have me worship you - and
condemn me...

Have me a heresiarch of human
days. Grand me an opprobrium
from sense. Let the scars
that I be you to place upon
me never fade back into the
ideas of my flesh.
Show me, and please, show me
that I'll see your face not
only in the small, but in the
larger death for want.

Tenderly, sympathy, each stroke of the pen
Tears in her penmanship, writing again
Tragedy entangling beautiful stories
Fallen angel jots down faded history

Slicing apart dreams with which she's well-acquainted
Sweat and blood compose the pictures she's painted
Frail in her beauty, so silently she writes
As pen presses to paper deep within the night

Starving eyes met and stirred conflicted hearts
Realizing the pain and sorrow that flows into her art
And on they read until she transfers tears into our eyes
As she whispers such tragedies, a goodnight and goodbye

My hand rests here upon this blank form
the pen nuzzled, cozy and warm between index and thumb
and I but await, the form that it should bear
The little para-sail of thought that swiftly entails
By draft of conscious reason the play, the lines
That shall stem and grow upon this paper.

Sometimes, I am not here at all
It's like a vagrant character takes hold this form
and drifts the banks of faded memories to etch but theirs to mine
Till ink flows like a non stopping spicket, pouring out
Soon digested to the whole phenomena I lay blank
Like pagess upon which the words desire to embrace.

Little child like figures wave between the interplay
This game of margins and thought, marbles clutter
where the revenue of the flow but draws
Upon these hopscotch and I caught the weasels
momentum springs but it's eternal sight
to peer over and across the facade of time
And jots a line or two of verse.

Here, Aye here is the bereavement of the writer
who's image fades to the mighty word
and pounds ever so deeply the elemental cries
That reason holds no power here.
I chuckle at the notion that ever befalls
some faded harmony of a promised bliss
that vanishes amidst the shadows of night
To leave but it's haunting cry.

There I peer down the lane of the centuries
Those famous writers and scribes of literature's ghosts
That forever within our minds haunt us to the passion of a word
And leave us but whole and naked to the deliverance of truth.
I wonder how their pens but scribbled
How they filled their own inconsistencies and ravished the thought.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Jot Jot Jot,
I continue to write with dots,
The Jots, Dots, and thoughts are my own,
I'm the writer who once lost control of the Jots and Dots,
But also the writer,
Who learned to control his Jots and his Dots.

somewhere beyond
my ego...
lies the poet
who writes for,
the love of the sound,
of pen scribbling thoughts
upon fine lined paper.

the writer,
who devles into
the murk of the
morass of thoughts
rowing across the swamps
of the disordered mind.

the scribe,
who takes photographs
with words
deftly framing light and shade to produce
thought provoking images
so good, yet,
so hard to define.

the racounter,
who can spin a tall tale
on the edge of a dusty dime.

the truthseeker, soothsayer
not afraid to speak,
even when speaking
is condsidered a crime.

the jonguleur,
who plays with words
of six syllables or more, keeping them flowing, creating rhythm and rhyme.

somewhere...the earth mother lies
distilling truth into jots
and tittles
and sowing them into
lines...

somewhere...beyond
my ego...somewhere

Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
Is Greek needed
to depict God’s vision?

Can repositioned prepositions
confuse the divine?

Will mislaid iotas
smear godly wisdom?

Authorised, Amplified
New, Living, Revised.
The Truth’s been guarded
regardless.

Repositioned prepositions,
jots and iotas
all serve to convey sacred wisdom.

Let me paint a picture within your mind,

There is a picture on the wall with two bodies mid fall, they are positioned in a decaying building with widows just behind them, cascading then in a ominous light.

There is a mother and daughter, and a in training service dog with gold and black fur and a purple vest with poo bags on the left, the mother, short grayinh hair wearing a grey sweater, and pants to match, jots down information as the daughter, pink and blond hair wearing a black cardigan over a blue with white striped dress and a hat black with a variety of colored paw prints separated by hearts, recites information found on her phone.

Over a frozen lake, glides a white sail with a green rim, it's stands out against the pearlescent background caused by the haste of the setting winter sun.

i found this little poem
sitting unattended,
alone,
on a bench at
the bus station.

when i said hello...
the relief and elation,
on this little poem's face,
made me feel protective
of this, orphan creation.

so i took this little poem
home...
no longer lost,
it thrived
from three lines to five
and before
we wished it
happy cinquain
it had doubled in size,
again.

full, rounded verse,
in cursive copperplate.
as it entered puberty
its moods swung,
between...
love, anger, hate
and then struggled gamely through
depression angst and fear..
all jots and tittles,
with future, unclear.

but eventually it matured
as we all do....
into a thoughtful expression
of beauty and love,
a strong and independant
statement of grace.

and then it was time,
to say goodbye....
the little found poem,
needed to leave
and find it's place,
in the wider world.
needed to find
and impress a girl.

it said it needed,
to make a splash...
grab some cash...
it promised not
to become, just a jingle...

and to write when
he could....

but til then.... anon...

I met this girl that jots down her feelings
On packets of Sweet'n Low
She told me she thinks
Her thoughts look pretty in pink
And it also helps to sweeten the flow

She leaves them on trains dining car tables
In hopes the commuters will read
All that she has to say
That it brightens their day
And also will make people think

That life can be full of surprises
No matter where you find that you are
Like next to this girl of course
With Sweet'n Low stuffed in her purse
In a moving trains dining room car

Hovering over his desk
Fingers cramping as he jots words
with a shrinking pencil
As time goes by
papers rise into cluttered stacks
Spreading around him
Creating a castle of paper
Eyelids growing heavy
as the light from the lamp
glares down at him
Mumbling motivation towards himself
He keeps writing
He stays awake
Until everything is finished

How many warnings taken as possible lies

shall we dare, if
first time, we were right?

Feel it? You know?

Not dying when, you know,

you could have, you know what dying is,
and
this
feeling,
that's life. Wanna risk it? What if we agree,

whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us. In the most

straight-forward intuitive way you comprehend:
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us.

Virtually impossible to let such an idea free,
safely.

I'm good, three score and ten plus a few extended
journeys through
history and myth at the speed of thought

brings us here, just short of where we'd have met
in the final analysis
which
takes ever and a day

during which passings of times we breathe,
peacefully.
we troublers of our own house,
heirs of the wind and all its
princely powers,
subject

to right use, our
bhering
clear answers, affirming ever
oboroborobo oboe riffs on electric bass\
backed by Feynman pounding Djembe
drums through NAND
gates tittling jots of
rythmic swirls
in
backward 720s, time
and again,
as Sisyphus
ever rolls, happishly,
random
rocks,
laughing at jour yoke of yesteryears job titles.

Our final task, in every mortal moment,
breathe peace, and pass on.

Or that's my plan. Y'think it'll fly?

she did it.  
her teeth eaten.
tongue swallowed.
mouth made vestigial.

words: in the miscellaneous drawer, pls.

guts move quicker than light or thought, i've found.
caught in the (thoroughly) dusty
ceiling blades of
ergh quotidian spins, whyyyeff.my.life

she -somehow-
drew in
this awe, for now.

ellipses feed feed,
till it says it all
without uttering
one silly little
syntactical arrangement,
ever again; this, her stir.

dot dot dot
dot dot

and with a few
small jots felt,
she wrote

my hurt
down.

joy, again: like a note passed in class.

I didn’t look at you enough today
But I can’t live with regret
I tell you all my secrets
Though it’s always over text
Afraid of vulnerability, words escape my tongue
If you were inside my head, you’d see you turn me on
You send the sweetest pictures
I could look at them all day
I gaze in to your eyes
They have so much more to say

michael dreams
of things that he sees
in his mind
at any given time
pulls out paper and pen
jots down again and again
everything that michael dreams

michael rhymes
all that he finds
everyday
then gives it away
bringing such joy
like the first day of a new toy
that is why michael rhymes

michael flies
all of the time
sets himself free
without any wings
plotting a course in his mind
through his dreams and his rhymes
that is how michael flies

All spun out like the chaff,
the fire breathing drags on,
clever little jots and tittles thrown in anger.

But nothing good ends well,
as the saying went.

I never wanted anything
but your happiness,
and I will not reciprocate the attacks.

I am not like the others,
and you know it.

Genetic DIY in my realm,
Glow, little glow worm, glow puppy or guppy or
maiden hair, modded to the max-men can
imagine, when agreeing to believe.

"nothing
imagined shall be impossible for them"
or the sense
that makes,

conveyed in words di
gestated long long long ago
ere toungues was tangled
and us and es and ds and hs and bvs

umlauts and tildes and tittles and jots
attempted to say it all after
it is written is/was
different than it is/was said, it is common

filth is now
called clean, in greek

with homophony rhymes and rhythms
'idin' aitches and gees us commoners
miss, out on the edges of the
fusion, with which,
those wild tongues was tamed, in time,
write the message, make it plain

in the school of the prophets, thems' the rules,
publish precizision bits of insight into knowables
known,
the knowledge of our
mob, told and re-told, told and retold, told and re
one moment.
A glimpse of a gleam of a photonic
spec, seen proper,
it was a germ-cell mod, in a word.

Spat, rather than spoken. A message at the level

where you nowgno this is possible -- a flick
of a gene switch on the ladder like
structure bhering message-engers up and down,

instructing structures to form frames on which you
may sublimate and recompose, upon a grain
of pre-pearl material,

pending loosing of that pen-ultimate lie.

Look, who's tellin' what to whom?
Like, Do Not Lose The Thread of History,

which happens to need re-tying,
from time to time,
like a shoe, yes, child, like a shoe.

Worthy to tie my own shoe, at two---
you d'man! Ex-clam, pure pearl polished

Big Boy, tied yo'own shoe,

Momma gonna buy you a diamond farm,

just over that hill,
you go see, someday, you will

Find a Diamond Farm, where the reality
of what coud be,
began to gestate, wait, diamonds are not for

ever.
Diamonds are for grinding gritty silicon to the
finest dust,

to force a sneeze, re
leasing, loosing, letting go, all the lies you knew,

to chew
well, raw liver-level, nasty tastin' pre-
digested crap from alchemical rantings
a guy said he seen
after some spit from a perfect stranger
got rubbed in to his eye,
pearly friction feels this way,
can't scratch it, gotta gum it,
roll it round
and round, like Redman,
or cow cud, a chaw,
a chew

someunsame, somesamesame sniffles,
in my realm,

swallow the final chawn and un spat lie,
and gasp at first glimpse of next.

Myths, lost in Cartoon Network and its spawn,

fortunate-ly
most criminals, most out-side-the-bubble,
improper thinkers, if you will,
not right thinkers,
those
are not very smart

fortunately, we

have the internet, they left us that.
We can rest and recon
we, the people, can recoup from a coup to the knoggin

next, trip a trap, snare a glimpse of that golden thread
assign that care to the piece
of your core
that cares if you remain sane enough

and follow the golden thread, this one, not
the one connecting riven mouths
of joker gods, barfing in the gulf,
the MOMA tied a cube of hay,
with a golden thread and golden needle,
in NYC, which led to me seeing Moma Luis
and his daughter who goes by
Franceska, spelt otherwise,
unspooling a golden thread on a stage
a few furlongs here
a few furlongs there
in fathomless billows of life,
stitching those gaping mouths shut, for me
thus I share the joy of being
me
and you may imagine I am more
than words
mere me dear reader, quite enough to entangle
anonymously

with a mad woman, wrapped in a feather boa,
needing the laugh, to spark
the healing
healing itches, you know, if you have scars
healing
itches, scratch with gloves,

don't destruct your self, for the rub

the touch
of love, ha, define your terms mofah!

What's love got to do with it, art
official, proper, Q-17, a mystical number
qua
quaf the essence

a puff of smoke, I paid a ttent ion to to

find Babylon, this guy did not know you, Prince
of Persia...

you a hasbeen mofah we be a little bit farther now
push a bit
push a bit
7 come 11, watch I measure smoke cought
or caught in my throat

the artificial-ness, we must dis-pute in time
******* smart
self
aware.
Watch y'self, this is the age of miracles
we got us a clown

wombed-man... it all got choool
the facts
of now
make next appear possible.

forward and up, tough for people
right
now

some words struggle for worth
values
meaning meaning meaning worth paying you
to know
add to your childhood collection of coolhood collecti
stuff
to claim you own it own it own it

ify ify if you glow, who needs to know, like
from a star
POV
Bette from a distance, a mob is a mobmind,
a shared thought you got wrong,
twisted, twisted, twisted to true

and the signal fades into the sound of the helicopter
setting new power poles.

The grid is using humans skilled in war manuevers
to set new power poles.

Thashits poetic.

And my magi-pen don don don't run
dry,
in the summer
we go deep, down to where the big rocks
that would not break rolled
to a stand still
y'know.

a selah, preceding a halle lu Jah.

Another fine day, in Pine Valley, lookin' west.
for overlooked
jots and tittles tatooed is silly places.

there is a man of
gentle genteel nobility
who writes in quiet
anonimity
words that give the
soul wings to soar

an the is a rough and
ready workman
who writes his life
warts and all
with a pen that
drips literary gems

there are a couple of young guns
ready to change the world
one poem at a time
and one has nailed
the knack of the pithy rhyme
the other a thinker
gears grinding all the time

some, two or three, at life's end
or at least on that very  street
that share wisdom, the art of writing
both joys and defeats
old soldier's in the war of rhyme
defending the bastion
against the tyranny of time..

then there is the man,
such a clever soul
that deals almost soley
in wit and folderol
his pieces have
such a rollicking style
and always cause a chuckle
and sometimes leave you
rolling in aisles

one who delves into
the art of the rondelle
his mastery of the form
keeps me underaliterary spell

I know of a man
to whom sonnets are bread
to him, I take off my hat..
to write iambic pentameter
just does in  my head!

I find myself three shy of the dozen,
not of wont but becuase my head is full
of the many  worthy scribes that could fit the bill

each man who writes of love won or lost,
each man who puts pen to paper
and has paper tossed, toward the round file or floor
each man who writes with simple eloquence
of what is out side his front door,
or inside a turbulent heart,
who tries with words to explain
the workings of life..
or the tumult of his brain.

could take a place in this dozen.
has already become,
one of this glorious coven.
he, who takes letters,
syllables, jots and tittles
and creates swirls of alchemy,
magic to the souls of readers
and to the hearts, cartograhpy
maps of fairy dust and well could be

so to these nine, and three more again
to all men who have placed the sign
'writer within these brain walls'
on their heart and in their minds
I thank thee all

Your work has been, an inspiration to mine...