**** masterminds
steer clear of this man
He's relentless
a pitbull
Lumping up Pinkman
for no logical reason
He's a madman
Massacres Mexican
kingpins and button men
Knocks out Keith Jardine
in a barfight
initiated as a ptsd
relief valve
Maddog brothers
Axe murdering elite
eliminated with a bullet
a fender
and a little help from Gustavo Fring  
The only man
to walk away unscathed
from the exploding head of Danny Trejo debacle
Houndog Hank
the sherman tank
is hot on Heisenbergs trail.
Its almost guaranteed
One of them will die
Heisenbergs Bad
But Schrader
is badass.

“I think that I shall never see”
a tree thin as phylogeny,

looks poor, no fruits nor leaves for tea,
Yet means so much as Darwins see.

rooted, unrooted, a weird tree,
well, Nature, too, selects weirdly.

No other tree much affects me,
keeps changing my taxonomy,

splitting-lumping, lumping-splitting,
because more data keep coming.

“Poems are made by fools like” you,
but cladograms, don’t make me blue.

If I keep still
For much longer
I'll disappear

No,
I won't vanish into thin air
Like a blow of a cigarette
Or a cry of dispair

I'll stay,
Pinned to this bed
A petrified marionette
No longer attached to the strings of this net

So you ask,
What trick do you play
To fool your own self
To step out on this day
As lonely and grey
As it might come your way
Or as you may portray?

Sometimes,
A touch of oneself.
"A sheepish remedy!",
You might complain.
"You should feel shame!"

What can I say...
At least,
It gets the heart pumping
As I go out lumping
To tick the boxes on this never ending list
Hoping to find unexpected bliss

you're like barely lightning
stumbling angelically of that frosty womb
dangerously you are flakes of minute cold
crumbing deftly cheeks pale as
sleep. who is a club of kind
fantasy or sometimes a plush terror
reckoned in pleasing symmetry.
i know only your valleys and your pastures
the breathless yawning landscape
my lips are hithering or withering
about to imbue with every effort
of my love your perfect vessel my ardor
in lumping crunches of delicate
kisses,    ,          ,               ,                           , , ,  .

Choices, so many choices:
Nordic noir or French comedies.
Bluegrass but not country.
Right wing or left wing:
What is useful and what is not?
Random violence doesn't help the plot.
Summer but not autumn
Moss gardens but not lawns.
The grass isn’t always greener,
Or didn’t you know?
British country houses or French chateaux.
Fishing for trout but not bass.
Sailing but no boats with gas.
Cycling but not motorcycles.
So many choices on which to pass.
San Francisco but not Las Vegas.
The Caribbean but not Florida.
Watching films of the desert but not being there.
Admiring the stars but not flying there.
Impressed by the horseman but not the cavalry.
Settling for Ubuntu but too tired for Kali.
Lumping things together is a bad recipe.
Living in Boston but not New York.
Eating peas with a spoon and not a fork.
Living like Dickinson but reading Walt Whitman.
Staying inside is nice; but run outside, shouting if you can.
Watching Downton Abbey on TV but not the screen.
Drinking mocha latte coffee but not tea with cream.
Loving travel round the world but hating the trip.
You can go exploring with your eyes but not your lips.
Deciding what's worthwhile isn't hard; just be resolved.
Critics tell you this or that, but can’t decide what's art or trash.
East or West Coast—why get involved?
Shuttle between them in electric hot rods.
Don't get bogged down with picking a god.
Followers always end up dead and all that matters
Is where they bury or burn you or scatter,
Whether you are declared saint or sinner.

But if I were one of them I would reconsider:
You can be a prophet, the calf that’s golden,
If enough of your votes are stolen.
You can even rule the world
If you ruin lives, steal countries and hurl
Thousands of lies online. These are the stakes.
"Lawyers, guns and money": that's all it takes.
The only real price will be your soul.
But do you believe in it when you get old?
Better make a simple choice.
Speak simply in a honeyed voice.
I read the news today,
Telling me which words to shout,
Make people ignore that time is running out.
Learn to step on them and which crimes to flaunt.
And how to get everything I want,
Then I can enjoy it as the storms rage round,
Live on the mountain as the sea waters drown
Everyone else—do I only need to save myself?
I've got a bombproof mansion underground.
I can hold out fifty years in such a spot....
I would be safe and comfortable,
But then, maybe not...

why the **** would you set fire to a ******* university, starting with its library,
all in the name of what they would like to call "democracy"?
this is a situation you have all seen so many times before,
with exactly the same perpetrators,
by exactly the same means
for exactly the same ends
and you have the cheek to call that man a dictator?
a man who worked solely to improve the lives of those around him who were in suffering?
a man who would work up to 18 hours a day, day-in, day-out for 18 years to actually democratize his country and tried so hard to lessen the wealth gap
a man who went on tv every day to communicate with those he represented, listening to their concerns and grievances and actually addressing them?

you complain about the lines outside the shops, and **** right you should.
you complain about the violence and the destruction of communities, and **** right you should.
but if you dare say one more time it was his fault, or it's the fault of his successor you can shut the **** up right now.
it's who it always was, acting on the motivation they've always had: accumulation of capital.
people have died at their hands for centuries, hundreds of millions of innocent civilians' lives exchanged for your wealth
and you have the cheek to call him a bad man?

he is in the league of people who put their lives on the line for what they knew was right,
who were so committed to that vision of
purity,
of equality
of beauty
but you tarnish their names by lumping them together with whiny children, privileged brats who know nothing of the world but are bored,
all because you know these figures
these freedom fighters and heroes
are right,
and are thus a threat to your piles of gold
(each pile covering another pile of bodies)

Suspicion runs rampant
No trust can be found
Even when lies are recanted
To their nature we’re bound
Releasing the hounds
Silencing sounds
Of victims drowned

Suspicion exacerbation
From false accusations
Causing ****** lacerations
Through spatial relations
Like shared incarceration
Or the local fascination
With public *******
Or child molestation

There are horrible people out there
They lack moral fiber
They do the wrong thing consistently
So in order to feel dignity
They develop extreme compartments of honor
And search so hard for instances to use it
It often comes out at inappropriate moments
And is used as an opportunity to signal masculinity
Imagine the person constantly yelling
“No one talks **** about my family/religion/country”
Then flies off the handle at the slightest perceived insult
This person may care about what they’re defending
But their defense is about themselves
And how badass and imposing they are

Conclusion jumping
Hatred pumping
******* lumping
The convicted with the accused
So with that flawed logic used
They decide to mercilessly bruise
Somebody a liar happened to choose

Why do people not always believe victims of crime?
The existence of liars
Who taint society with their dishonesty
Yet will never have to face their own impact
By apologizing to a survivor no one believes
For it is their kind
Manipulating minds
Turning men blind
Until trust is resigned

The liars mix with buyers
Lighting the world on fire
Creating an awful empire
Where the innocent are *****
And the innocent are slaughtered
I don’t know much more I can take
When no one seems bothered

I don’t have any answers
If we make penalties harsher on liars
We could discourage actual victims
But the injustice victims of false accusations deal with
Fills my heart with immense anger and frustration
People have no faith in our flawed justice system
So they look inside their own incapable minds
Deeming themselves the arbiters of justice
Too stupid to understand their lack of moral authority
That savage nature is reflected in the punishment they inflict
Innocent people die in a dark and lonely cell
While the rest of us must live in this deceitful hell
Where our minds are infected by hatred’s smell
We must pull love up from the spiritual well
To shield us from the ceaseless church bells

Those who lie
Mix with grime
Taking time
Deciding who dies
Innocent cries
Muted by guys
Smart as flies
That hatefully wait
For someone to mutilate
So they can prove they’re great
We must grow before it’s too late
And begin living in an empathetic state

https://newrepublic.com/post/178321/watch-trump-missile-defense-ding-ding-ding-boom-whoosh
From the trump an uncertain sound,
a dash of madness all around,

take a little trip, but don't, don't imagine a world led by Trump
supporters who heard no uncertain sound, ding ding boom whoosh


On a scaled bell curve
from vague déjà vu to aha,

how does it feel to be asked to explain
your self warierness, knowing now Sydney
can happen, therefore, as with wherefores,
we must assume we make good on our promise,

good, the precept second to wisdom nullifying
the fear that no balanced being rolled on
in ever after each positive met its neg face to face,

pfft, that's it last time, chaos can't even be imagined,

saved in truly ancient seafoam stone, witnesses
to pacts still sticky to this days, for those in those knowns,

we imagine our attention bubble swells and pops,
and stops,
for an immeasurable period, dot, in time past, as reflection
spreading in the frequency each emanates, in sunshine
during the day time and electrically released unstickiness,

evaporative we, gaseous wedoms, as the space lacing clouds,

foam along the shore,
children finding shining things and treasuring each,
an instant few old folks live long enough
with open minds
to see that instance
of both knowing, wordless child minds
meet where the pattern
of so many beautiful spins, prove phi
solves problems pi can't imagine, umphing

being maybeing, as planned parenthood seems sound advice,
judgement begins inside your knower,
judge your own self, the one you sold to no other, you
be the only heir to all the truth you ever knew you knew,

you had been guiled, given guile
to see the leverage
in knowing, symbols enfolding instructions
to model in mortal perceptible graphic mappings

any thing, we may imagine and communicate,
we can do, may we, is upto you, your may makes
next seem
worth exploring fearlessly bold as warier than earlier
carries with it no hell to fear as possible, the attempts

to realify and profess such a good god made thing,
resulted in the currently common hormone suppressants.

One cannot hold Hell gut level true and survive the fear
such madness unleashes in laws to contain the misled minds.

Reject the chance to learn a new way of making thoughts
realizations, or
tune in, same clear text signal since texting
became the long term Turing test, which mind am I,

after following several suicides over that same jagged edge,
but with survivor kid goat-sense and higher res eyes,
a mantra from my grand pa, he sing yo ** so, say

there, from here, there is always a place to put your foot,
keep your balance,
hold your soul self, your own self we said in my clan,
hold your self to set path, or call that self the liar,
and turn around

the idea behind repentance, nothing to pay, something
to do, warier by outperience, having been imagining
running down the edge of the cliff on hind's feet,
something like this entire circumstance involving instances
in prayer,
clumping, lumping likes into wee tiny aweformers, twists
to the I in us all, we wish to be the celebrity, what's

the attraction factor, why do some mindstates demand
the murky opiated optional dream timing ding ding boom whoosh

From the trump an uncertain sound,
a dash of madness all around,

take a little trip, but don't, don't imagine a world led by Trump
supporters who heard no uncertain sound, ding ding boom whoosh

I’m sorry my brain belongs to a crazy person
Cmon give me a ride I’ll jump in the hearse and
We can go to a place where we’ll never be hurting
I’m scared of the methods of travel but I just want the destination
Where our souls rest before the next test of raising humanities vibration
Our frequency’s bumping and lumping our chains to the floor
I’m running and jumping for that sweet old death door
I’ve seen so many go past please come protect me and fast
Witch tendencies are keeping me free but I don’t know how long it will last
Potions and spells keep me grounded to this earth keep me holy
I think I’m going crazy anyone experienced telepathy lately?
I hear you and me and everyone, what is empathy, where is it coming from?
I grab my citrine on my choker I beg for positivity
I pray and manifest my future I need some change to come to me
I don’t know why I live this life, I think I’ll join my loved ones on the other side
Please,
Is it my time or am I giving up, I'm so tired of living in this rut
Put all my energy into these words, I think all of us truly just wanna be heard
My dad thinks he’s a prophet, society thinks he’s clinically insane
Am I the same way, who is this crazy person in my brain

staring at the people in the nexus of transition
some are walking, jogging,
or dragging their bits and pieces behind them
lumping and ******* across linoleum seams with a clatter
and blitzing along on a travelator
any two of them heading to or coming from a different location
where you're bound and how fast you need to go
or are you right where you need to be
or you're content just going nice and slow
it's microcosmic I see

Sun also rises
As my friend would say

Lumping forward
Leaving the cage
Fat, unshaven, weary
To bask in the light
Of future thought

Realising nowness,
Embracing it fully
Clamping to the
Lamb of tenderness,
Stopped.
To choke on moments
Of yours
Gladness, folly

All a lumping together, forced to face our separate selves
Though if we forms divised apart
When do we melt or sublimate back?
Off tract by habit-tat-tat-tat-tat
Laughing; the brat upheld her ways
Braying and kicking and making a stink
Staking unholdable, miserable values
Dolls on a glass shelf, and we dust to misinform
Because these ever static statistics
hold our weary waves from wagging
To their novel nature
And I pray to find that state, that place, that thee
The Thou-
Caught by the proud, the sounds they unfold
And the echos distract, and derail off a track
That could never take leave
The olive branch dove of concept
panics from the sound of arms
..she never left
Never will and the wilting flower falls
to clear the way for something new
A bubble, a blob, a splat, a clump
A bloom forms upon making a collective sound
While the bustling pressure denies details
These breaths, these cells
Streams of blood; thinning and clotting
Thoughts and views and spewing momentum
Fulcrum lifting these crates to cohesion

They called me **** in response
to the choices made for my self
in the garments I choose to wear
or perhaps not, if I dared
makeup put onto the face
tattoos plastered on the skin
these reflect the innerscape
felt within without regret

***** is heard when I react
to the partners that fill my needs
across the realm of bodies grasped
spectrums searched for the balm
the hunger calls from within
with proximity as a response
accountability is close behind
still the critics will decry

sinner is the sum basket
an old dig that burns the most
lumping all that came before
into damning of the soul
what came before was trivial
pettiness below the fold
when eternity is held above
the heads of those outside the tribe

I'll reject this as the last lie
with the poison it supplies
when what's at stake is nothing more
than egos trying to destroy
the true measure denies their claims
puts to rest the crying game
because the tears are best spent
on what’s important before the grave.

2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190220.

Perhaps you're

in a place where

no reflection suits

you.

almost like an indigestible

life force.

lumping a stone's throat.

as overrich

paeans trouble

your deadlock.

how disconcerting to be

known for what you are.

if what lives, has moved

out.

I sit, not soundly, I make, not roundly, as the toilet seat hurts today by lumping it as it was meant to be lumped spectrologically spectrographical & hypochondriacally metapsychological.