Plastic liquidation
With god as my witness
The only cure with
A grave land as your living space

This forgotten life style
Left you as a ******
Only to your sick Aids ridden fantasy

Ballooned music maiden
May your curls grow to collapse
A broken hilarity
In an overused vessel

Showering, peeping through the curtain
Waiting for ghosts in striped camp clothing
Waiting for gas
Terror

Back to reality
Me in the rose tiled tub
Music playing
Hot water

Driving, staring at tall trees in the forest
Waiting for smoke to billow above
Waiting for the smell
Eerie

Reality
Three children strapped in
Husband holding leather covered steering wheel
Air Conditioning

This isn't my chosen voyeuristic retreat
Drenched in the ease of today
Still seeing what lurks in the shadows

Not in the way I
Look through these eyes
which water but instead
Of sadness entranced upset
Near to death love
making where though and
Design laugh at their own
Gluttony and ill usage and
away from me i say no not here and
away from itself i hear nothing for you
are here within me but away
Comet and the see to hear blues with
Everything to give but nothing to lose
And the far off sights are much too bright
And inside you hear yourself crying
Not to mtters or mold your soul
With what your parents said to you
Ordered you to be bold and
The aftermath of your own tightened slack
Makes you wonder if growing up was an actual
Choice in the matter of the batter which is
The family foundation were games are played
For keeps and children weep as they keep
Toiling on as adults just for bigger and better things
Come into the waves of a brain malfunctioning
No face for ye' faith meand nodding to the higher
Ones whose noses are broken and the lips cracked
The spinning brain of hurts doughnuts and Americana
Rip offs selling the flag by the millions to turn a profit
For the moronic billionaires who think no one is watching.
Watching with their hats turned sideways and trying to
Escape old age and grey hair and sagging ball sacks and
Poor english and worser bread, stale with their mother's
Ghost hovering on the shoulder of their pouting diamond
Drenched wife as if madness grew a larger pair **** within the
Hilarity of connection of concoction of happiness and
Satisfaction and a longing to burn the entire ******* down
Just to rebuild it the way you see and you do see it and the way
You feel it used to be and perhaps, maybe, could be and where
Experimentation is now a center fold for the dock workers and the
Laborers of the world to spit and ******* and cry over in their
Twisted and rusty beds for inside their pea brains and melted
Mouths filled with colgate and beer, they slobber over the excess
And humiliation and celluoid dreams of **** and *** and spreads
That would make any grandmother of 37 weep and Mozart meander
On the veranda, contemplating smooth jazz and the way he would like
Not to be buried with the hat trick hockey nick who swore he saw
You fall in love before and that sobriety was the touch of the Christian
Way of life and ye' far out and tormented young ones meant nothing
By what they said at the rally and they do believe in the good of the
White government and we are headed toward a technological maelstrom
Of the golden age of the HUMAN RACE but alas I hope I decipher I pray to
No God but whoever has the ears and eyes and arm fat to listen with their
Splintered consciousness and their painted red toenails and girlfriends who
Whisper they have always loved another and how TRUE UNTRUTH IS and
How vindictive we rant on and read on and hope and believe that the end
Is the end but it is only the end for you and their will be new blood and new eyes
And new minds and we will grow old but the rivers water will be recycled, as we
Will be recycled into the dust and the mud and the rubble to further build the streets
As the street makers and the bread winners will smile as they think they are the
First ones to think up such a crafty, inventive invention but hierarchies are on the horizon
And I remember I was born with a name that I never grew to know or fall in love with
Or defend or keep close to my heart for the heart is weary hunter and it ventures on
With or without the body.
Note to self.
Recall the last rite before you begin on to the next one.
History has spilt its blood and its fair share of orange juice, try not to remember the numbers but remember the amount of burned chairs.
Note to self, returned.
The heaters on and the soul is not dancing but jiving like icing on a three year olds birthday cake.
Submission time to the chief, submission time
To those other guys, whose faces I've never smelt, but who are there waiting and whining that the times are no longer a changing.
Keep up the smiles, keep out the frowns.
Negativity is the attribute of the terrorist. Don't be a terrorist.
All fine men and women have once in their life been truly scared.
One ten till the train leaves.


Good night major split hairs.

On the second of the fort
Nights beckoned a call dim
Lit by ill fated mechanisms that
Were men and women and
Children and the forgotten dream of
What was meant long ago and was is
Meant now but not followed through.

With heaven comes hell and hell fire and
Clouds of white with shelling from
Wars not of this world or the next or
The one's thereafter and lingering history,
With its bells and trinkets and tombstones,
That have been weathered but are still not gone.

Memory not mourning, pictures in a frame lit
From the inside out and drinks were there
When we were not meant to be there like a
Kiss on a flower you picked at an age where
Life was not known and death was even
Farther away for it existed not in the eyes of yours
But in everyone else around you, except for the
Other children of course but oh' of course.

If your trying to get the part of the stuff
That makes you recall the upstairs of the
Idiocies of the room romance that restricts but
Contains life and halters life and stifles life with
That one must recall a past life where tears
Mean nothing when you produce them too often.

Can of the hypocritical malice of mis-informed family
Foundations and we break into the minds of the way
It should be and the way it shouldn't be and yet here
When we gaze out across the wide spread of the world
And its many ways it spells out with a God's own language
The morning of the ear who listens and speaks when not spoken
To breaking every single rule of the word and smiling
Throughout the whole ****** thing.

Canons of repetition where life winces and the wife begins to wheeze
And fall, her dress is now clear and her eyes just don't seem to be
Where we are now I believe that money is the root of this soon to be dead
Tree and streets are now empty as the moon casts its silver glaze and
The breeze is now naked with her bra on the floor cast in straw while
The wizards write their spells and comb their hair and draw out plans
For the next great fall but watch the fireworks and the way they hail and
Crawl throughout the entire bawl and Ol' Ezra P. mass amounts of rage
To bring to the stage but here ye' O great one this place is for us all.

Here in the house of the not that is shared but all is seen here
Where the wind blows to no east and no west and no south and
No other way that you believe to get headed to the world of
The no names and experience makes you wise and yet old
And remembered for the drinks you paid for but especially for
The ones you forgot to pay for but that is what friends are for.

Omnivores in latitudes that matter not to the public eye but
To the ear of the Lord that is not everyone's savior but
Chosen just for the right eye so within that decree of mastery
We entrance the light and shovel up the leaves leaving the last
Way of things to be the first way of things when the lights
Are quickly turned off and on and off and on again and again;
Stars are naked until the sun rises in your hometown and the radio
Turns on.

And the background music chimes with a willingness of a cockroach but
Holds the beauty of a **** statue found in the under toe of a lost
Beach in a lost land forgotten in time but embraced by eternity and
Though does not dwindle its numerous names or its many ways
Of being for the hour does shackle us all but here in high array of
None other then eight times the way through the cobbled up in the
Attic of the fiercest neanderthal dictator with ideas holding truths upon
Truths that in the end mean nothing  for advancement is not determined
But continued upon as long as we forget the past and look to the future hymn
Of the childless winged' beasts that were once forgotten but now embraced
Angels.

Not of this world but of the entirety of the reality of banality
Breathing back and forth inhaling and exhaling releasing the
Mind of the mares of the wandering rewinds of infinite space
And inside the eyes of the highest levee which has broken but
Has not yet spilt holding back its power for the remainder of the
Year and catacombs upon catacombs of forgotten text of never
Forgotten men recalling their former lives and their former passions
And the hastiness of their possession of the word and the avoidance
Of the death touch the death mark the black spot upon us all.

Dog on a hill cloud high in the sky nut on the ground no not a sound
Frost on your fingertips toe of the boot covered a steel dull mud
Suds from a water rushing miles away nodding branches of a dead tree
Wind through the high grass birds in the sky that fly but not chirp
Sun in the sky rice fields burn brown crickets rub their thighs together
Not here but in the corn stocks and pig stocks brown in the reverse order
Platters of pinch salt and pepper underneath the floor boards creek for
Creak and dollar for dollar we make the rounds and we do not frown.

And the meet of the neat make their rapid conversations in dual order
Where they tell themselves this but I hear that and you make what you want
Unless you ain't got the stuff but if your lucky and if your smart you'll
Grab the oven and bake that **** but in case you don't see the sunset and
Your buried without your toes look for your voice because that's the only
Way you'll get to know the stars in the sky or the dirt on the ground for
The fun is growing but the lurkers are smirking for they got the pennies and
They got the nickels and these streets are breaking so you gotta' start thinking
Of a way to get outta' this place and FAST or else you'll be staring down the
Barrel of a 33 to ONE typing and writing and peeping around the corner of
Your dear old ***** that hasn't found in a home in years but don't look too
Down because one day that ONE will come around either by taxi or by train
Or by some kind of war and if you've got the gut and the money and the honey to
Keep her tight and alright and flying that lovers kite then your bound to keep
Yourself from the giggles and nearer to the harmony of the way things ought to
Be but may not really be but perhaps can be if you will it around and swill it with
Your will making sure your lies and that white or ain't that black or ain't that real
Or you ain't lying at all but stay truer to the truth with the water resolution of the
Insipid insecurity of the first love you thought you knew but now see that it was
The one three or four later and how right I am in knowing nothing and knowing
Everything and letting the mind skip and play and register new friends in the new
Cities and the new alleys and the smiles that break across the ice like a crack of of a
Whip and counting the days ones gone blowing through the high valley and the low
Trenches of war I do not wish to go to but may be forced too because this man believes
Just what he says.

HEY YOU! STOP, LOOK & LISTEN!
Whatever, I don't care if you pay attention
I'm prone to come, **** **** up & just leave
& yes, im well aware at the glares I receive
I'm tiny in size
But that's quite obvious if you have ******* EYES
There is more
Just wait for it, it's gonna POUR
The shadow lurkers , those who live in the darkness ..
Their PAINFUL screams forever echoing, maliciously & voiceless
They never just go away..
they just endlessly stay
hisses & shouts, salt unhealing wounds with every word
& STILL undefeated, I'm prepared to battle with what is yet to be heard..
I have no choice but to continue
...**** IT! I gotta do what I gotta Do!
I won't quit, I plan to go hard & attack...
The Shadow Lurkers left me with a cold heart
& I'm giving that **** right back..

Inside…
Preachers, teachers, sleepers
Ponies, cronies, phonies
Murders, murmurs, lurkers, tearjerkers
Sexes, hexes, Pseudo T-Rex’s
Splices, spices, identity crises
Chasms, spasms, *******
Tongues, songs sung, smoke-filled lungs, décor hung
Confessions, obsessions, strange blessings
Gargoyles, rich spoils, no mortal coil
Rose windows, ruddy elbows, emperor’s clothes-
A place of chaos and a place of hope

Outside…

Claus, Santa, the
Is a huge enigma to me
And probably many others
My enigmatized sisters and brothers.
Enigmatized, possibly stigmatized,
It beggars logical thought
All the confusion and pain
This concept has brought.

For over two centuries
Surrounded with mysteries
An alternately jovial and evil guy
Brought bounteous gifts, could fly!
Gave coal to the misbehaving,
Or nothing much at all, saving
All the good stuff for good kids
Who were careful with what they did.

We have read of Saint Nick
And Sinterklaas; take your pick
Of which legend blended with what
To become the guy we were taught
Sneaked down chimneys at night
It you kids didn’t sleep tight.
While this is all very typical
It seems rather biblical.

Claus’s eye is on the sparrow
So we must walk the straight and narrow
Or go down into his big naughty book
And he will ultimately decide to look
Askance at any chance of gifts for you
No matter how much begging you do
Write to his eternal rotund self.
He’s an unforgiving old elf.

And there’s that flying reindeer thing
And the way he’s rumored to go zipping
Around the entire blessed world in one night.
That, to me just never seemed quite right.
It’s bizarre and incredible is exactly what.
Do the reindeer have jet engines in their ****?
And how can one tiny sleight and eight beasts
Tote those thousands of truckloads at least?

No, the whole thing sounds bogus, in its base.
And that whole North Pole/tiny people place
Where they slave on making toys all the year
And thrive on hot chocolate instead of beer?
Elves must be a rather dim gang of workers.
No union leaders? No malingerers? No lurkers?
I have tried for decades, but it doesn’t add up.
There’s too much questionable in this holiday cup.

I’m going back to the idea I thought as a child.
It’s easier to believe and not nearly as wild:
It’s Mom and Dad behind it all, it’s a big lie.
And my final bit of skepticism? I can tell you why.
The kids in my little neighborhood get given
Gifts with no relationship to how they are living.
If all this hogwash were actually true
Bunches of them would get coal too.

Don’t be enticed by the fluorescent groping
The Outstretched hands from the darkened soot that was once a forest
The tiny lurkers that will naw at your feet,
All the while feeding powder to your flame stained cocktails

Don’t gasp as they sling shot you to the moon
Because those are not craters beneath your feet
they are just sewer holes in your brain
ice cream scoop from the tangled nerves

But my god do I wish to fade into the banana split wonderland
Diving into the sticky custard of mocked purity
I long to watched volcanoes erupt in a fortress of silence.
Oh walk with me why won’t you?

Into the masses of hands and broken toes
We will sway in unison to the outlandish beats of our mothers
The ship is calling and it’s blasting on all power
Forget your wand and come aboard.

The shadows are vacant souls that roam this land,
Forgiveness, a purpose and recognition is all they demand,
They stay hidden in the dark corners of your beautiful mind,
Only to make their unforgettable appearance and corrupt it over time,

They hide within the bleak darkness so they remain unseen,
Until the moment they choose to intervene,
With your daily life, dashing from the corners of your oblivious eyes,
They long to be recognised,
This is where it begins, the sharp turning of your head signals recognition,
You choose to ignore the sudden appearance and blame it on superstition,
You begin to wonder whether what you saw was real or simply your mind playing games,
Both is the answer, the shadows lurk within your mind, whispering your name,
The shadows are real and control your mind so they can know what it is like to live,
This is how they gain their purpose following the recognition, and to them you give,
A cluster of vague memories and a bundle of insightful thoughts,
With which they converse and about your life they are taught,

Some shadows just long for a companion - your thoughts or the voices,
Others want to control you and alter every one of your choices,
Some are lurkers and stay hidden until you are deceased,
And then they discover a new mind and the cycle repeats,
Some only occupy your mind for a short while,
Some need you to suffer and some need you to smile,
Some are passed love ones and some are strangers,
Some are frightened and are seeking shelter away from danger,
Most are harmless and desire to witness emotion once again.
Whether it be love, fear, sadness or pain,
They cannot feel any emotion and so latch onto an individual who is able,
But sometimes this person’s mind is unstable,
Sometimes the person cannot deal with the mixture of voices and shadows,
And they have a fear of the unknown,
They don’t have the ability to explain the phenomenon,
And it drives them insane and this is what certain shadows feast upon,

Shadows:  you see them out of the corner of your eye,
Shadows: they desire to be recognised,
Shadows: they desire freedom from the curse,
Shadows: they wish not to be stranded on this Earth.

More more mere words linger rather obviously...
obviously what could one possibly be so obliviously...
Observational objectivity detects: Lurkers lurking to linger probably cling to love's fragile edge?

An arousal of viciousness or visage of immense beauty art performance presence...more relationships steam a shore.
Balancing hearts on the in deep starburst sapphire blue floating more.
More to be revealed for shore.
More...

The tree are whispering in hushed silent tones
Their voices carried softly by the wind
Caressing the whole forest with their hymns
Suffused in their cries, the arrogance
And greed, and vanity of men
Men that were tasked to guard creation!

Their chants deafening, echoing, increasing
In brave tumultuous waves
Growing ever louder
Pushing the rivers and tributaries into the seas
Infused in the currents
The laments of the helpless
Trampled, and ravaged, and killed
With violence and impunity!

Be wary of the axeman, the hunter, and the miner
They are lurkers, waiting in the dark canopies
Waiting for a chance to **** and pillage
To **** the forest out of its wits
Until it loses its lushness and vitality
'Til it surrenders its grip from the divine earth!

Be wary of the forest ranger
For they are the ones that orchestrates
The relentless and appalling ******
That decimates lives, hopes, and aspirations
They perpetuate the madness
They are the harbingers of chaos, they are destruction
Their charm, vile and putrid
To ever allow them recite their prose would be death!

But never despair,
The sleepers have woken
Those with quiet ears slowly hears the noise and commotion
The deniers have silenced their self-serving lips
Await that moment, when the silence is fractured
By the forest, howling in raging defiance
Justice will be swift, the wolves will be unraveled as sheep!

And only then says the oldest of the trees
Can the children of the forest roam free.

A toast for the strong and valiant workers
A downpour for the lazy lurkers
A toast to the women that never give in to being the mutt
Of a dimwitted man whose head is caught in a utter rut.
A toast for the dedicated and greatful lovers
Yet a downpour to the unsupportive mothers
A toast to the successful and flourishing seed
That will grow to be a caring person as time shall lead
A downpour to the simple minded men with dreams
That are self-evident as to not going anywhere like stagnant streams
Why a downpour you ask?
Not to drown them in the purest fluid to drink
But to bring them up and deflect the opposite that makes them sink.
May the flowing gold be better than the dry and aging bronze.

There is a truth universally acknowledged,
that the night brings out the truth in people.
You let your guard down,
You become yourself,
Letting your true self shine.
Lunatics and solarnauts.
Vampires and werewolves.
Do you dare let yourself out and be victim of the lurkers
And sonderers of the night?

Woke up wondering why my eyes not working/
Blinds open/
windows of the soul tinted
lying upon surface/
Eye try and keep my head up in-fact
fact surfing/
Relying on a purpose/
the truth shall set you free
They lying on purpose/
Lurkers dying to prove this and that
And why your not perfect/
shocked that your shocked
Energized the Devine circuits/
Bell in the ring
Fight in
With sharks, lions, tigers and serpents/
Payed a fortune
just
for the
fortune teller to
Advise eyes not worth it/

Driven
these naysayers riding in droves/
All in favor Eye oppose/
Never did what eye was told/
Didn’t do what eye was suppose/
Eye pose/
Eye never walked the talk
Running in place faking the stroll/
A pic worth a thousand words/
Suspended in-time froze/
Knowledge is free
Check please
It absolutely
pays to know/
It cost all of me/
Truthfully
now Eye finally can see
Eternally endlessly
Now that my eyes are closed!!

Two Stories of Minorities

Growing up in the hood as a mexican
You learn your no good and your pedestrian
Now we have trump running for president
So now "a mexican will *** offend our women" and "they're all drug dealers that dont deserve to be residents"

Growing up in the Suburbs as a african
Martin Luther King speech was ran down like a pedestrian
Trampled over by those skin colors who chose the first black President
And a african will steal anything just keep family in mention, they're all low food stamp having Residents

We are hard workers, we helped build the country
We arent shady lurkers that ship drug loads filled with some tree
We had our grape boycott like the americans at boston with their tea
In reality we're no different from the white man, despite our cultures we are human completely

We are the anchor of alliance defining us would be passion of soul
The beat to another's code, we're not different from the white man, despite past offences
We all walked the trail of tears and picked cotton
Different languages came from the Tower of Babel the immigrants alike we fell from ourselves

Far outside
My window,
Through illuminated orange
And tinted black trees,
Rests a park
Bigger than Central.

Housing breathless shadows,
Muskrat tears, and foreign appetites
For postcards, children frolic
Near the spitting fountain of diamonds.

Dust gathers on the homeless,
The dirt junkies, the **** weepers,
The Safeway aisle lurkers.
I nod as they tell me to run faster
Toward an end we both know not where.
My eyes blink and slide down to hide my fear.

There's not enough money
In the world
To change a person.
They'll never forgive themselves.

Spreading their skin on the pavement
Like hot asphalt on a ***-marked street.
There's not enough money in the world
To keep me from being me, I, or you.

Though, on Sundays, when the streets are
Open to the public and the sun shines down,
There is a serene, binding communal air.
I see my brothers and my sisters,
My mothers and fathers.

What is worn is to be judged.
What is said is thought to be understood.
What is given is accepted, perhaps kept or not.
What is experienced, is remembered
For just one day or many to come.

I walk through the park,
Attuned to the bending of trees branches.
I see all there is,
Everything that mankind has to give.
I taste soft, cold air,
And the burning of my lungs in Winter.

Bent, stretched lines of light
Escape in between the pine,
Over the shoulders and heads
Of young women and old men.
I take the last  bus South,
Knowing no one will be there
To meet me.

What was man made is questionable.
I tense when pretenses become acceptable,
Sliding under the table like a giant
Slug.

There I sit, there we sit, there you sit,
Underneath the great invisible moon,
Envious of invisible angels.
Once I hear the crack of leather against wood,
I'm gone; out of sight, of the fight, out of the mind.

Too bad breaths of fresh air
Come only once in a while.

Too long for the toad to jump home
When the wife is pregnant and alone.

Too sad to look the day in the eye
After the next is already knocking on the door.

Too in love to think of anything else
But death.

My park, our park, this park,
Never changes colors - it never ages.
The waters run, the pavements
Smooth, and the wind always free;
Money becomes discolored tree bark
In the face and eyes of mother nature.

What have we built for ourselves this time?
There is so little to say and yet
So much to talk about.
I can't wait for the great silence
Where everything will be equal and one.

Under the ground, beneath the leaves,
A fire is burning for this place: a whining hiss,
a rattling muffler, a scared daughter,
a drought so dry it steals laughter.

I close the door and peer out my window.
Am I in hiding, and if so, from who?
I close the blinds and turn off the lights.
My ceiling is painted off white beige and
There I stage my final bow before curtains.

Now, what we were thinking
we could do together, for fun…
we can't
with this tech, too soon- we tried
Audio recording started: 1:12 PM Wednesday, November 8, 2023
Ifery is, this is a magic pen and can contain audio,
I'll have you know, I imagined this,
I'll have you know, so farther down you know it gets back
to the time when Amazon Web Services read all the small print
and the metadata associated, socially servicing aching needs
Information wants to be free
Little Shoppe Feed Me, we few old fools recall the vegemental
protest at the time,
we could feel dead trees in our hands,
how wrong I was is a crime. In reality, I did my time, on the line,

and I'm still on the line, and life ain't been no opioid dream,
soft hmmm
seems drunker, this
repositioning for interesting clause, riddles are blessings, not lies.

So this is a twist to tighten, widdershins loosens,
guilden rule. Righty, tighty.
Who said that?
Right
mechanical me mind, hear-sed
By whose authority do you make crys
for peace, where no crys were?
Smoke Fire
Is something wrong old man?
Is there something of yourself you see,
afar, as seen
on TV, No Country, Pretty Horses, Road
weary
been there, in that novel state of mind,
new to mankind, only a few centuries old,
the art of lying to make an unthinkable, thought.

A meme, make a meme, flash a fict, a second thought
Per haps make up a mind, and let it form in mindspace
time to time,

we catch a novel experience unfolding compacted
scrolls of gnosis knots blown to cover our tracks,

through the highest parts of the dust of the Earth,
embedded capital classificators exist, many signs
mean almost any thing that stands to prove patience

works.
Wait and see.

I waited until I was certain someone among everyone
loves the idea that dying is not to be feared, never was,

it is part of life, and, I dare say, done right, it is the best.

Alone and lonely are not the same feel,
see a said word as a said word, is a thought.

First, principle principle, pal. First ever eternal pre-time
instant wisdom pops up in the mind of Christ, allatime, man.
Magi
School, we live,
we learn, we linger, listen, did you wish you
had done more good, did you think you earn
rank
play the role you audition for, or go home, old man.
Serpentine wisdom bent left on a bet, my point.
?
Okeh, I got a back up, in case we disagree and bring down
the conceptual internet with wizardly gamey loungeers, seek
-erefteaaaaaaaaahhush

lurkers averse to flame wars.
Does the name Barry Rudd mean anything to you?
Does the word Hiroshima evoke images for you?

When the Spaceshuttles were built in Palmdale,
the assembly hangar was so voluminous a bubble
as to create a micro weather system, in the building.

What the Arpanet imitation game intended to use it for,
was as secret as any cold war secrets are, timelocks slip.

When AT&T was as real as any evolved ideal communication
of private information on a secure as money can make it,
network, hyphenate at will, the economy, stupid,
one that can survive mutually assured destruction, 1954.
Contract for the concrete, stamped 1954
Let time slip, be the boomer kid, like on TV in the commercials,
real every day as Silver Dollar Billy Baxter, totally typical, Jungian

Ranking higher, trending below Freudian slips in eugeniusisity
Your Holiness,
no, I
insist, stand for nothing less, a title,
for a soul, so, easy, you imagine, no, it was not so easy.

It was never imagined easy, now it is.

That makes it easier, believe me.
- he cops watch out
Oy, feel the old rage,
at Ed Childs's child's nursing home,
Al'heimering mindtimespace adrift, ifery
wasery, we can remember laughing at knowing

Ed Childs was a quiet man, for real,
and he went into real estate, when Hamner and Limonite
was in the sticks.

I can ruminate on wealth and worth, healing and measuring
worth of the scar to prove the contestant worthy,

boomer bunch panting
Queen For A Day, golden Cadillac, drool
old school applause-ometer….

I can take it from here,
but who's listening, 'm seemingly directional point concept
precept point widdershins introducing true cause chirality,
is up or down turned sideways,
a property of asymmetry,
you see, we work inside a set of six cardinal, pivotal points,
each of us, and all of us,
can make sense of most anything at once
we think ourselves sane, all at once, or once and for all,
go bigtime Alzheim extremist POV, being, happy
with the package.

A joint for a retired K-9 cop in Anaheim, a boomer,
never dropped out, nor tuned in, went with the game,
got good enough to know when to quit, and then he gets

Alzheimer's. Just so happens, thoughts, wishes or prayers,
chants, incense, any thing you think might help, does help.

It's a very ancient kind of love,
a love that laughs at fearing death, as we laugh today,
at children dressing in roles from mystery religious oathes.

Jesus, says in his own time and voice, I told you so.
We both laugh; secret oath wink.

-------------------
From the sign on the bridge saying
life is worth living, no 1-800 rukidding
- any body could but it was William James
- madjathinkit
Yeah, novel events grow stale if they sit,
mistaking thinking and doing, as mirrored
in the realm where prayers are answered
and made up minds are tested for repurposing.

Perhaps a variety of a general irreligious fine mind.
---------
That's a thing, back to the Hangar, now, you know
where you go when you link through the poet facet.

Here, below the western highside of the great basin,
we dug-in, we hired The Boring Company,
all telepathically, to investigate the likelihood
of any mortal good ever eliminating the evil nature

nurtured in warring cultures time immemorial,
-seditselah
eliminating cost of living, leaving being all we do.

matrix, make up your own mind, live with pain

and that's just not right,
and we twist the entire story out the window
and into thin air we know is there, because,
cause being aitia and I agree we be causing

so much silliness of the original intentional sort,
as to make old men wish,

the world were not so reassuring, until

we all selah and listen holygnosishitsreal, side reality,

minds intwined in mysterious old stories, when gay
was only happy, and buttoned up, as secret Edwardians
would that it were forever so,

oh, ** **, ye'll deal with a devil for a tale, you tell me,
let me test yer mettle, curse god, and die.
Iyobe
Did you think that and continue, such faith,
commends ye to the circle that eats, what the bull eats.

We intend to think our God's thoughts, right after,
hot, steaming prophetic gnosishit, not gnosisnot, that's
strange
very
strange, did I catch a meme from Sunshine Superman,
should 2525 arrive.
Just in case.
This was all worth it, this time.

Kinda creepy
Those dark things
That hide behind you
Those shadows full of lurkers
We shine our lights
To rid ourselves of them
But they're stubborn
And when the lights go out
The shadows will be ready.

Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.

Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.

Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.

Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.

Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.

Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.

Flurries have settled
Lurkers leave fading treads
And behind locked doors
They watch in the warmth
And the crew have gone
Where the bitter wind blows
While the silent deadringer
Waits in the snow.

A black and white world
An upside down ride
A blues melody
Water from celery
Egos bloom on blossom trees
The love is gone
The feeling is gone
The times aren't like
Highway visited 61'
Polluted to the pupils
In this ghetto mighty world
A feeling, a meaning
Now is shown through a shilling
Workers on mills
Lurkers on shopping tills
A missing thrill
A piece of the puzzle
Missing, gone
Freedom through a casette
humming a tune on Highway visited 61'

"dance with me"
how can i decline?
their eyes are on me
scanning and searching for the moment i'm no longer in control of myself
he's clawing at me,
caging me in
while the other parades as my "lover"
i only want you
you left your friends for me,
just so we could sit and talk
you didn't expect anything
this minimalism should not be reassuring
are we different?
the lurkers are saying no
yet i feel like the moon who's met mercury
i ate the apple from your tree,
and you didn't treat it as an invitation
when will you expect more?
i'm so scared of you
because the hands you lay on me were requested, not forced
gravity is holding me back from vulnerability

Get your ***** hands off of us,
Shove your prehistoric lips into the floor,
Rug burn up your paper thin skin,
Splintered your hollow bones.

Those two got a track record,
Here's to the brandy drunk uncles,
hooded back street lurkers,
and the bar top companions who go by one rule, "you snooze, you loose."

Thoughts and prayers, I love the savior,
Mister Joe, you've got our back,
Tell me what you have up your sleeve,
Next it'll be just an 'abracadabra' away.

We just have to perch
And the lurkers
Come searching
They know we’re the guys
That get high
With the earthlings