The skies the limit
A smile being your style
You and Mr. Grant while
Oh how Ted Baxter who would often act wild
Yet Minnesota of the Newsroom at a loss
Those cold winds that always had a force
You would often toss your hand in the air
It was your trademark being the Mary Tyler Moore Show to preserver
You always knew how to go from here to there
I’m Mary Tyler Moore and have no fear
It was sheer comedy when you were always on TV near
Now when you were starring with **** Van **** on the **** Van **** Show
There was always laughter, surprises and situations
For instance, Mr. **** falling over a chair
But it the mission was clear in always beware
Well Ms. Moore you have accomplished acting your whole life
The American people being your fans is our inspiration as a strive
Ms. Moore your acting ability and smile like the aroma of spice
But it was your personality that was ever so nice
But years rolled on and illness came
Your final hour from Heaven “Come Home”
Your time had come
Ms. Moore, you through your hat in the air for the last time
You made it after all
This is not goodbye, but until we meet again.

Theres a genocide going on in 4K
And the world's acting like its okay
And I wonder who's more pathetic
The antagonist or the apatethic

That we shouldnt **** children is not really that complex
Unless you are from the military industrial complex
And you do not need to know the history of a millennium
To know its wrong to displace millions
And carpet bomb civilians

And humanity is not political
Unless you are a politician
And peace is not controversial
Unless you are hell bound on controverting
Well,you are hell bound anyway

The placards and slogans are up again
Its better than nothing,even if it doesnt bring any change
You wanna feel like you've done something
Even if its meaningless in greater scheme of things

In a world where everything little thing is trauma
The genocide becomes a newsroom drama
As they make you believe they are others
And convince you its fine to **** your brothers
And you get convinced in a day

However much we can scream
Continues the killing spree
From the river to the sea
Only hatred seems to be free

So theres a genocide going on in 4K
And it will never be okay
However much they try to erase the voices
And cover it up in chemical warplane noises

And if you wondering which side you should be on
If its the one killing children,its probably wrong
Dumbf*ck

We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws
Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws.
But how can we assess T-****
When all our data’s from a stump
And weekly polls that flinch and jump?

The answer’s lying deep below
Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe
Whose poetry is dark and slow.

A creature walking o’er the earth
In privilege stretching back to birth
That claims ascendance overall
And loves to brag and boast and brawl
And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls
(One sometimes wonders at its bowels—
When watching active ****** scowls.)

T-**** is marching to consume
What’s going on in the newsroom
And feeds on minor predators,
(Ignoring its own creditors).
It likes to crouch and dance and pose
While speaking in a broken prose
And often wrinkling up its nose
At anything that might oppose
Or even worse, that might expose,
Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.

Alas when sizing up T-****
One hits a show-and-tell speed bump
That’s not about its topmost clump
Or its eternal ****** frump.
We know, somehow, we’re each a chump
In thinking that there was an ump
Who’d put things on the ump and ump
And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped
Instead of what we’d need to do—
To find what’s cleanly new and true,
And redirect our Waterloo
Away from its own cancerous lump
And toward a far less spurious zoo.
In other words, to dump T-****!

To be sung to "***** Laundry"
by Don Henley

We have a little story
That we could tell
We have a little poison
In our inkwell
Let's be a gossip
Let's be a shill

Give us the 'ol Pulp *******'.

We peep through the windows
And listen at doors
We buy the "Enquirer"
And "The Star" at the stores
"She ***** herself"
And "She's a *****

***** little minds galore!

Give us the 'ol Pulp *******'.

Have a li'l "lady"
Who's fast and free
I've heard she's been a prossy
That she's easy
Nothin' nice to say?
Come sit by me!

Give us the ol Pulp *******'

Could have been emeritus
Could have been a great
But I pound out nothing
But dreck and spate
So what if it's full of hate?

You don't really want to know
If it's real or true.
It's not what they SAY
it's what you they DOO DOO
DON'T YOU WORRY WHAT
I THINK OF YOU

(THAT YOU ALL POO POO 💩)

Give us the old Pulp *******'

Kick 'em while they're up
Kick 'em while they're down
(1, 000, 000, 000 000, 000 X)


🎯 Write of Passage


***** Laundry"

I make my living off the evening news
Just give me something
Something I can use
People love it when you lose
They love ***** laundry

Well, I coulda been an actor
But I wound up here
I just have to look good
I don't have to be clear
Come and whisper in my ear
Give us ***** laundry

Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down

Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em all around

We got the bubble headed
Bleached blonde
Comes on at five
She can tell you 'bout the plane crash
With a gleam in her eye
It's interesting when people die
Give us ***** laundry

Can we film the operation
Is the head dead yet
You know the boys in the newsroom
Got a running bet
Get the widow on the set
We need ***** laundry

You don't really need to find out
What's going on
You don't really want to know
Just how far it's gone
Just leave well enough alone
Eat your ***** laundry

Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down

Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're stiff
Kick 'em all around

(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)

(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're stiff)
(Kick 'em all around)

***** little secrets
***** little lies
We got our ***** little fingers
In everybody's pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love ***** laundry

We can do the innuendo
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done
We haven't told you a thing
We all know that crap is king
Give us ***** laundry

Don Henley

If the shoe fits...



SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2022

Durch Geld , wird die Demokratie ihre eigenen Zerstöre

The decline of the west plays back and forth in newsroom warzones across the America that Samuel Adams died believing in, the promise of a gold lined path to a bygone peace the immigrants can now only dream of, while the sons of the sons of the sons of the sons of their sons close their doors and arm their security systems, there are racks of guns lining every wall and everybody looks ready to go to war, so I might as well join them, the possibility of compromise lies with dozens of boys and girls in dozens of pools of blood across dozens of states and the people cry out enough is enough, and if the decaying capital will not hear us then they must be made to listen, a united front of iron forged from the fires that burned down Missouri, that burned down Los Angeles, that burned down D.C after the soothing voice of the raging masses was shot dead, if my rhetoric is too strong it is because not only are things not moving fast enough they are moving backwards,
When men, leatherbound and arrogant would consider every moment in the spotlight a coronation, the options become clear:
These kings must die so that the country may live

i can almost abhor the term philosophy being
used, overused, playing hide & seek with it,
overusing it, overusing -
the i'm a "philosopher":
   and there are clear "reasons",
                     there is most mythical logic
outside of the confines of
mathematics in the form 1 + 1 = 2
   and the linguistic confines of grammar
akin to a + b + o + u + t = about...
   pretty much nothing...
                 given... there's a big difference
between a philosopher,
           and a thinker...
            that's what i woke up with today,
did my duties, made dinner -
and some other bits and bobs...
                   forgot about my original
schematic, let it sieve itself into a day
filled with pockets of time, drifting on
a sea of subconscious amnesia...
   three drinks later at 11pm...
boom!
              i managed to remember it...
what? the difference between what
a philosopher is, and what a thinker
is...
           a philosopher is someone who
can't escape the cognitive moral question...
the Θ apex -
                      given that...
    you don't actually put a key into
   a keyhole sideways...
       so the θ apex is a fallacy of sorts...
         the Φ apex (prefix) -
  ergo? the Θ apex (suffix) -
                     i never understood the modern
audacity to presuppose "being"
a "philosopher" before being a thinker...
a fiddler of sorts...
             the Θ apex is a genesis of
thought...
     the Φ apex is an exodus of thought...
spewing words in some sort of
Socratic dialectic -
      prodding - asking a variety of
dichotomy questions -
                           basically looking for
100 Zeno paradoxes in each supposition
that's a presupposition
whereby nothing leads to a proposition -
or at least: albeit blind faith...
   and what is the epitome of
jurisprudence?
                       the statue of justitia...
i'd prefer blind faith,
  than blind justice...
                but no...
          i could never claim to be a philosopher...
the so-called term is overused
by so-called "philosophers":
   there are two golden maxims -
don't do unto others what you wouldn't
wish to be done unto you...
   and?
    don't give any advice...
         modern "philosophers" seem to talk
too much and in talking too much
tend to give advice -
  sort of tickling at the idea of
a dialectic - but rarely accomplish it...
      i like to think,
   and the pleasure derived from
thinking is: to not give advice -
instead? provide an outlet of voyeurism -
i'm a thinker, not a "philosopher"...
         what a pompous term -
to reverse the Cartesian principium primo...
i think: not because i am -
              but because i think,
   therefore will think ad continuum...
      who needs to pivot on
the crutches of i am with the term
philosophy?
               i could never consider myself
a philosopher -
   no more, or less, than a priesthood status...
it's a bogus terminology -
apparently if you self-describe yourself
as a, "philosopher": you can don
Vatican style armor of impregnability -
i can't exactly consider myself
giving either good advice, or for that same
reason - scoffing off schadenfreude
by giving bad advice...
                     as a thinker: i stopped
asking the moral ()ought -
                 i put my ego into another door...
               put the key in,
turned it, and found behind the door -
less of an inquisition and self-laceration -
in swamp questions...
                       less a momentum built upon
a ?-impetus (of question -
  which no one would answer, directly,
in the contemporary sphere of all things
temporal - including me in it) -
    but an !-impetus -
              no questions -
        no advice to give -
                               no rigid questions
engulfed by schematics of scholastic
origins - systematical approaches -
     exhausted and boorish - boring even
the library's moths...
                          just the purity of,
narrative - the whole point of
    cutting out the Cartesian point of:
the most over-used word in philosophical
writing - thing -
     res (in Latin) -
    it's like philosophers abhor nouns -
or... more to the point...
                          truth can achieve its peddle stool
status of motivation and subsequent
ambition / impetus / whatever...
       oh the genre isn't dogma -
   and philosophy is just another
genre in the spectrum of literature -
           so pure narration is
the extensa for what a philosophy isn't,
   cogitans: thinking -
                   it would appear so...
    unless running at a brick-wall repeatedly,
re-digesting old unsolvable problems isn't...
well then...
      who can have the audacity to call
themselves a philosopher and not a thinker?
who is will to mitigate a public image -
and not allow a voyeuristic audience?
   probably someone...
   who also manages to gain an audience with
a mainstream newsroom ditto-head...
       it's like:
(a) but i'm a philosopher! i'm here to use logic, reason....
(b) but i'm a journalist! i'm here to...

both are neither.

Elder gentlemen crave the past like
nicotine infused black cherry smoke ,
riding puffs of chilly October morning
park scenes in my hometown etched
in gray day period couples struggling through
leaf covered sidewalks , followed by beggar
birds , those canopy filled blackbirds commanding
the audible forefront of greeting , courtesy
and old folk innocent chatter
Smiles and laughter as automobiles circle the
city center of Willow , Water Oak , granite monumental
reminders , window shoppers , price hawkers huddled
in a little brick town no one ever hears about , lost
on the tip of the newsroom tongue , in conversation , this 'black and white village' where townsfolk forever scurry about

rarely does an afternoon snooze turn
into a vivid dream,

not that it's certain whether
     an hour of unwinding after
a culinary labour can produce
the bare minimum energy potential
that translates into a dream at night...

added the fact that there is
such a genre of music
       minimalistic techno,    
             harthouse frankfurt...

      whatever the technicality worthy
of a music critic,
        boris brejcha has become
synonymous with
                       northern siesta...
if there was such an English movement
as northern soul...  
    might as well coin the phrase
northern siesta
     (notable choice of song,
                  dark planet)...

               maybe it might dampen
the resolve of those: ready to wriggle
to the elongating bass rhythms...
   but at least the music is not your
generic café cool...

     techno-***-jazzy-accents...
      or whatever is predicated upon
a quasi-Stasi (ZZ, S-Z / Z-S, SS, ß)
             category...

      | churchbells of the valley -
   scent of convallaria, interlude,
       preceded by°:

{a dream about bow ties...
       one aspect of the dream
akin to a newsroom,
    two invited guests,
        one of them holds a manequin
***** and shows off tying
a bow tie...
             the other guest is wearing
a tie...
     the dream shifts
     into: standing in front of a mirror,
choosing between
          a bow tie that suits
a pale crimson polka dotted shirt
or a silverfox bow tie suited
for the waistcoat}:

thank god there's literature,
     to interpret a dream...
          and all of it...
     is like reading a ******
                      astrology excerpt...        
  
the more interpretations are
available, the more they sound
like hot air, or as the already
       stated comparison:
          astrological ruminations
of the zodiac - hence the irony /
          not that I'd take his word
for it from Burroughs' my education
i. e. that opiates are dream-smiths:

    a safer option,
           tickling deep nocturnal excavations
might be best unergone
    with a prior to siesta...
       as if: sharpening a knife
   or dulling a hammer...
         given the frequency /
and capacity for vivid dreaming...

      and yes, the bow tie is
a focal object,
                     but no:
    i am more content with
   the dream per se
                      (given the scarce
frequency of i have of them) -
that seeking a meaning from it...

   a healthy dosage of scepticism,
always around dream-interpretation,
since i can't see an archetype
    of a bow tie as predating a tying
of a rope...
         manequin *****:
       acting out social formalities...
it's still a zodiac game,
          astrological gallows,
    a tongue pricked with a rose
thorn, subsequently whispered
into a girl's ear, revealing
            a blush blossom on her
   cheeks.

°scent stimulant, brought from
the market;
       via scent into visual
      revitalisation of dream remains,
stored subconsciously in the first
2 and 1/2 hours after waking;
    scent of white flowers
   stimulant, to rekindle
       the memory of dream colours.

p.s.
         some of this can be true,
but tested again for an analogue
        and a plagiarism rubric,
    i. e. scientific categorisation  
    (dogma)?
            
p.p.s.
                  dream recurrence...
or what's called the archetype
of a dunce...
                   how can times do
you have to dream, the same dream,
and not see it as a:
   dream within a dream,
   which is: a dunce standing
     before a blackboard
                investigating the plagiarism
                       of: Bartholemew?

Poetry, I give you leave tonight,
Tonight the rooms are all dark,
And the moon seems to be a ball of rice,
Poetry, I thus realize,

  That kids are born but all alone, to fight and to survive,
That brothers of mine would carry guns, and swords to imbibe the taste of hate,
My ministry of freedom, would ask me,
To celebrate the religion of chains and barriers,
And the newsroom would speak of a thousand dollars in a bank.

There's no doctor who would carry the reservoir of proper medicines,
There's not a police who would not love to beat up citizens and addicts,
There's no art in government and while doing duties,
This is evolution, evil and we write poetry at ease?

Poetry, I thus take leave from you, as sooner, as possible, my friend,
When the morning sky would turn blue, again.

There would be no one anymore,
To shout and speak naked truths,
There was no one never, to celebrate love,
There is no one to understand these galloping thoughts.
My poetry, you are and you were never mine...

Poetry, you are but an elitist propaganda,
A young blessing, but rather a burden,
Which turns out to be a curse.

Poetry, take leave thus,
And, I would burn the sentiments of such an insensitive farce.

Poetry, take leave,
Please, In brief.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

          One Judge, Two Sheriff’s Deputies, and Five Police Officers
                                 Take on a 98-Year-Old Woman

                                         “Try that in a small town”

The 11th of August was neither the beginning nor the end
Of sheltering the Constitution from thugs
Some in judicial robes, some in dark uniforms
When Joan Meyer stood
                    between them and us

A newsroom pillaged by judicial fiat
Private homes looted by armed bully-boys
Ordered by a heartless magistrate
When Joan Meyer stood
                    between them and us

When Joan Meyer died
                    between them and us

Raid on Kansas newspaper is an intolerable overreach by police | Editorial (yahoo.com)

Breaking News    Breaking News   Breaking News
There was an attack on the White House
It was blown up then later ransacked
Reporters quickly rushed to the scene
But as they witnessed, it looked like something from a movie screen
All in the White House were dead
The Reporters were looking for facts
Police and the FBI were looking for evidence tracks
But no one knew from where or why
The thinking was a terrorist attack
Then investigators realized that there wasn’t a trace in fact
So the thought was ruled out
Investigation was surely in order
Questions with no answer
Statements with no precise
Only time will tell
Details keep coming in
This news story doesn’t have an end
This is AB reporting until then

As prospective students
ably ready themselves to matriculate
and/or first set little feet
inside halls of learning,
I rebroadcast a poem crafted
at the height of Covid-19.

A couple years gone back educators
adaptation regarding coronavirus
severely impacted on the classroom,
which modifications necessitated school boards
to rejigger methodology teaching paradigm,  
quite herculean feat yours truly
(self tasked himself with assignment)
attempted to encapsulate difficulty courtesy

his handy dandy trademark poetic flair;
through arbitrarily chosen words,
nevertheless encompassed feeble effort
forthwith present authored outcome
read endeavor printed below,
which attempt barely hinted
at near insurmountable obstacles
pandemic loosed upon webbed wide world.

The following reasonable
already obsolete rhyme
verst animated mine
faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue,
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus,
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signaled resumption of school year
back in vogue.

Countless challenges abounded
as millions of students
(darting to and fro, hither and yon
analogous to flagellated spermatozoa)
did re:zoom
even fetus soon did kickstart
to get academic jumpstart while in utero
eventually nudged out of womb,
whence a new born babe
cradled in mother's arms
lulled to sleep listening to Mozart
while older siblings

awaited crossing guard signal
when one after another
bus came by... vroom,
whereby administrators established
virtual and/or actual room
adapted to delegate assignments
as reported by local newsroom
facilitated by unrenown,
unstoried, and untutored writer,
most likely a bonafide married,
and once former unbridled groom.

Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information
super highway road)
confronted those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload,
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode,
whereby inquiring inquisitive young students
taught abc's including
modus operandi how to code.

Virtual golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress children
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online,
while one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
made his poetic cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to instruct,

which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true orthodox methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
neither folded flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor ever served as safety patrol.

Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously, nobly, royally struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
invariably experiencing cognitive dissonance
who floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade.

Bard of Perkiomen Valley
readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled
in kindergarten today,
he would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
situated within Lower Providence district
emotionally fractured psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.

Concomitant to foster
misgivings of wretchedness,
I harbor jealousy
at young whip smart kids,
who already possess laudatory command
concerning salient technological knowhow,
me far beyond paternal parental stage
yet speculate how child raising
could allow, enable and provide
insight into latest
cutting edge binary wizardry.

Less impactful upon precocious
boys and girls hungry
as a caterpillar for knowledge
included protracted time eons ago,
when fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters
experienced opportunities to
relish countless hours whittled away
being tutored as son(s)
and/or daughter(s) for stereotypical roles.

Within realm of cyberspace
positive kudos extolled mentoring progeny
about rudimentary concepts
(plus edifying offspring
about all encompassing
social media platforms netiquette)
aided in turn with
sophisticated computer programs
(possibly created by little Einsteins)
invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).