Glass is cheaper than the stone skin
tattooed on their foreheads. The palace, a splendid fantasy,
half built when the idea will be abandoned.

Freedom is a powerful nuisance! Their only
sin is looking at the world through rose-colored
glasses, make people feel at ease despite distress and disease.

The right wing redneck reactionary republicans continue
religious slaughtering. This nightmare scenario should
be nixed, said with a sneer, I hope they’re wearing warm socks.

Still, I couldn’t crack the code. Changed envy to admiration
to cultivate mystery rare as it is rewarding. The weird thing
is the high-end whiskey collecting dust on the on the shelves.

Nothing short of astonishing, like the space farers gazing back
at the home planet. Distant. They fascinate people.
Animate the inanimate environment. Isolation above.

Looking back I am ashamed of the mess we are leaving
our children and grandchildren. How to allocate these limited
resources? The key is to engage. No easy fixes.

Well I changed all the locks
Cause I couldn't get in
And I moved all the clocks
Cause time seemed too thin

And I made love be free
Cause it was too dear
And I made the blind see
So they'd have no fear

And I opened the parks
So you could visit for free
And removed all the marks
That said you couldn't just be

I tore down the fences
And opened the gates
And nixed the verb tenses
So we could relate

Now the world is much changed
But I'm tiffed to discover
That our brains are deranged
In our rooms made of rubber

Countdown to Armageddon precariously hinges
   potential apocalypse outcome, mere smattering days away
if the brazen, fierce-some dragon doth don
   trumps presidential throne -
   ships with whistling  Dixie missiles at bay
will be synchronized with aerial bombardiers
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   to parlay a view to unleash nuclear weapons on cue
destroying a vast swath of flora and fauna,
   and most life forms (inn oh cent), but pay hefty due
to assuage the aggressively cruel, enjoyably
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   growling at his goalie indubitably
   kick *** mindset worse than dengue fever will ensue
a combustible domino effect fueling global horror -
   analogous to kindling tinder logs smoke
   the color - jetblue streaming up fireplace flue
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
witnessing sovereign magnum opus trans
   forming much of animal and plant life into flakes of goo
far scarier than any macabre production
   dreamt up by human frightful scenario and no hero
she ma to rescue self or other from deadly debacle,
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   nor any safe haven such as a cool igloo
forsooth complete annihilation will far surpass
   any prior world war, no one will be spared,
   neither gentile nor Jew
which total mortal kombat, and attendant laying waste
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   organisms livingsocial instantaneously cremated,
   where ashes spread dispersed faster than Kudzu
rendering world wide web fetid, offal, and putrid
   far more noxious than the common loo
yet even this general description falls short to where mew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
tinny sans hardy species (according to Google search);
   such as tardigrade, mummichog, and cockroach
decimating, heaving, leveling, poisoning
   every cubic inch of Earth evincing voluminous vaporization
   extant eradication emphatically nixed, punctuated, and radiated
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
   pulverization eviscerating the bowels of mankind,
   where nary a survivor could weather and withstand
   hollowed out no mans land bereft of sustenance or water
   where seeds of white lily when coalescence
   of oblate spheroid birthed, nursed, and weaned new
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
life especially proto **** sapiens
   and subsequent kin grunting with ah and oew
fast tracked primates, yet inherent within genetic coda
   (perhaps poison ingredient bubbled
  within primordial soup) - steeped quantum mechanical pew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
tar nation housing crucible-
   analogous to planetary size mortar and pestle) queue
sans predestination, where rue
brick, dogma, and fealty honoring justice slew
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
by paws of one cancerous, fractious and idolatrous Lothario,
   who opened Pandora Box (rigged shut tight) thorough
lee rendered civilization a footnote
   of cosmological history and universal view
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -   -    -
BUT.... eligible voters can choose alternate
   (Democratic) candidate -
   the majority will exhale a collective gustatory whew
and allow, enable and provide continuance of the human zoo!

I dissolve
When I'm in the thick of nature
It turns my brain off (for once)

Smells cast spells
Sounds surround
I am finally in it

I feel
Sparse

Whittled down
To bone and breath

Arabesque complexity nixed
And I am
OK with that

My worries
Go extinct

A broken heart
By definition
Cannot act
Based on ambition
And is doomed
To submission
Cursed to feel
Only contrition
But take this moment to listen
To what I have to say to you

A broken heart
Is seen as weak
And the future
Of it bleak
But every crack
Tear and streak
Leaves the owner
More unique
With only confidence to accrue

A broken heart
Once it’s mended
Can shake off
Why it pretended
To endure
What it expended
To keep it’s
Own needs unattended
In fear of losing what was good

A broken heart
Once fixed
Even with
Emotions mixed
And after all
Enemies nixed
By their lies
So transfixed
Is now free to do what it should

Some people see personality
I just see criminality
What some call statesmanship
To me is not so hip.
There must be a different definition
In your version of the Constitution
But mine says we all are free
And not just those D.C.
And not just those Caucasians
Should be entitled to rations
Of respect and equality.
But we’re victims of duality
Without causality
Because our voice is nixed
Nothing gets fixed.
Nobody cares about the crooks
Until something of theirs gets took
Then they want to throw the book
Without a second look
At who it hits. It’s totally tragic
That so many believe in magic
Like somebody waves a wand
And all the thugs will be gone
From our leadership.
It’s a ****** trip
And a total rip
That they think someone cares.
But, nothing makes rich people scared
Unless someone else takes
One third of everything they make
Then they scream like banshees.
Meanwhile, down on our knees
We cry right across the board
But we are the blighted horde;
We never really scored.
We were just here to buy junk
And not listen to the bunk
The one-percent hurls our faces;
We live with the disgraces
And wish we could do something.
Wish we could do anything
To break this eternal ring
Of money meaning purity.
Yes, it is a homily
But it is practically
All there is.
Talk to the Wiz.
He’ll tell you it is crap.
It’s just a trap.

The boy was happy,

His every whim fulfilled,

But the fun left debts to repay.

His bank account always refilled,

By the man who gave him life.

The debtors kept him leashed,

To this expensive way of life.

His idea of friends tested,

As they cause nothing but strife.

He pays and pays, to get his fix,

They make and make, as he tries to change.

He pays and pays, his money nixed,

The “friends” of the boy, begin to unhinge,

The life of their toy, to start by beating,

They move on to a picture, so incriminating.

This boy now sees his life, how he was cheating,

A quick fix for the stress, non-discriminating.

The time of his life was slowly ending.

If that image got out, he would lose his lifeline,

His only chance to pay for the thing,

The thing that he did not need, but craved.

The men kept him trapped,

With a childhood picture, something depraved,

Left this young boy trapped, in a life he no longer craved.

It’s a time payment concept
With compounding interest
That gets harder every year
And puts faith to the test.
It’s brokered by agents with
PhDs in fancy double-talk
That everything is God's will
And you’re not allowed to balk.

It’s sort of like the tax people
Only the rules are not so fixed;
No good calling attorneys up
That’s action’s definitely nixed.
The deal is that you can’t win
And must suffer with piety;
Give your money and thanks
To a fat cat you cannot see!

In exchange you get to go to
Play dress-up every Sunday
And pray for the senselessness
God is supposed to take away,
Or maybe remove diseases
That **** the good and innocent.
But you’re allowed to pray that
Your Lotto ticket wins you a mint!

Either way, you’re blameless
When it gets to be holiday time
And nothing changes as politics
Becomes the scene of the crime.
So drop another couple of coins in
Some sd homeless person’s hat,
Because God will take care of them,
And that’s where religion is at.

My little birdie, let's call her Donnie, didn’t die with me. She was the sky, the ocean, the air; always there; before there was me; before there was Lily and the schizophrenics she so dearly loved. She chose me through three miscarriages; clung to my slimy wet shoulder from birth in an old British town, and after my heart said, “**** it. I’m done.”

Donnie, who knew me well; whose laser eye cut through my survival shield. Who was there with the ******* and the priest in his long white gown, red, sputtering scooter, and bifocals that saw me before I slid under black sage bushes on Bleak Street. “We must learn to forgive,” he preached, as if he’d previewed the ****** fantasy with the teenage butcher and 12-inch blade; who dreamed of severed jugular veins; who knew their precise anatomical position from Biology 101; who raged through life buoyed by his noble struggle to overachieve, kick poverty in the *** and please his mother. She wanted him to be a shrink who performed lobotomies and lived in a mansion on the hill. But instead, he peddled anti-psychotics and sildenafil.

Donnie, who nixed my flirtation with cremation with her thesis on Casper’s Law. Who waxed poetic on the cycle of life and the critical role of clostridia in butyric fermentation. Who stoked my angst of guns and God; and the Talmud’s curse that justified subjugation of blacks for five hundred years, and gave us Jesus, blond and white with sky blue eyes, and prosperity preachers with a penchant for private jets, Bentleys and pews packed with faithful followers seeking salvation and eternal life but fearing death and the neighbor’s son with sagging jeans, snapbacks and kicks by Kanye West.

Donnie, who worshipped only supreme reality. Who scoffed at the devout deacons and their elegies of compassion after protracted nights of drunken bliss and fornication at the bordello. Who challenged me to read and think independently; and unlearn the trappings of blind faith in a deity unseen that failed to intervene when Baba and Phoebe were yoked, *****, chained, stripped of name, culture and natural identity; made to slog like two-legged mules in a land far, far away; for missionary masters who ****** black men in public for dissent, and threw black babies, naked, screaming, into giant, snapping jaws of bull gators for fun.

Donnie, who inspired me to explore the theory of applied nothingness; that nothing is something and everything is something and nothing; that nothing is the silence from which a baby’s scream emerges and to which it returns; that singular forces of expansion and compression move the universe to an inevitable state of oneness. That the world is the laboratory of the independent thinker who knows the only constant is change; whose mind is constantly moving and learning new tricks, not stuck in the static biblical paradigm of many interpretations, including that curse of Ham, that seismic slight of hand that shifted and redefined tectonic geopolitical plates of master and slave by race.

Donnie, who knew the moving mass of maggots feasting on my rotting flesh were merely spokes in the cycle of life and death. Who knew heaven was a myth like the devil; that both lived in me, on Earth, a duality that made me love and hate and share and steal that shiny red apple from the Korean grocery store on Utica Avenue, just for the thrill of it. Nonetheless, a part of me wanted to confess, just in case that nothingness theory was just applied ******* and John 3:16 was real. Just in case, mother, who prayed five times a day, and sent four-figure checks to Benny Hinn whom she’d never met, and gave me a black bible to help me find the Lord, was right all along. But a few Berettas and bump stocks intervened.

Donnie knew I was dead when the bullet split my head in two back in 2032 at Times Square. There would be no 2033; no ‘Happy New Year’ toast, no kisses, no cheer. Just rat-a-tat-tat, screams and mayhem on 42 Street. There were 175 dead at the scene when the giant ball completed its 60-second drop; New York City’s second worst mass killing in modern history. Children missing limbs; gaping holes in the chest of men that held beating hearts at 11:58 pm; chunks of brains, eyeballs and other human remains swimming in blood near headless victims. The three white terrorists did not discriminate. Every race felt the deadly force of guns meant for war but fiercely defended by Second Amendment zealots and the NRA.

I should have migrated to Tokyo back in ’85.

Donnie disagreed. She’d stayed connected to my departed, restless soul in the after-life. Together, we observed the protracted decomposition of my earthly shell in a loosely-sealed casket somewhere under the red clays of Georgia. Donnie, who knew I needed therapy after that morbidly brutal exit from the physical realm of palpable matter; back to the golden eternity of nothingness from whence I came. Who reminded me that my brief sojourn among the living was not inconsequential; that I’d left an indelible mark in my sphere of influence, real and virtual; that I’d found and used my gift of write for the greater good of preserving naked truths of humanity; that my ancestors were pleased, including my deceased mother, whose long position on pious options had filled the coffers of Benny Hinn and other preaching predators like pastor Mike at the Bootleg Church of Brooklyn; yet yielded nothing which is something as hitherto explained.

“Your mortal life unfolded exactly as nature intended,” Donnie counseled, in her infinite wisdom, adding, “even the biologically immortal pine will die when struck by lightning or swept by a tsunami or snapped like a toothpick by a giant tornado.”

“And those pines produce oxygen to support life on the red clays of Georgia, now uniformly enriched by your final contribution to the world.”

I'm a kind of tired that sleep can't fix
in a game gone amiss where no one wins
in a race stuck in place that don't begin
where every action is seen as sin

I am kind of lost where no compass
can find a home or points to bliss
facing the wind as I ****
the stains on my soles will iterate this

Im the kind of mad that lacks their tricks
a sad gone bad that cant be nixed
perplexed and had caught in the mix
as it all comes down like a ton of bricks

An introvert to escape the hurt
whos grew quite sick of chasing skirts
nomad on the landscape scraping dirt
disguising a grave as a yurt

Can I just be with you?
Where I can hold your hand
Where I can kiss your lips
Where I can lean on your shoulder
Where I can hear your heartbeat next to mine

Can I just be with you?
When I cannot hold myself anymore
When I cannot pause my emotions
When I cannot hold back my tears
When I cannot help myself telling all my problems

Can I just be with you?
Please, tell me.
I just wanna be with you
Where I disremember the reality
Where I am floating in my dreams with you
When everything nixed me
When I don’t know what else to do
So let me ask you again
Can I just be with you?

For the past thirty years or so
I’ve heard Republican broad hints
That never quite come to pass.
They must think I am dense;
That I sit and watch my TV
And get all stoked to hear them
Promise they will set things right
But reality never comes near them.

They talk about our poverty gap
And how they will narrow it down
And how they will lower interest
And they will quit fooling around.
They go on about their opponents,
Even when they have good records,
And then the election comes and
The people fail to get it together.

So every eight years they vote,
These fools I must call my peers
And throw the good guy out.
Every freaking eight years.
An even once after just four
They told the good guy goodbye
Then put in a world class crook.
Can anyone really say why?

I’ve watched my fellow man
Go bonkers like this repeatedly
And vote in some twisted clown
That ******* us up completely.
Nixon looked like the creep he was;
A greasy, rude and stupid man.
Then Reagan was a liar and a looter
I never was that fool’s loyal fan.

In between we’d get someone
In the job who wanted things fixed.
He would work hard as he could
And pray things wouldn’t be nixed.
But the current bubble-headed villain
Said he’d take the country back;
All his predecessor was guilty of
Was of being unremittingly black.

So, what’s with these people here
Who can’t tell a good thing from bad?
Why can’t they recognize success
And good times we have had?
All indexes were up, things were fine
Things were not a bit bad that fall.
So why did the half bright-Americans
Choose a guy with no experience at all?

Surely they don’t think any guy
Who doesn’t give a **** about them
Would care about more than rich buddies.
Of course not! That would be just dim.
Yet they did it and proved that fools,
When they’re left to play with the adults,
Can ruin things when they’re going well.
Now we must live with the results.

Tryouts starring musical prodigies 
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.

Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.


Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera 
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas 
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically  
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderfully
wrapt yawning  youngsters
warfare written wrought
yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.

***************

Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.

I don't always know when
I'm being loved - early years come back
to bite. You make this easier -
second guesses die on the vine.

All that's left for me to
wonder is what to tell
you when I'm feeling this tinge
of melancholy.
Do I report from "the Century"
to tell you about the two bottles
of Dark Horse I've put down,
celebrating the wild Derby
where the winner was nixed?

Or do I broadcast the sea curl
& salted air that pass your
name dune to dune in the
wild grass, as night eats
my cigarette and flicks sand
into my hair?  

Neither -
instead I blush toward
the evergreen stoplights as we talk -  
smile the little shells
that break the walk.

I sigh, go inside,
have a little Turkish lesson -"su ve süt"
& maybe that is enough.

Whomsoever you might be?

If I wrote a letter to a stranger:
whose name I do not know,
will they answer with a pseudonym:
under a brash bon mot?
If I seal it in an envelope
and mail it off in haste,
will it ever be delivered,
or my writing prove a waste?
Now should that stranger answer,
with deception thought my game,
will their reply be in keeping?
or think it such a shame,
that the details of my letter -
the one they never got -
should be scrapped as junk mail,
because their name I had forgot?
Of course, they may not answer,
which to me would be unfair,
for having taken time to write one,
and mail it off to where
they once resided - perhaps still do?
If they deign not to answer?:
Does that seem right to you?
If I addressed it wrongly,
would it come back to me?
Or if I expedite it,
in a fit of urgency!
If it was not delivered,
what would the mailman think?
Would he ‘return to sender’,
or refer me to a Shrink?
But writing to a stranger,
and keeping them amused,
leaves me in a quandary,
and a little bit confused!
So perhaps I'll scrap my letter,
until a later day,
and write it when I get to know,
exactly where they stay?
But now another problem rises,
one that must be fixed:
with the details I now know,
their ambiguity is nixed!
So my letter to a stranger,
will have to wait I fear,
for news I want to impart,
is nothing they would hear.

So I’ll wait until I’m sure,
that why, who, where and whence,
the news I would impart,
will possess a modicum of sense?

Rhymer.  July 1st, 2018.

There were twenty women and fourteen men
From the wreck on that tiny spit,
Lost in that mighty ocean, just a
Mile was the most of it,
There were pigs galore from a previous crew
Who’d been wrecked some years before,
And plenty of veg, they fished from a ledge
Jutting out, and over the shore.

So in time the fourteen had paired them off
And it left, forlorn, the six,
There wasn’t a single partner left
For the girls to scratch their itch,
So they huddled up and began to plot
How to thin out the ranks of those
Who took up the men that were meant for them,
They started by shedding their clothes.

There were naked ******* that they thought would test
The men in the rival camp,
Would lure them off in the undergrowth
To lie where the earth was damp,
And it worked for some, though the men returned
To the partners they chose before,
‘The only way that they’re going to stay,’
Said the six, ‘is to go to war.’

Charmaine was found in a grove of trees
With her face, all covered in blood,
And Derek didn’t seem too displeased
He latched onto Maxine Flood,
But the thirteen said, her blood was red,
And they looked askance at the five,
‘We need to arm, and raise the alarm
If we’re going to stay alive.’

But a dozen died in the camp that night,
The soup had given them cramps,
Eleven woman had taken flight
And the one old man, called Gramps,
That left a surplus of thirteen men
And the women numbered seven,
‘There’s not enough to go round,’ they said,
But the women were in heaven.

The six bereft of the men were left
To mumble and scheme and plot,
‘We need to **** at least six of them,
Whether we want, or not!’
So late at night in the pale moonlight
There were shadows abroad in the trees,
And before the dawn, the six had gone,
Beaten down to their knees.

There were six and six, you would think it fixed,
In a year they’d be in hell,
For two of the girls lay down, were nixed
Gave birth, in a winter spell,
The men denied said they had their pride
And attacked their mates of yore.
But somehow managed to **** all three,
So now there were three and four.

‘We’ll keep the fourth in reserve,’ they said,
‘In case of a sudden death,’
But Maxine Flood was in no such mood
Though she sat, and she held her breath,
They made her fish and they made her cook
While she worked upon her wish,
And when just one of the men was gone
She fed them puffer fish.

‘Now there’s only you, and there’s only me,’
She called, when he wandered back,
Staggering into the camp, he said,
‘I’ve been in a shark attack!’
His arm was missing, he bled right out,
And died in front of her eyes,
While Maxine Flood had rolled in his blood
And cried to the empty skies.

David Lewis Paget

You saw me see you across the room
Now my hands are sweaty, heart is shaking
And I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do

In my mind a thousand scenes play out
In every one I do the thing wrong
And for once I’m glad to see you swallowed by the crowd.

In that second that you’re gone the loss is overwhelming
A greater fear I’d never held but yours I’d hold until…

That second is eternity, can’t remember if my hearts still beating
Frozen in that lifetime since you’re gone


I ask around, was it just me?  Have I slipped into a perfect moment?
Or is my mind up to the same old tricks
And promising another night of torment

I can wait, though, pretend I was mistaken
I hadn’t really seen the face of an angel
I hadn’t thought about our life together, twenty years away

The children that we might have had, well, they all begin to fade.

But I can’t stop searching, nor will I ever
If I leave or look away and what if we were meant to be together

So I’ll sit here waiting til my heart begins to ache.

And there you are, I see you there
Chatting to that guy, I see
So our moment wasn’t good enough?
You don’t think I’m worthy of your love

Then I’ll leave, come on, mate, it’s time to go
We were dreaming thinking tonight would be good
What idiots we are, picking up in a bar
Who does that anymore?

Next pub it is then, this one is sour
**** heads aping on the dance floor
Feet sticking, the air is sweating
And all I talk about is her

I saw her across the room, you know
We had a real connection
It’s a shame, isn’t it, mate, in real life
It’s impossible to find affection

I’m drunk, my friend, and that girl
Where is she now?
If she were here, that girl
Where you at mate?  
I’m going home

But... it would be a shame, wouldn't it.  
If we get along, to have to sweep it all away
As if it never really mattered

The one thing in this world i can't have, it's regret
And if all it is, a futile friendship,
Who are we to throw it away like yesterday’s used heartbeat

See, I rarely connect, the majority are dumb and most are *******
You took me by surprise and just so happened to be packaged in an attractive box.  
Doesn't mean we can't still go to the movies,
Doesn't mean we have to hurt anyone's feelings

And this is not a play, I promise you,
Didn’t we talk the night away, wasn’t it obvious
If, after that, you realize we aren't as cool as you thought we’d be
Then we can vanish this whole affair

Just, please

Never say no to nothing (unless it's going to get you nixed)
And even then, choose your danger instead of blowing out this fire

I saw you see me across the room
My mouth is dry and I can’t find the words
And I still have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do
Other than never say hello to you

I am in a circle of agony.

As I venture out, I am forever drawn into the center,
centrifugal forces area lie--
I can never seem to flee, but I am rather so attracted
to that pinpoint of melancholy
that seems to resonate with me
too much to be healthy,
too much to make sense.

As I look back at our mess,
the storm we created,
the whirlwind of excitement
and pain and hurt and toxicity
(but the love was there)
all I see now are a mumble of black and red,
the words mixed and blurred,
the meaning nixed.

It is in this chaos,
I feel safe.

I am broken, and I do not know why,
I want to fix me, but I cannot try.
What’s busted inside will not be fixed.

Its pervasive and deep, like an old ****,
Though I pull and pull it will not heed.
Sometimes emptiness cannot be nixed.

My garden has grown dull and dreary,
My hands and muscles long since weary.
Though still I till my barren field.

My skin darkened by the baleful sun,
Though only small victories are won.
Said work ensures my fate is sealed.

From this labor my soul is chiral,
As I toil onwards to the downward spiral.

{editer note: ******* title nixed as non sensicle, but his contract gave him title rights if the inner net ever was re-al-ized, so his title was:
De-fine ite religion to its ment tent,
intended to set a course on defining religion,
then faith and seeing what would happen next,
because we went some ways with that idea we
we, integrit I ated we

we know how important your valuing peace is to the value of peace.
Butterfly hurricanes in the Bermuda triangle,

that's just gas,
like when a newborn smiles at the twinkle in his grandma's eye.
But let your peace come into a place,
see if, still see if still be still again slower still your will be done on earth
how? right? who can do what God would do if he were you?}

In my mind, my perfectly calmable mind

I am culpable for drawing your attention,
claims the flame to the moth who

exclaims, idea, I die for do I care

que? sera sera
Madre mia sang that song right along

made her matter, like she was dancing for me,

baby,
who twisted that little head
who told you that little lie

why, why, why, baby, why

give me a reason for the faith that is in you or
we all die
anyway

the idea is first, always, right? The thought before there's a word or any

no, no. nothing is impossible, so something must be.
My thanks, a shout out to A. Conan Doyle, a sir or something I believe,

He gave us both the 5% solution and the Piltdown Hoax.
Timed for real ation, or revelation 20 years after 20 landmarks

surfaced. Holmes winked at Jesus, I know what you mean.
Something is possible. Nothing is not.

Yes. Good News. Quite.

Your phantom touch wakes me from impatient dreams,
As darkness fills our hollow room,
And although empty my life seems
Your silhouette is vibrant within this gloom

My eyes stay fixed, till the break of light
My heart is nixed, my soul takes flight
As our apparitions float through the thick night air
We may dance again, and you can hold me with care

We may gaze into each others depths, beyond peering piercing eyes.
My eagerness of your Soft silk touch
Is merely an illusion in disguise
But still I rise, yet still I rise
In remembrance, of all that you comprise.

Jumpstarting outstanding undertaking...
bringing jouncy, spectacularly crafted,
nuanced, zesty, noteworthy, creatively
spirited enlightened written poem.

This raggedy man doth inconsolably weeps
kept rudely awake whilst disobedient sheep
incur wrath of Little Bo Peep, she lambastes
protesting courtesy rambunctiousness being
future mutton chops with "haggis and neeps"
though hungry enough to eat a horse, yours
truly - me cannot afford mouth watering heep
meager stacked coins no higher than antheaps.

Yes, I still rant and rave at crooks who won
built and trussed up trust minting yours truly
for all his worth inescapably zapped all cents
of mine labeled as easy prey, branded til time
of his done on Earth immemorial prodigal son
absolute zero (the big goose egg) zilch wifely
survivor benefits nixed in other words... none
meaning, she will no longer address me as hon
mortality gussied up as grim reaper will anon
be taking aging beetle browed foo fighter to
(elysium) elysian fields after tomb morrow.

Red hot poker faced beggars me to seek wage
perhaps being ventriloquist's dummy & bring
about Renaissance of the once renown
Vaudeville (comedy without psychological or
moral intentions, based on a comical situation:
a dramatic composition or light poetry,
interspersed with songs or ballets) stage
door opening revitalization second decade
of twenty first century veritable newage
social media platforms displaying homepage
only more egalitarian than storied Gilded age.

Major blunder blinded insight compromised,
jeopardized, sabotaged novel storied wealth
scam artist affected my sought after demise
courtesy weapons of mass destruction stealth
bombarded, fooled, lobbed..., psychological
manipulation upended marred mental health
hacking away byte size raw bits of gray matter.

Discover re: visa vis yielded me mastercharge
amplified ohm my dog, what in tarnation did I
unwittingly bring about pennilessness wrought
truth out there and trust no one equals lessons
(courtesy Mulder Fox Special Agent and one
of the two protagonists of Fox science fiction-
supernatural television series X-Files) taught
(think unlucky duck) professional quackshot
commandeering, guiding, lying, ravaging...
(albeit convincingly) me to withdraw money,
what amounted jackpot stripping away leaving
yours truly bereft of financial buffer - naught
one red cent barely able to afford one kilowatt
only natural light utilized to power just barley
my gofundme page titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth.