Bright windy November
with the slap of cold sun sending frowns
and the absent rain not beating down
choleric substitutes of alcohol withdrawal
and spatial omissions of home fires stoking
empty remembrances of faded potential and
misplaced amorous regret
Haunted by the lingering smell of the souls of
last night's GUINNESS intake staying swell in
the nostrils which is in reality the gulf breeze blowing
gullshit down the river Liffey giver of life.

...And here I am Dublin pillaged and funded
en route to the hour-rate slog
shiny white commerce bleaching out of
windowsills distracting from rooftop
Chiaroscuro  serenading a sky
which old ****** forgotten Sons and Daughters
will die under.

Boots tapping mock-goosestep to the ground
past a girl who speaks on her IPHONE to someone
who presumably not only wants to be seen speaking
to someone on their IPHONE but who also cares enough
to listen as the girl announces to all-and-sundry
human dodging on Bachelors Walk this fateful morn
that "I realised what my problem is Now! People
think i'm saying N when I'm really saying M!"

.....quite an existential crisis you got there, EH DOC?

("This girl's SITUATION belongs in a scenario in the TV show GIRLS which young
Woman Europe-wide have embraced as their spiritual saviour in an era of Consumer
impulse control. By placing the mundane generalities and perceived social failings
interpreted by young American female comediennes as instead representing a means of
self-forgiveness and attempted new-wave soft-core feminist self-celebration young American
actresses are inspiring a new generation of young woman to speak openly in a more in-depth level about everything that usually happens to themselves or some girl they know"-From "The Post-New Male Gaze: Interpreting Critiques of Stereotypically Feminized Pop Culture in Westley Barnes's "Notes on a Rant: The "Took Me Up To Dublin Where It's Famous" Notebook
:2013)

This is the new white noise.

White Irish Male Critiques perceived socially-announced problems of White Irish Female over White Technology on a white morning in a grey city.

A grey city which subliminally stinks of shame and left-over guilt and of spending too much money on tecno-toys and new-improved nullifying debauchery and even rent during a significantly rough stretch of fiscal years. After a lot of years of white nonsense, really.

But this is where I took myself, and this is what happens once you take yourself here and this is where its famous for it.
Dublin,
Once Monto-based FUNDERLAND for the rich and royal turned over-waxie infested tenement slum district and second city of an industrialised economy waiting for the rest of the world to pay its way.
Dublin,
capital of green and squeaky saviours of the third-world who made some money and forgot about everyone else they used to know back home. Mr Poverty, Mr Humbleness, Mr Sense of Catholic Shame.
Until the rents got too high and they had to move home again.
Dublin,
no matters what it achieves, always putting itself down.

But I can adapt.
I've lived in Rathmines and Portobello before living in either was a
really hip decision to make.
I can find somewhere else before its gets gentrified
(after I find some job that's not worth complaining about
or I eventually leap into becoming to middle-class
to complain about it.)
enough that its a headache living there, too many men wearing the same winter
jackets. Too many packed restaurants and your local actually preparing the tables
in the run-up to the Rugby game on Saturday.
The less of all that, the better for me.

I used to day dream about all of the above, honestly, but I
somehow managed to regain my innocence by living through it.

As for the girl who discovered self-realisation on her (through her?) IPHONE?
She'll be alright. If that's how she starts wading through the floodwaters of relating
herself to the world, misunderstood syllables, name-fails and all, this time in twenty
years, she'll be laughing. Don't worry yourselves, she'll adapt with the times.
Sure, Dublin's famous for it.

Golden Valleys, Growing Naturally

                        <>

This is a Logo in Ireland, Dairygold™
is the company.

I would safely say, that there is hardly
an acre in rural Ireland devoid of some
form of artificial fertilisers, pesticides,
herbicides or fungicides.

(Ireland is riddled with consumer cancer)

If the Logo was written as follows,
a comma between Growing & Naturally
plus an exclamation mark ! which should
really be a question mark ? (in the absence
of the comma between Valleys & Growing)
                            i.e.
Golden Valleys, Growing, Naturally! or ?

               Then it might pass.

Let's see if we can force them to change
it and by doing so, it will highlight the
fraudulent practice of duping consumers
with blatant grammatical omissions and
the wordplay illusion by clever marketers.

(Well, perhaps not as clever as they thought)

ps.

I spent all morning, wondering should they
be a comma in the last paragraph, in the
afternoon, I removed it.  Oscar Wilde.

dear, you cut me off mid-sentence.
for all my skills, techniques and terms
here's a thing i can't find a way to convey.
a narrative even beyond comprehension to it's protagonist

a girl without a simile or metaphor applicable?
somebody to leave me laconic, short in syntax, unstructured.
will we discuss possessive pronouns now?
for in subtext, i am the possessive one.

i'm so lacking verbally
but i'm sure you'd understand it contextually
to punctuate: i can be the ellipsis, the implication of my omissions
but you're in my text as the most eager mark of exclamation

Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.

Spun on a thread, a gossamer thread
Hung on a dream in a watershed,
Shadows suspended in effortless time
Regretting those words left unsaid.
Regretting omissions, those hesitant thoughts,
Words bitten back by the tongue,
When clear expression could lighten the load
To sing every song left unsung.
So dimly, through deficits' dust laden air
In a shaft of brittle white sun
My confession remiss for omissions amiss
Paint bereft-ness before it’s begun.

M.
11 January 2016

I went into the DeepWell this morning for another kinda,
wake up cup more like trying to be with some things need simmering down,
for the flames are bright and looking hot but but but warm and so soothing,
ooohing aaaahining awwwwweing inspiring rather blissfull kissfull blissing,
kissing idk bout hi'way 61 but for of you bro I know about your kitchen!!!!

Anywhohow way idk if I had much a drink at all with wake up or simmer down,
nor a nibble though some things are clear once in a blue year;

IDK like what's going on, down up once in a while or my preferred self setting dip flip switch's,
hahaha but reads are packing and that's good;

having to get back to too many responses 'um think 'bout the president,
the few who get through and we see a few presentations that should all be heard 'n seen too;

for I know we're all just blood bearing beings, counting on air,
but my cabinet I'm all of 'em unless you have more to say speak on this now;

staff, budget, readers, recorders, playback digitizers self routing pouting deciders,
all kinds of chaos chasers 'um not got;

I know so like all here 'um wat's wit dis cat;

what's he working three jobs or three wives 9 kids twelve ways;

nah not a drop so to say exactly 'dat way no more got a few getting on,
where I was and they was already born;

I'm thinking metaphysical then overly scrutinal to be careful both ways and wise,
she-it I can do more da better than a two way street try me I like 8's and 9's,
I lay all out there b4hand dey way den 'um say cats don't won't can't,
what ya ever think I've ever seen any reciprocity;

yah Solomon here we're working laughing crying all;

saw that movie "Anna Karenina" Leo Tolstoy novel base,
ya know the 'precious' 'Lord of the Rings' these sort of 'um things,
JC said along at least the 'Greatest b4 me Solomon' two kinds of exemplar,
(easy SO SO Bud Bud chill!!) one get demons off mans poor missions and happily,
doing 'Gods' love yet 'um well, I talk about these things with blood bearing beings,
I'm not even taking temperature into consideration;

just that I hear know 'dis 'da place gotta do 'da be greater things;

everybody knows Solomon a key why how hum 'um what ya kidding again,
oh so far off out heavy or fairy dust to me man, guess coming all together like JC,
just a bit may be out beyond such ganders of wonders what feelings lost looking down,
the land your feet are even upon, 'um man what about's;

'I'll be your solution if you'll be my remedy';

how does solution need remedy when they just bleed warm red blood a bit too bluish,
what if I say we need 'em all, does 'dat rhyme a chime of too like greedy who what me'eedy;

what ya want to "Possess Me!!!???"
hahahah !!!!<3<3##:):)!!!R

I just wanted to hit dat punchline while I was really in the middle,
but I do have a poem 'The Middle Riddle (in medias res)',

"When the middle is...
just right, there will be no will...towards an ending...!!!";

so back where we're we before the mention, no introductions say already too far gone,
as a wife would have to be  able to have an introduction of such a silly notion no more;

re: refer to as; X'yzzzzzleeeeping;

with that illegally separated easier straighter to say Fb have not figged 'dat one up yet,
Solomon is calling 'em up everyday/night;

let me tell ya man of the woes of Solomon and to me I coined the phrase myself,
so I Google'd it up, for I just thought those cats yonder dare' might have downloaded,
my brain and some well of it's keys and you've got the rest better;

know now I understand it's out there by book, I don't dare look yet before it's clear,
who wrote that stuff and I'll tell by what it won't, by omissions, excessive unwarranted permissions,
I'm wondering, I scan the great collections, not so invasive of more personally assured permissions,
there were days where there were a hand full of very warm open hopeful receptive set of beings,
along some tour that said go west as I was east and by a rather large pond;

do I need go on here now,
I start your clock too 'den what,
I'll get nine codes running inside out,
backwards inside of you,
'den just what can ya do!!!

this society of ours is so gargantuan,
policed by the daylight we hold at night for ransom,
Like a Jesus or a black Aphrodites,
I'll be your daddy if you let me call you my mommy,
give me your milk, the nectar that forms at your eyelids
We can go out in public on a weeknight Ireland,
I won't drink, but I'll wrestle every penny you
throw into each fountain, unless each wish
you make puts us together in California. At 55º it's as
cold as it seems your heart is, you whisper the omissions
of lies over mute. Every silver trinket on this charmers'
bracelet abused. Be the freeway and I'll be the car, drive around my circles, and we can drive the map of the Hollywood Stars. This circus- paddy-wagon, sewer stardom, I've always been the over-roasted beans from your local Starbucks. I grew up to grow up, I got up to throw up, I sought you to show up, and give you this leigh garland. Egyptian or pitiful, critical mister 'are not.' My words were worthless and wounded by such ardor of this perfervid martyr. Enveloped by threading the eye of this tempestuous hourglass, just another sign of being extremely intolerable to the minutia, the worried, and nervous curse of being so human and the fear of being, quite heart broke.

ive tried to find a secret
an unknown to harbor in my soul
to keep something from you,
to lock it up in some black hole.
i want to know your secrets,
and all your lifes mysteries,
but you have kept some things in the dark,
creating a journey my heart wishes to embark.
i want to hide a secret,
like you have hid yours.
but you know all my secrets,
have opened all my doors.
omissions are betrayals,
i have once been told.
for when in love,
all secrets seem to unfold
no matter how dark or cold,
for when in love
one should want all secrets told.
fear not my love,
for in my world omissions are not betrayals.
they are the saviors of pain
that needn’t unfold.
of stories and pasts that needn’t be told.

but on the contraire,
you should want to share,
of all secrets from our start,
so no unknowns can tear us apart.

With pompous fanfare I delight those few,
To smiles and loud ovations from afar,
Who sit upon my daydream's blessed pew,
And light night's darkened pathways as the stars,

With half-truths, bland omissions, outright lies,
I paint the murals colored by success,
To cover over failures, my disguise,
And hide their idol God has yet to bless,

For had I told the truth and never lied,
Those precious few would see and nod their heads,
Acknowledge my ejection justified,
Accept their children's love for me as dead,

For any food that fails to carry taste,
Is cast aside as utter worthless waste.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

When I walk on
the treadmill roads
Intended
by my selfish feet
****** thy hands into my soul
and Yank
misused
marionette strings

reverse my decisions
inverse my positions
delightfully
discordantly

refract
your light into mine eyes
that blinded I may see
with humbled mottled clarity
thy boundless charity

transcend my omissions
And mend my revisions
emphatically
radically

do this
with harsh
decided love
protective father smile.
make every step
I feebly take
worth your matchless while

rehearse my transgressions
transverse my digressions
dramatically
tyrannically

the dance you wield
with tangled strings
shall far exceed
my selfish dreams
so tear, dear father
every whim
devote me
solely
unto Him

An anteroom for his Mistress tended
By a man with empty smiles and sore aches
He slept in the corner while she the bed,
She was his all, his command, his heart-break.
For all her wanderings he never thought
About where she, leaving him, goes off to
A jealous inquisition did lead to naught,
The Mistress would pass without an adieu.
Always poised she, with her victorious pride
Given endless comfort of getting away
With all acts, omissions of wrong and right,
He, a mute never complaining, loving her each day.
   Relationships seldom come without a cost,
   Nigh impossible 'tis for a Slave to have it be lost.

I have memories
of  the often forgotten
dreams that I wake from

                                          Kelly McManus

Put away your tools. I only want you to hear.
Don't try to fix me. I cannot be fixed.
Accept that or not.
Don't question my pain when you have lied to me.
Don't question my instincts when they are correct
And you don't like the answer they find.
All I asked for was the whole truth.
You opted not to give it.
Suffer the consequences the same as I have had to.
Don't try to fix me. I cannot be fixed.
I ache with the emptiness I hold within.
We filled me with pain together
There's room for no more.
Don't ask me to be blind.
I see as I always have.
I cannot swallow the lies and omissions anymore.
I am bloated with them.
I cannot give what I do not have.
I cannot give what you will not accept.
The resentments will follow us unless
We can be truthful.
They consume us.
I cannot ask for what you will not give willingly.
Don't try to fix me. There is nothing left to fix.
Let us build something new with the truth.
Stop hiding and come build with me.
This is how you can help me and help us.

I've said too much, I've lost my head, I've given up
I have nothing left.

The parchment paper rips down your throat.
As you tear your voice down every note,
The word “ihateyou”
**** every song.
A chill in the ear is a bell tones throng.

Believe that somethings wrong, cuz it ******* is! Believe that you're in love, cuz you're a ******* kid!

You cannot hold onto,
Stuffed blankets and pillows,
Live by a matchbook,
Head next to the gallows,
The heat from a sun has now died with the billows.
No air or ox-y-gen is capable resuscitation,
To stoke up this flame from dead coals in this bastion,
Each illusion is frozen by the heat ******* electron.
Division/deviation from a path that I abandon.
The futile, failure, falling to the knees view of a god that I do not cling to.

This songs about existence,
The pain in a distance,
Reminiscent,
Of a horizon,
Built on grandeur and heart omissions.
****** by a necropolis,
Of soul stealing black hole mouths.
Forgotten by its maker,
When the heartless chopped him to the ground,
Fraught with false oaths.

Suburbia disintegrates to ash and leaking gouache.

Bleed out.
Bleed out.
Bleed out.

Karmic omissions saturate the spell
Of which was deserted eons ago
Left overtaken by virulent vines
Seething from how the Almighty's sun shines
They seek to confront everything they can
Within the rhythms of algorithms
In a most preposterous way in day
For the absolute lack of its match
To their steely visions of humdrum
So now, it is finally up to us
To play the now vacant, coveted ***
Our dear God was, before He took the bus

The following
shall be omitted;

Existential dread,
Fear
      of the past
                  present
                       future,
Lack of sovereignty,
Knowledge of evil,
       (Acknowledgement of such)

I couldn’t care less.
Could care less means
you care
          Thus: caring shall be omitted,

Anxiety,
Boundaries,
General thought,
                 omissions must be made

Please retain intelligence
          and a small capacity for
emotion.

Thieving and burglary - deliberate
indulgent, ignorance, waste of opportunities - deliberate
drinking, loose morals, bad company, drugging - deliberate
lazy, stupidity, state dependency in viable health - deliberate
babies for welfare payments, employment avoiding - deliberate
hate, envy, jealousy, lies, slander, crimes, drunkenness - inadequacies
Racism, ignorance, small mindedness, pettiness, belligerence - Low scale inherent characteristics

Betrayal - engineered
Loss of employment and brilliant career ruination - engineered
alone and social isolation - engineered
lack of intimate relationship - engineered
Rudeness, screams, fractured relationship - engineered
economic stagnation - engineered
Physical limitations - engineered

In the woke civilisation of the great Island
Psychopaths Social and structural Engineers march in Red
In raving anodyne tones the entitled ivories do the twist
Please ignore all the listed deliberate glaring omissions above
No! you see in deluded grandeur
Its time for the blame game, its time for the blame game
Its all the fault of the immigrant
who studied and worked to make a better life
especially that black successful one
with everything just going well for him
we didn't boat him on on the Windrush
He's not cleaning our roads or in the factory
He's not fetching and wiping **** in the Hospital
He's not even into crime and supplying our drugs
No! No! No!
He is a leech and  a parasite
He is responsible for our miserable uninspiring life
Comrades, join us, the Revolution is now

They say I suffer, I have pain
How can I, I wonder
when its  all your engineered and dramatized work
of which I am not in the least responsible!
And you know it!
Narcissists, Psychopaths, Depressives, Mentally challenged loonies
We give you your Revolution, please enjoy the spoils!!!

They never understand;
Or ever comprehend
The severity of my decision.
I'm convinced I have control,
Yet those I dearly hold,
Keep hold on their derision.

I know I'll find remission
For commissions and omissions;
My love was never so cold.

She'll say I never loved her;
There always was the other
Stopping us from growing old.

Omissions we make take us somewhere
but where that could be
I've no
clue,
I lose all momentum when friends come to stay
and the talk turns to
what shall we do
tomorrow.

Like
decaying uranium we linger, the fingers of time are our fate,
the half-lives of sinners are longer and get longer the longer they play on my nerves,
inner sanctums are no more a sanctuary
the walls I concreted broke down,
the lions may roar a denial, but something's
going on in the town,
ships sailing at dawn for the Islands
on missions to take them away,
only here for a day gone in sorrow,
in tears on the quayside
I see my
tomorrow.

The future is closer this evening
the day drifts off into the past,
uncertainty is the new reason
I'm glad that's
decided, at
last when the bell starts its long climb
before it falls back down
and chimes
I climbed that tall mountain
so often
and fallen back down
many times.

Hidden behind secret walls,
Within truth it falls,
Omission puts to question,
Hidden answers at discretion,
By dream problems solved,
Secrets paths involved,

Hidden are motives,
Behind are good intentions,
Masks what we perceive,
Hidden through negative actions,
In good faith we believe,
Lies aren't always to deceive,

No truth can satisfy,
Need to keep hope alive,
To understand reason for lies,
Question only the alibis,
Motives often for good,
Only methods can be *******,
Know not all end has should,

This may lead to question,
Is there a good enough answer?
Just know this is not from aggression,
Life of lies is like a dancer,

We hold onto truth as if gold,
All the gold cannot protect us,
Have truths kept harm from a lover?
Secrets could give some cover,
We know truth we must say,
Hide truth only if no other way,

If you lose your secrets,
You lose a part of who you are,
Love must exist without regrets,
Someone has to stay on par,

You can maintain honesty,
Must have a heart of compassion,
Accept others out of courtesy,
Who is wrong when acting of care?
They show passion through efforts,
Are they wrong to not be bare?
Fully in truth brings virtue and despair,

Lies told in a way to please,
Omissions protect many secrets,
Masks give courage and ease,
Secrets are precious when few know,
And everything is good and bad,
All things are needed to grow.

It is the evening of my darkest day,
The day after yesterday,
Preceding tomorrow,
When reality bites with jagged teeth,
Oh my goodness is this real,
Hopefully bring no more sorrow,
A fantasy, no big deal,
Or so she thought,
A question upfront without admission,
Only omissions,
Admitted in rash moments of indiscretion slips,
In a weird weir of tumbling issues,
As tears fall bi-laterally,
Caught in fragile cobwebs mesh,
Sticky,  so they can't escape!
Poetry is his, she is mine also,
Have craved all day for a room,
In which I can deposit my pleasure,
Sharing gifts is our greatest asset,
Him, in mode of ebony,
Me, bathed with angels lights,
Normal MO,
Such a joy to behold,
At the moment roles reversed!
Livvi Kent June 2013

Feel the sensation
Hear the motion
See true vision
Touch Blue Ocean

Look how devotion
Has made provision
And no delusion
Can stop distinction

Life’s set omissions
Has shown directions
And made deliberations
That birth celebrations

Real heart motivation
Create pure liberation
Sense the inspiration
Life applauds determination.
(c) Obukov

How easy to distill the past
sifting out impurities
so a clean silky edge
will soothe another’s tongue.

Serve up what flatters
spit out distasteful lapses
swallow raw memories  
let them sink

deep into the silted
heart of gray.

The lies we
tell each other,
tell ourselves.

We are all revisionists
editing our histories, omissions
catered to the prevailing
whims of taste and culture

until intimacy unmasks us.

I've got whole worlds shaking
a rush of feeling
moving the plates of the planets in my mind
if worlds really exists in there
their denizens are dying
by the thousands
my brain is scrambled and askew
I can't tell truths
I've forbidden lies
I’m left with omissions that rend my insides

It is the evening of my darkest day,
The day after yesterday,
Preceding tomorrow,
When reality bites with jagged teeth,
Oh my goodness is this real,
Hopefully bring no more sorrow,
A fantasy, no big deal,
Or so she thought,
A question upfront without admission,
Only omissions,
Admitted in rash moments of indiscretion slips,
In a weird weir of tumbling issues,
As tears fall bi-laterally,
Caught in fragile cobwebs mesh,
Sticky,  so they can't escape!
Poetry is his, she is mine also,
Have craved all day for a room,
In which I can deposit my pleasure,
Sharing gifts is our greatest asset,
Him, in mode of ebony,
Me, bathed with angels lights,
Normal MO,
Such a joy to behold,
At the moment roles reversed!
Livvi Kent June 2013

and then i stepped to the side
afterwards to the front
as the monitor shone

lights streaking in
omissions
of fingers
and
juxtapositions

imagining lilies
in the hands of someone
who's gone

leaving twenty years
in a wave
that has swept
well-kept lawns

and into the night
i made peace
with the owl that yawns

together we laughed
knowing we are still
prisoners of
that single step

frozen in flight
and done.

I. ending. leaving. over(done). no more. we are dissolved and curtailed. goodbye and i’m not sorry.

II. crying. aching. shaking. breaking. waking up to missing you. i still need you and i’m not sorry.

III. breathing. bracing. hardening. bitter. i hate you and i’m not sorry.

IV. softening. sighing. sweeter, easier. throw you away. i need to do this and i’m not sorry.

V. forgetting. glaring omissions in memory; neglected. don’t think about it. finally concluded - i forgot your birthday and i’m not sorry.

If you observe occurrences in Nature
(The way a stone ripples the water,
The arc of a cormorant descending toward its prey)
You will note a precision in the movements
Which is utterly Pythagorean in its pattern
(Not that the natural world is without its inconsistencies;
The progress of a conflagration, for example, seems entirely random.)
It would seem that such a thing is good;
No, more than that, entirely holy,
All that is necessary and sufficient to prove beyond doubt
That which is equally necessary and central to our belief:
A plan--His plan--which governs all things under the sun.
Such notions, I have found to my considerable dismay,
Do not sit well with viceroys and archbishops,
Who have a vested interest in the maintenance of certain mysteries
(To be fair, they are not evil or necessarily even impious;
They are men, nothing more or less,
And have to navigate perilous, unmapped straits
Between the secular and the sacred; at their appointed time,
They will have their own commissions and omissions to answer for.)
Nevertheless, none of us can escape the certainty
That the root of our faults can be found at our own doorway,
And I cannot deny that the attempt
To reduce God’s works to a schematic of formulas, diagrams and triads
And then, preening and squawking as a peacock,
Trumpet the results to the world
(As if the mystery of faith would be no more
Than a handful of equations and charts)
Is simply the manure of arrogance, the flotsam of sinful pride.
I have had, these past few weeks,
Considerable leisure to pray and reflect;
My thoughts have not drifted, curiously enough,
To the great and sweeping, the grand and all-encompassing
(Perhaps that is due to the whys and wherefores of my current predicament, Perhaps due to the narrow window of my enclosure),
But rather to the most pedestrian of things:
The clarion of the wind in the trees prior to a brief summer storm,
The lover’s dance of the hummingbird and the lupin,
And I am comforted (and, I confess, a bit amused)
By the notion that Our Savior may take a moment from his labors
To watch them as well.

Unlike the feted Ebenezer, our intangible visitors
Are not necessarily seasonal in nature,
Nor do they waft into scene
As the result of our direct malfeasance
(Sometimes the case, to be sure,
But more likely they are the stepchildren
Of our omissions rather than our commissions)
Coming among us not through wanton transgressions,
But the upshot of our mortality
And its associated failings,
And as they glide translucently among us
In this season where the darkness comes so early
(Yet the light clutching the western horizon
For an imperceptibly longer time each day)
Their presence may be somewhat more benign
If we are able to undertake the act
Of forgiving ourselves.

I have memories
of the often forgotten
dreams that I wake from