What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

Silly words like daughter and laughter.
Why isn’t dotter and lafter?
Both, moth and mother are confusing.
It all depends on the way you are using
Those mad silly words in our tongue
More bizarre than between and among.
And, of course there are the oughts
And ought nots of enough and thought.
Shouldn’t one sound per word be
Far less typographical insanity?
I mean someone wound a bandage
Around a wound on an appendage.

It’s just plain silliness of a high order.
You fix food for a boarder, not a border.
You can fish for fish, not sheep for sheep.
And, you can’t daydream if you are asleep.
There’s a rhyme about a wood chucking wood
But he only seems to do it if he would.
A dog can bark at a cat on a roof,
Which can be said either like root or woof.
In Britain anyone can go pound on a pound
In America, ground coffee can be on the ground.
And driving a car now your own can be fined.
But finding a free auto is something of a find.
It makes very difficult to tease other tongues.
Not even if you shout at the top of your longues.

Lately we changed things like light and nite
But, not white, night, knight or blight.
We changed you to one letter, a simple ‘u’.
Now, tell me please, was that so hard to dew?
Oh, wait. I mean due. No, I meant do all along.
The way English is, it’s not hard to do it wrong.
Is it its or is it it’s? It’s dependent upon.
What kind of sentence you have going on.
For example if you have an itch on your ****
It’s on your ****, but I’ tell you what.
It’s itch is its own, and needs no apostrophe.
Just one more view how silly things can be.
So, until later, when things get better
We had better do it rite to the letter.
Oh, wait, that’s wright. No write, no right.
See, I got it rite before the end of the nite.

"It has been weeks, since our last discourse,
The sound of muttered sketch;
Rain-burnt,stained, and course... They are,
So lively, so weighed, and rich...
 
These pale yellow long faces,
‘fore lamp lit well traces,
seem rigid...Unlike my fingertips...
How the days still pass, so right here on course,
Like a steady pool in stream,
Of all our thoughts; our solemn oughts’,
of what might, and should have been.
 
And do you know?
O' what do you know?
of when darkness settles in...
There are from the edges of a turning page,
A distant woe and dew,
Of the mornings when, our nights grew thin,
And my thoughts would be of you!
 
O' dare I how, do dare I speak,
of songs that sound of you...
From far away, O' dare I say,
these times were so but few...
 
I'd linger in rhyme,
In meadows of chime,
In Arts, in words,and songs,
 
Of revolt and freedom..
Of satire and reason,
On dance, on tempo and cue..
But none of them dear,
I solemnly hear,
Do sing my old nightmares adieu ...
But O' do they pry,
My heart for goodbye,
And for parting hereon forgo,
Where there is no reason,
For heartache or treason,
To devil with hearts on in on toe..
So 'wards them sea chamber,
To see mine own paper,
Wet soaked to marrow and stone...
How waters would carry,
The heartaches we'd bury,
To surface, when all else is gone.."

A.r. Bazian
*May 18th, 2014

I'd write you every second in this life that I have lived
you're present in my thoughts much more than I have ever been
With all of these illusions and the subtleties I see
I found you in the presence of the things that I believe
you struck me as a question I had never thought to ask
and left me with a longing for tomorrows that have passed
It doesn't make much sense, today is crippling my head
but what is this existence if you're gone, asleep or dead
I'm only ever sorry for the words I did not say
afraid of what they'd do because I couldn't get away
I kept you in a corner til you learned to disappear
and I would go in search of you to see if you were near
But keeping up your distance, I could only take a chance
for none of this resembles the extent of our romance
I'd put you in my pocket or forget that you were there
we could have been together but I lost you in a stare

Light and dark and drills and drainrods
In several windows where a wind a move
A night shale fall

Once was.

Hovering hooked hands
Hating the alliteration as much as
Unwanted rhyme.

Too inward now
So go out to the different dark
I meant dark only
Dark

And a voice from another room heard not heard
An explanation of something I should think
But moving on as News people say
We hear the distant vehicle with a purposing
Of sorts

And nearer out of sorts a startled cat with clearer explanations
Than the laugh that reassures
From the other room

And upstairs notebooks lying underbed
Incomprehensibly heavy with the tortuous oughts

Of ink.

The past is a taunter, laughing into my back,
And it beckons me wary, to fear
That causes me to be empty and lack,
I don’t know how to respond or what to tell you future,
Things always seem possible from one angle, and shift
Too quickly to reassure,
And spaces between the lines
Are so hard to translate sometimes,
That I guard too cautiously and don’t know how to reply, or how to feel,
How to listen or what to say,
My trail is a confusing way,
A paradox that folds this and there every day.

The past is a taunter, laughing deeply,
Making me think harder than necessary,
Perplexing my mood, and confusing my thoughts,
Changing my mind, and doubting my oughts,
Many things from its laugh it has taught,
It’s the shape of my life, formed into stone,
Never to be altered, it’s made me as I am alone,
And who I am, is lost.

Lost for words,
Lost for thoughts,
Lost for time,
Lost for love,
Lost for hope,
Lost, for no place to go,
Lost, for I don’t know the way,
Lost, for a desire to be found,
Lost, for you to find me,
Lost for you to teach and show me,
Lost for you
For all of you,
Everyone.

Will you discover me?
Probably never;
My past is laughing, hear it,
Then you’ll know.

Funny,
Sad,
Ugly,
Dark,
Evil,
Deep,
Wise,
Idle,
Mischievous,
Expressed in ones and oughts,
Identions into my mind and life,
An aviary of my erratic  thoughts.

In the gutter she sits.
It's raining again.
The drain is calling to the bobbing twig.
The twig that she snapped from the sapling.

She's so bored,mummy's at work again.
Now she's sitting in the rain.
Ripples at the flow with her cheap laced up shoes.
Her shoes all stained with salty water residue.
Kicking at the water.
She truly is her mother's daughter.
Stubborn to the rotten core.
Mother's job is not too pleasant.
She's a pheasant plucker.
She always works on rainy days.
Her daughter knows not what she does.
Mummy says it won't be long.
You know she needs the money.

She oughts go home.
But she'll still be alone.
The owl in the tree at roadside suggests she finds a towel.
Great notion, but little lassie can't speak owl.

The sky's wide open now.
It's pouring frown.
Releasing it's stress.
Wet shoes, wet skirt.
Sodden hair, soggy vest.
Supposes she really should go home.
Her hair's just a dripping mess.
Soggy tresses.

Time to go home little girl.
Mummy may be worried.
(c) Livvi

unbroken things lacking edges,
if we augment our eyes, look close
to see creted places
fractured into

jagged edges/
Jagged edges prove the brokenness

the brokennesses prove the whole,

not that the whole was finished then as it is now.

Which phor you living for?
Of course,
the discourse of madness
self-improvement

DIY gettin' past crazy for good.

There is a crazy place, way past any we imagine,
crazier than hell, by virtue
of the fact

ya' gotta go through hell t' get there.
Practically every sage from Moses to Mises,
says that's the price we pay

for ignoring those chances, op portune tidbits of time,
to pay attention to
everything at once,

and see what seers have always said's truistic,
we find what's sought.

If nought were sought,

what did we miss?

Missing
Nothing,
ought not that
be enough to carry on with
for now?

Fret not, oughts are nullifed here,
it's a pretty crazy place.
Nothing's broken.

No Man is A Victim

Can it be, and do I mean it?

It’s a phrase that came to mind,

And so I looked it up.  

One harmed or killed by so-called fluke;

One duped or tricked;

One who feels helpless faced with setback:

So I  chose the last to help.



There’s truth in fate that causes earthquake,

And one’s sole concern’s escape.  

That is a victim.

Then again,

One is alive, glad to survive.

Grounds to begin

Because one can!



But what about

The ones who feel useless in the face of sense,

Interpreting all happenings

With sadness, negativity and impotence,

Downhearted from the very start?

You’ve known a few. Me too.

Perhaps it’s you,

And what to do –

The problem philosophical, pragmatic, existential.

And, if one’s inclined, then spiritual.



Start a something, anything, for life’s a skill.

Good comes from bad, calm follows ruin;

Results come from what’s had or been;

And nothing lasts forever.

One’s endeavour is to strive,

For one’s alive.  

Remember that you’re clever!



Act as if you have a choice

And make one – with your tiny voice.

Summon up your forces,

For of course, they’re many.

Do not hurry.

Lives are scurrying around you.

Do not worry,

For the ‘musts’ and ‘oughts’

Are values of society,

Not boo-choo, cry

Or future you.

No Man Is A Victim 9.30.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II;Nature In & Of Reality;Definitely Didactic II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Arlene Corwin Poetry.com

Wrench the tide,
And sail her not.
Of high set Moon,
And papered thought.
The tested weights,
Of self serve oughts.

It's time to turn the heal.


With splinter pulled,
And darkened lace,
So distant now,
And out of place,
Should fade connections'
Pretty face?

The least-of-alls will feel.

Can't dare to close my eyes
Filled with pain, sadness and sorrow
Trembling till the tears resign
Afraid of what i might see when i follow
The train of my thoughts ***** by the hurricane
Of this life that's only just a game
The winner oughts to be heartless
But we're all helpless now that
Love, friendship, war and wealth
Remain the utter preoccupations
Of our unfortunate generations.
Disguised creatures invade our dreams
And leave us slaves to their schemes
Smiles erased from all faces
Dragged to unfamiliar, dark places
Tied to their muddy fingers,
Carried by cheap linkers.

*a bit depressing but still..

The plan-tackle Wretcheds
The treat-splintered Hodes
The monkey Non-lifters
That seize oft the holes

For them, did I back-break
For them, did I glean
To fill face-less Shifters
And grifting Untweens

Soon settle my Upstakes
Soon twiddle my Oughts
I less waste my Enjeans
I less waste my thoughts

No longer line Sprockets
To satsply their greed
I've lit my own rocket, now
I'll grow my own Need

fevered little saucer
lover's little pet
found the ****** stirring
found a matching set

live to tie the bedsails
love the perfect knots
leave the after glowing,
saddened by the oughts

take me in the binding
fake me in the pleads
beg for rougher handling
leave me on the knees

fevered little saucer
lover's little plate,
found Your ****** perfect
I'm Your soul to sate

I gave it my all
That’s what you said to do
You said one hundred and ten percent
So I did it for you

That was fine
I was alright
Until someone else said those same words
Again, again, again

I thought I could handle it
At first
But slowly I drained myself
Like a battery

You gave me handshakes and high-fives
Awards and degrees
Certifying my excellence
Molding my existence

I pushed myself
I met my deadlines
I did what you said
I did what all of you said

After a time
All of me was poured out
Scattered
Empty

Everything I had held
Fell broken and scattered
And frantically I tried to rebuild it
From what was left

My hands shake as I try
To put the pieces back in order
A desire, a compulsion
To control my storm

Anything
Everything
Hold it together
Hold something together

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
Echoes in my mind
As thoughts spin and whirl
A tornado of expectations

I should…
But I can’t…
Well of course not
You’ve been drained for years

“Shoulds” and “oughts”
The poison in my thoughts
I just wanted to do what you said
To show you I had listened

I always had something to prove
I still do
But now it’s not about you
It’s about me

Now, I excel when I can
When I want to
If I don’t,
It was my choice

I don’t care what you think.
I value your opinion
But now I also value my own
I know my limits

There is so much me to explore
I can’t believe I let you drive so long
I missed out on me
And so did you

So when you say to give it my all,
I might
I might not
That’s my choice

I know how much of me I have to give
Only I can portion my time
You don’t know everything
I am strong, and I have limits

I have the power to say, “no”
When you ask to take from me
But I also can say, “yes” graciously
Knowing that I don’t need it

See, that’s what’s changed
I know what I need
I don’t rely on your knowing better
Because I can decide for myself

Rather than giving everything my all,
I give it my best
Knowing that I need to save some for myself
A bit of extra bandwidth in reserve

This way, you don’t own me
But I can offer myself to you
I can still give with grace
But I can withhold with wisdom

I give it my best

I've watched you countless nights and days.
Don't know your name but seen your face.
I've seen you cry and smile and laugh.
You are the One, my better half.

I know your likes your shoulds and wants.
Your musts, your wonts, your oughts and donts.
Your dreams and fears, your tears and hopes.
Your ups and downs, your slippy slopes.

I've heard you breathe, choke up and sigh.
Listed the things that make you cry.
I've watched you work, and rest and sleep.
I've felt your pain like bones deep.

To you I 'm not a that or this.
I won't be a thing you'll ever miss.
A mystery only is what I am.
For you I'm none I'm just a ****.

2020 - day 193 part 2

Sunday, July 12, 2020
2:54 PM

We all have won, more than once. We know
the waay it feels soo right.
Dare and do, theyoostasay,
Jah, today, I ask
what gives,

what takes away the fear of death the young ones hold,
as their, from your authorized sen' ones, human right,
right by
righteous statements, SOP
standard op procedures,
like war on TV, in the sixties.
Survived
to face
five fold ministers, now all prophecying doom to me,
the heresy shaping up,

for war with the hated haters of him who hates

iniquity, hates
a false balance, hates
a false witness; and it stands to reason, here is safe.

Here is no condemnation, by virtue of you being here.
Were there condemnation here,
could you imagine Jesus's will, in you, being done

out there,
in the open, no walls, no closets, no phobias, no neurosis
not psychosis

okeh. This day, this far, we agree, we are alive, we are finding
meanings common all our lives,
meanings we knew were lies being left to test our will to

use the freaking force, LUKEOUT!

Lookout-
Never works, nor do light sabers,… words work
light sabers never better than lightning,
except in weapons that may be imagined, if any thing is possible,
you know it is, '' before you believe it is.

This is war. This tuning in to feel the fear of death shackling children,
with the same old stories,

amplified by more than one could think or ask,
once upon a time.

Wish to catch the magic fish,
lust to find Allasdenof readers who knew Mohammed
never learned
to read,

they say, I wouldn't know. If there were no history.

There are still stories tucked just so into stories,
everybody knows.

The experience, we being, being the crowd for crying out loud,

we got it. life is good. we feel… we feel… wrong
we know
ever is never like now… somehow we
think we do, inky do say
listen
the story is the story you tell, you know.
push and shove, twist and pull

patty cake, paddy cake, baker man, putemintheovenfasasucan

the religious thought was linked to truth, eu means joy ye ken?

eudaemonia, as a state, is governed a we, a we we may see as ours

- go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways and be likewise

Take y'given tangled web, 'twas gifted to our fathers,
by others who did not know
the blessing in giving more, taking less. The spirits
in the gin,
then in the ***, then whiskey, rye whisky in little
brown jugs,
I wuvoo
I do, little blue legal chick in 1970, just before
biome me mem meme fall

all ye outs back in. We got a session with the judge, it seems
there is an accuser, after all…

this maybe so sayer say Jesus is a liar, like untrue to you
if yo u never swore to never be foresaken, left
alone
to witness the workings of chaos in order effectually see-ing
all things
all
all thing functioning as was this one day, today, in my future,
yur jes' now

just so, 2020 tech can do this trick. Watch

misty? as the angel was heard to say, with a stutter, re
read {could be latinate, its no code, just words
be-a-ing being as human as humanly possible,

while standinderundersogreatacloudof witnesses linked

to this one idea. Truth is free.
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
ሴ ሴ ... _ .


Never ending quest, is that thought a curse?

Your answer changes next.

These are words redeemed after my 69th year breakdown…
weaponized,

we won. That is the good news. False witnesses project reasons
for war;

we remain the evidence of things unseen, ignite a spark,
ignor it only by lying to the bit of you

that has the knack to imagine striking a spark,
in the darkest dark ever described,
fitted to fear receptors liganded to legendary necessary lies.

There was a war where there was no blood to shed.
The war for the power to make history,

History of leaders followed for goodness sake, goods to take,
stories to modify,

Balzac claims tres bon, 1, 2, 3, 4… ave maria oh, weahhh

out in the fictionized foam of all the stories ever known

being Kevin Bacon linked, 6 to 1, the magnificent seven

so 3 plus 7, 10 to 1, better odds, take 3 chances 4 times.

If any thing can fall it falls.
any thing that can shake, shall; and so on, amen.

Magic words spoken with no sense of any power having

master and commander authority to utter an actual amen, and

see this is as we say, what we got. Many idle amens, it’s a mess.

---
2020 the great controversy creeps up - I refused to catch
the magic fish bait,
I am open to any temptation

I say, with all the awshucks authoity awoud fuds

The grace of goodness itself--perse the real deal, does not fade away.
ሴ ሴ ... _ .

Three is the ready, steady, go,

steady accumulation of attending to take
the granted

virtue to effect trans formation
chaos to order algorithms

rhyminwhyman, whykill… whykry radio
man
five by five still alive

four point solid-ity it-ness

stack the stones, edify edu cate, straight
as model in the pat from first point
second, to third to you
through the wall that never was there

point, game set.
Any triggered hate, fires the alarm.

The idea that is the accuser side of
aitia ai ai ai loops,

is as the thing the ancients name the
accuser of the saints.

The "you ain't nothin'"
Then come the bots in legions of oughts
overcome ing one
spark
oh
you had to have seen it
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
ሴ ሴ ... _ .

rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa  soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.

Troubles,
Oh, I got troubles.

I double down
I clown a round

I got a lot
A lot of troubles

I dare myself
I hope for wealth

And still am here
With all my troubles

I read my books
I payed my bills

And think my mountains
Think them, hills

I had a friend
I had a few
I had so many
None like you

I gave them pass
I closed my doors

I gave them mine
But never yours

I hope one day
That we can meet
In a bar
In a street
You and I digress, discreet
You and I who met one day
Passing torches on our way

Times did change
Lives we lived

You moved on
And Still I hid

Though the distance
And the years
All the drownings of our tears
And the oughts
The things we did
Things of nought
The things we hid

Small the world

Made of trouble

Made
of waiting

Made
to rubble.

Initially
        he thought to
        bring sight to the Blind
                       Desiring OsIris or
                       Evoke E(see)kiel
        
        But he looked in a mirror
               and couldn't see
                                      his self
         His mirror
         betrayed him
         transparent, anti-Narcissus
         he was

         Now
         he feels he has
         too              much
                    V  i  s  i  o  N
                                            his (soughts) self(s)
                     go in one             (thoughts)
                        eye and             (oughts)
                               out
                               the other
he, So Self-Aware, scares his mirror
                               wHEre
                               Who
                              (did) you see            then
                               Do                             now
                                                                 becoming
                                                                 tomorrow . . . ?

you are stranger than me,
but only
to others,
you cradle my facets
with silk

you're the waver of tone,
you deafen
and smother,
but just as they parallel
my will


you're my taunt's
favorite tease,
you're my ten millionth please,
you're my predator
unable
to ****


you're the rest
of my thoughts,
and my unhindered oughts

you're the shine,
and it's moon,


you're the still

Beauty in still motion.
Eyes unopened.
Move slowly,
crouch lowly,
brush lips,
against your fingertips,
calm down,
you'll be around.
I must leave
can't believe,
roll in the sheets,
until we meet,
it's in my head,
while you're in my bed,
want to cry,
need to pry, my hands away
from the day,
it can all be changed
out of our range.
The mind is deranged.
Can't be blamed,
for the unsaid
and the way I led,
the thoughts and oughts
and now I'm caught in a web
as the undead often are
and the treadmill of moments
in your car
pass
Incessantly,
while you are ******* me.
To my surprise,
I am comprised,
of these feelings
that aren't appealing,
that force my knees to regress
and my heart to stress,
that it's not okay
to have your way
because I can be molded into a flower
that is nice to smell,
But eventually,
fell out of reach

Fog billows over to company, drear,
Of the sad wide river, armadas of mud
Charged to go forward yet locked as they appear,
Where I am in constant motion, confined to constriction.
Noon is never as bleak as it is now
Growing ever darker
With bags beneath its eyes
And the shining sun a novelty
A flag of finitude the morning star flies.
Take up the banner since this land is conquered
Emblazoned in every miserable seam,
The mark of tragic mien.
And if this is my greeting into the world,
Surely it’s my way out,
Awakened and forced to the blurry line
Between the oughts and desires against
From here to dreams, then permanence
No other want plagues them, also, like this.
Then I’m in the company I can call my kin
Who shall greet me as I greet the day:
Et panem meum, et fratrem.

Come! Swim with me in the shallow waters
Feel froth and grit compete between your toes.
Come! Mess about and splash without a thought to
The 'shoulds' and 'oughts' , the tensions and the woes.
It's busy here and lively at the sea's rim;
Old folk dip and children come to play.
The foam is soapier at the sea's brim.
Come! Let us wash all traces of the grey.

Come ! Deeper now. Let's swim in calmer water;
Feel depth's support and lie along its back.
Beyond you is the deepest, darkest ocean:
We know it's there, we smell its salty breath.
It's awful in its dreadful, fatal power
That emulates the ebb of life - and death

Old paths never cobbled

float stones, over the years.
Through the winter each day I walk
or drive this trail,
I moosh down the mud and deep
down ought or else pushes back and

water takes the waymaker function,

path of least resistance,
coming up.
Hydraulic pluerosis pops a stone into my path.

An old stumbling stone, new position.
Kick'em out the way, see watcha find

Certain con
tained
coils of oughts thought steps as
rungs from
Bethel to where Jesus says the Kingdom
of right use right-e-o-us
righteo.

come hell or high water
A.
Lor' willin', if the creeks don't rise
B.
you trust your kenotic self to flow, least re

sist dance

A. or B. Either opens the gate,

t'm'yaad, eden bydemnation namin' imps.

Clouds of could'ves push-crash

---
dis ap
proven re
proven re
al itynessification.

judge you, I judge me and we judge each
the other,
I am first reader, I and my muse and the manual dexter/sinister
skill with the maigi
tech
(I key far faster than hemingway two finger typed,
if he did, like on tv)

I correct me, I was trying and, by trying doing.
Earlier in life I magined one sneaky lie true
because it came from
Yoda,
wise entity telling Luke,
there is no try only do,

maybe for Alienated Jedi minds, not mine,

mine works if I try to do and do, so trying and doing
is done at once.
Okeh. An earlier exploration was tainted by my wish

to be seen wise in relation to an imaginary
depicted fiction seen as the source
of base level words chock full o'
wisdom... nuts... Yoda was never real.

C'mon, gimme the old American

Try again. Emulate Socrates and Jesus,

sorta comboish,
Old Ben says it worked for him,

Kenosis-like. The thirteenth step in
In Ben's
experiment in thinking as an
American might, in the future,

relative to then.

People still read the
Auto-biography of Ben, right?

A proverbial treasure buried long ago
for you.

---------

Blame me
Irrationally
Can I even blame you?
We are only machine
Built to do
Constructed for doom
Geared toward lust
Selfish not just

Hide in the shame
But all are the same

The battle forever rages
Between words and thoughts
Thoughts that are heinous
And words that are "oughts"

Hide in the shame
But all are the same

To deny your animal
Is almost criminal
When you know you lie
Or at least try
To believe you are good
In this world of darkness
But it's understood
That the black artist

Engraved and innate
Seething with hate
With love only for
The mindless carrier

Hide in the shame
But all are the same

Imagining ever being

Some thoughts are being thought oughts
to the profit of many

leavers of things being fine, so far
as some say

I, you, we, this being

smoothed, anointed with oil, lotion of leela,
game of spiritual beings, possibly,
lubricating

rough edges, jagged, craggy edged peaks, proud
protrusions from the core
whence iron shall be pounded leaving
wasteland scars,
scabbed over magma squeezed
from the under

standing place. status quo. quo vadis

very true, new and improved, both, at once

incredible. Trials as acts accepted, allowed past

these are id-eal, id-e-al, ob
vious rightvious

trustworthy courteous and kind

knowing not one unknowable thing

then a new knowable
offer spirtual meeeeeemes remaining

semi-whole
Yester to Day, the one we aimed at for
next step into
ever

Can you hear me now, this is whole,
partly.

touch me. is this gooder?

....
exceptions to the rule
inceptions from the tool

perception from the wise
deception through the lie

conception of love, too far bound to measure

my AI imagines I may, as in, my will is empowered
to touch a virtual button,
acting as a trigger

and fire a Julesvernian moonshot through reality

for a second
chance.

How many times can you imagine finding a magic word.

Uttering it is, possibly, what that crow is doing right now,
pulling, drawing my intention to mention

aitia as a big old idea some early author set in stone,

a point in time and space, and act acommpli
once,

aitia accuse and cause, think think

we can
imagine anything we can imagine, we can realize
the happiest place on earth
or
we may say this here is that happiest place,
and next is even better,

smoother, slicker, less friction, more intentional
kind touches and sweet tastes and scents past words.

Not knowing where you’re going
Not knowing what you’re owing
Makes life tough
Thought you’d made a choice
Believed fate heard your voice
It’s not enough
Life’s become a test
Not knowing where you’re going
Not knowing if you’re owing
Never able to rest
Did you fail the test?
You ask the question
There is a suggestion
Of mediocrity in your thoughts
Endless shoulds and oughts
The fate of human beings
Not trusting, never seeing
Troubles, fleeting glory
It’s a never ending story

Some prefer tattoos
Others puff smoke
Some look forward to outdoors
While sipping diet coke

Some prefers music
Befriended their souls
Others sweat like buckets
Running through the cold

There are people who dance vividly
In the heat of the morning;
Others lurk upon the shelves
While others enjoy travelling.

Some picked their families
Above everything else
Others decultivated their passion
To proceed on the wedding bells

Faked smiles and friends
Others put agenda above self
But some acts like the sun
And others dwell in asteroid belt

Some shoot all night
While some prefer to pass
Some placed their brains ahead
While feelers put their head last

There are some who aged like wine
Others spoiling like milk;
Some hearts are built like a stone
While some hearts are made of silk

There are polar opposites
But they know how to dwell;
And some similar objects
That oughts to repel.

I stay in the forest
Because there is
Nowhere else to go
I look out of the trees
And nowhere seems
To be the way

I think it's for the best
Not knowing where's
Where death will grow
Let time calm and freeze
Natural dreams
Cast you away

I know my way out
My path inside
Is out of mind
Through misplaced words
Cluttering thoughts
And seas of white

I wander about
Somewhere to hide
Nothing to find
What never comes up in records
And what oughts
To be out of sight