open the door
a man stands there with a smile
the package he passes
is not on my Christmas list
that doorway sure is no chimney.

shaking, frightened, it's finally time
alone, i unfasten the bag,
as if it's the first brithday
that my grandma is no longer with us.

this was the most expensive present
i have ever received
although the grantor is no ******* Santa Claus
&
that instant i recognize
my existence
lies in these jars.

i outwitted mother nature
if i begin consumption
i live

if not well.....*How Will It End?

"Being Processed Overload", doesn't come with many benefits, when your already tolerant of one thing, and one single thing...ONLY...!
By any chance, what do you think that one single ONLY thing is...?
Well, it's nothing more than what's come beforehand, or afterwards...
After all, what becomes fully "silence" at the end of the day, is nothing more than what is generally written, or seen, or even displayed (fully), "between the lines".... And it won't make a single slither of sense, unless your willing (to give yourself that one single "affordable" chance), to not be in a state of "Processed Overload", anymore!
Implying, that the most obvious results ("had"), and ("will"), always hide from deep within the states in-between the things that "can be seen", and the parts (of those very "things", that for some strange reason haven't fully yet been discovered), had remained entirely significant in part towards those very things that..."can't be seen"). Hiding, (when you least expect them to do so).
So, the whole point of being processed overload, is the very claim, that you are witnessed to something that can't be entirely seen... Or else, you'd become entirely "Overloaded" with too many processes!
When you’re already dealing with enough as it is... Especially when those very states in-between are hard enough as it is to see ("from within"), to begin with.
It's a full contact sport (when life get's significantly rough for your own eyes to become terribly outwitted by all that processed overload)!
It's when a totally realistic testament for truth (in itself), when being faced with so much, (without enough benefits to help you grab hold onto what's entirely tolerant that comes and goes either beforehand, or even afterwards...) Eventually speaking, it is the very basic lesson of things being entirely...ruled out.
So, it doesn't keep sticking too you, like a VERY BAD THORN IN YOUR SIDE! Forevermore telling what you should and should not do. And lastly, forcing you to see reason, as nothing more then for "control" to be seen as a pure...illusion.
While being so discouraged of (once being able to see from within, "at one moment" beforehand, then entirely fully dropping afterwards, when met with yet another, "specific moment", that most important...)
This most potential realization, (if at all you have caught onto it by now, of simply being so, where you'd learn from it, as who knows...you haven't particularly been doing it to begin with, as of yet...) Then, it's safe to say, that (while you try and try some more, eventually coming around to some type of partially known/partially unknown progress being involved...), doesn't exactly mean there's a type of significant progress in your failures, (for simply being able to understand).
You understand because you think you've made progress with the main issue, which is now clear for...ALL TO SEE!
Then suddenly out of the blue, (and as if it hadn't already been obvious enough...) Things start eventually becoming baseless. Coming to a very abrupt "fixated" halt!
But that doesn't actually mean you have seen (and then most prominently, "recognize") "why you do it!" Which forces you to start believing that everything is truthfully..."unclassified." Enabling everything (you once held dear).
Typical beliefs (within your own once secured belief system), now suddenly become...flawed!
Since the only expectation, was other's approval (apart from your own). And if you’re not able to see what is obviously in the states from in-between, then you’re literally going to see a one-sided viewpoint of everything for the remainder of your life. Controlling you in a pure illusion... From never explicitly being able to see (the other half of that entire viewpoint), with a straight open-mind.
Meaning, lifestyles will remain forever warped!
And your own lifecycle will continue to both shift drastically. Which in tune will remain as the very same dramatic "repeat", forevermore!
For the lack of reason that slowly but surely keeps both flowing inward, and outward... But not in the right type of recognition for your very self to both handle with careful consideration towards that very recognition, or for that very basic of acknowledgements just so you can handle yourself as you make your way through the different "fields full of clutter" (that seem to forevermore block your sights from simply being able to see clearly), with careful consideration...for your own identity to bear!
Because at the end of the day, identity (especially one that is trying to ALWAYS find different ways to sense, then fail here and there...)
Is nothing more than a tired effort...full of such actions...that keeps significantly turning into consequences...full of doubt.
(However, it may never be real doubt happening, when the consequences are just blaming you for your past, AND present faults of a tired effort that can't use their own actions very well anymore, when you’re also not seeing clearly again, anymore, either). Except, when your own presently perfect and overused (always in the limelight) doubt that of course, starts "sugar-coating" the very truthful actions (when you know you obviously already did something wrong), with nothing more than a good old dose of...guilt! Your regular and normal perception of things becomes utterly...twisted! Mangled! Bent out of shape! Stringing you up and wrapping you ever so tightly! Abruptly popping out a random pitiful bow (like on a present) full of both negativity and unprecedented bad luck on top of an entirely disfigured and misshapen present! (Not to mention the very wrapping paper that had become this HUGELY distorted pattern, that influences you in such a wrong sort of way, because again... So, you won't see clearly!) Until there was nothing left but...silence!
Silence at the end of the day, is seeking pleasure (in the moment of doubt, which significantly amplifies guilt), without taking the necessary time to fruitfully take noteworthy details into account...), that you truly have been "duped" this entire time...by your already currently corrupted self...who had been entirely "compromised"...long ago!
(And here's the very sad, and worst part... You didn't even see it happen....) Totally not your fault. It's just lives very bad tempos full of those constant rhythmic beats (that turn entirely into HUGE gimmicks that detests the very pattern...), which doesn't become soiled...when it's (even worse then EVER before), where the very beats have been already weeping alongside your own strides full of hesitant footprints that don't relate to the same old size shoe of the many lookalikes of footprints that followed after the other.... Almost as if everything then started with a beat full of such a rhythm (that came and went, as it naturally would). Then become suddenly confused when it's nothing more than for the sensation/feeling to become abruptly filled...as an everyday common joke. Then...for a pattern literally too weep alongside moving forward ever so gently, (by gently striding with the slightest of common footsteps you could literally muster, where there's no such accumulation where everyday common footsteps could be seen...) But here's the catch (which comes with a GREAT kicker involved...), where you can seriously see it from within, (and not entirely from the outside of yourself). Which entirely distorts this very meaning to begin with.
Even if you had... It had already been too late! When you were truthfully blinded from the very...START!
If only whatever comes (beforehand), or fully starts tolerating the (state that comes beforehand), where the (state of coming afterwards), then of course comes...after, (that which "what is beforehand"), is then helpful enough in being simply portrayed as nothing more...than what you could have already fully expected.
Except, when you anticipate something even more wrong...because your very own expectations (about the very main situation at large/involved), had become unsteadily stranded for dear life. Drifted away, since the very compatibilities didn't match up correctly. (And while being potentially forevermore left adrift without so much as a single change of scenery, (since you'll always stay the same...) Because you simply didn't know how too! Or even worse, being so processed overload, that you have let everything grow around you like this constant "Underbrush"!
An Underbrush seems to always be full of such twists and turns! Overly protruding vines that both poke and ****, according to your very own limitations wasting away the only strength that you held bear for so long... You are just lucky enough...you had lasted this long...! A truest claim among such miracles, that can only tolerate itself long enough...before it truly realizes what's been in front of it's very self (this entire time). And at which time...forces you to again, realize (and then sadly force you to then in its entirety, to acknowledge...), at just how much you've been in the "wrong"...this entire time....
Which in doing so, HEAVILY influences the very reasoning right out from under your own logic, which makes your own reason EXPEL that very logic, and just...throws it directly straight out the window like it's some yesterdays unimportant choice of reasoning! (Even going as far as to then look at it like it's pure...trash!)
(When today, it isn't truly looked at as the very center of one's own ordeal!)
I mean, of course it is...but your now stuck in that very illusion, (where now thinking control is this very illogical, negative, immoral, etc.), piece of obstructed, and nonsensical piece of doo-doo! ...And that isn't right about ANYTHING! Except, for what you have yet to ("properly see").
Guilt then (forevermore) forms into doubt...and the same lifecycle repeats, repeats, repeats...REPEATS! Until it had ****** YOU DRY! Of every type of energy reserve, you had (within yourself), in order to now begin compensating the very same structure of energy again, (in your very self, by simply using back-up energy reserves, or whatever "juice" was left from those previously already still presently being ****** dry/infected energy reserves that had already been literally either fully, or at the very least, nearly ****** DRY in itself!), of everything it held within it's personal possessions from both ends of the same spectrum.
Just so you can then simply "use" in order to clear away the many obstructions that have spread FAR AND WIDE...!!!
But word of both warning, and that of course of...caution.... Is that it's not going to be some easy and sane type of task, where you are able to just miraculously cleanse...EVERYTHING!
Just so you can then become (even more) an inner victim of your own already corrupted self.
"Being Processed Overload", is a state of INTENSE "ramifications"...of being filled with an already unrecognizable consciousness!

a coffee shop
a normal saturday morning
i wait at the speckled counter
and count the deformed donuts with sickened reassignment
a little girl is sitting at a diner table to my left
she stares at me with awe and darts up
handing me a picture she looks right at me with glee
“oh wow did you make this?” i ask
in the way an adult talks to a child
she nods and i say “this is great
do you draw a lot?”
she shakes her head no
“well you should” i say
and she, laughs and says
“no, i don’t need to do it more.
it doesn’t matter
i do it when i want to
i just like to”

i think of the way the little inflections upon her talk
mirror in my mind the voice of camus
you are not just what you do
you are more than the opportunities in your environment
absurdity arises in the aperture between you and the world
the world is real but the choices it allows
how can you exist when they close around you
from all sides, like a test from hell—i mean school
we have to choose a b c d
it doesn’t give a human space to breath—i mean, be

what i’m saying is
i’ve been washed up into the land
you go to when the fairies die
i’ve learned to lie with a very straight face
i’ve been had by the dollar bill
and in some twisted way
i only work for the prize these days
and still i’m willing to admit
a child outwitted me
and i’d rather it be that way
because sometimes i need to be put in my place
while rational and logical and adult
i have been living without being
and she
has tripped the strings
attached to the knots in my fingers
and my throat
this poem, i owe it to her

There was once a fox, a fox whose name had gone unknown, but nevertheless was in truth all on its own.
With a pelt of fire and auburn, and eyes deep and serious,  it was no doubt why so many considered the fox "mysterious".
Yet, this tale is different, and I will tell you why, this fox was not like the rest, he sought to be like the wolves- twas' no lie.

He envied their beauty, their ability and strength, in fact his admiration went on to a fractured great length.
He would try to howl and change his stature- hell even his look, it was a matter of great indifference, but try as he might- no matter how long it took.

In time, after so much effort he took to the wolf, they welcomed him and never knew his story, pride and arrogance he was engulfed.
He followed and lived as one for the while he was deceived, but after all the time had past, disgust and mockery from all other animals was what he received.

It was only when the wolves outwitted him and made him a fool, that they chased him and slandered him, oh, the treatment had been cruel.
Now the fox understood why animals each held their own class and identity, when he realized then why he was meant to be.

A fox he was and would always stay, to the start of his life to the finish of his decay. Yet, he was reminded of why foxes were special, it was because they were no one else; it was stupid to compare, whether it be lion or mouse.  He saw beauty in an idol of its own, he became so mesmerized and driven, that even his heart he disowned. He saw no beauty in himself, when really all others did, that now his respect and dignity was so pitifully dead.

Though he admired the wolves and tried to seek them without end, let it be known fame and popularity is a horrid trend. So there are others greater and have more to do, but have you ever considered they may wish to be you?

Like the fox who wanted to be a wolf,  but in time fell too much in greed, be careful of the lies you choose to follow and take heed! Because not every beautiful face is as kind and free, be happy you are You and can declare "I am me."

❥

The Swedish Tax Authorities
were sure they had their man.
He owed a lot of kroner
They saw through his crooked plan.
When he got out of intensive care
He wouldn't get too far.
No one escapes the tax man.
Like death, their grip is sure.
The suspect's heart was failing
and no replacement could be found.
It was either a jarvik Seven
or he was destined for the ground.
Doctor's worked for hours
His life was in their hands.
He had the cash to pay them
about one hundred grand.

An artificial heart was placed
in his chest cavity
to replace his own
which had been starved
of the oxygen hearts need.
The tax man thought to nab their prey
as soon as he came around.
His attorney said " Unhand him,
a loop hole I have found!"
"Per Swedish law a man is dead
when his heart has ceased to beat.
You are barred from prosecuting
a man who is deceased."

While the Tax men sorted out
this novel defensive line
The man fled to a haven
where he enjoyed the fruits of crime.
He dined out on the novel tale
of how he and only he
outwitted death and taxes
and obtained immunity.

It is said, to overcome and conquer and enemy,
You have to know him better than you know yourself.

This enemy I know well.

He plays on me to my strength,
but I will not be drawn in,
enticed by,
or seduced in this intellectual exchange,
a battle of the soul’s wit.

He encamps around about me
picking at the scabs of my many afflictions
until they bleed out my many transgressions and memories displaced.
He knows my innermost secrets.

He hides in the shadows of my fallacies articulating my intentions,
plotting on my next move.
He strikes with malice in his right hand,
and with fear and intimidation in his left
releasing the venom of self deception,
paralysis to my self, esteemed.

He knows me well; falling back into the abyss
of my many false realities created by my conscious,
he
knows
me.

In the end I count my losses, bludgeoned by defeat, but
his miscalculations has not seen the prophecies foretold as
I have sewn seeds of new life in the fields of my emptiness.

This is a warring encounter unrelenting,
fighting me to my end.
Although outwitted by my ingenuity,
He attempts to still chain, restrain and defame my life to be,
but I will not give in.

I know my nemesis
very
well.
For he, is me…

My own worst enemy.

© 2013

King Herod has ordered the death of our boys yet again/ Afraid to be outwitted he must **** them before they become men/ Start with their diets, poison their bodies with fake food/ Then poison their minds with tempting tunes/ Your 2yr old doesn't hear the reaper in the speakers/ When the pusher pushes the idea that "young ****** outta move dope" it's genius/ no at home teachers/ so they reach us/ in a place we feel parents can't connect/ what they are starved of at home they settle and accept/ from others to fill the void/ I'm not saying keep them from music but teach them the difference between that and noise/

Collectively I feel broken, but I know I am just a little bent out of shape. Feeling more, mirroring less, and yet caring so little. You are as nice as you can be, but you feel like you want to break everything around you. You fear only the pain and consequences of these actions, so you loosely think about it knowing you are stoic. I resume writing this only to make sure my feelings are clear. I love few things in this world, and fewer people. I don't hate anyone, but I hate things. I can't really be amused unless I let myself be open, and I can't really be open without being with people I consider above a certain level. I am selective, I am rude, and I am overall a bad person. I want to help people, but I am too lazy to ask if anyone needs aide. I can't even correct the fact that I am lazy. I can't correct my life without love, but I can't even admit it to myself. I can't convince myself that love is logical enough to be important. I hate the concept of my heart being right over my brain and it is crushing my concept of reality knowing what my heart has to say. I feel butterflies in my stomach, but I am not thinking about anyone. My heart is letting me feel the rush that it wants. To bring me back down it is crushing me with depression and guilt. I can't even keep things to myself, subtly I leave clues about what is going on, and I can't ever keep it to myself for long given my company. I am arrogant in the sense that I feel I can't be outwitted. My heart is cruel, my head is egotistical, and my body can't take it anymore. Love is the only equalizer, but love is unattainable when you can only sit at home. I don't know what I am doing here, listening to my heart is giving me a headache. As I feel neglected, my emotions feel like I am neglecting them. Whatever course of action I take is the wrong one, and I am convinced of that. My heart can't fit on this screen, yet my life could fit in a book.  I sit around and play league as my social status decays under the fact that no one even tries to talk with me that I care about. The people I don't even have interest in seem to be the most interest in me. The people I just barely don't hate want to make my life hell, and the people who care don't seem to see past the fake smile I put on every day. I can't expect the world out of people around me, but I also can't expect results from no actions. What I want in my life outside of love isn't much. Laying in bed at night, the only solitude I have is hugging a blanket to make up for all of the contact that I don't have. I can't write anymore of this, later maybe. Good luck, me, try and get yourself out of a self-inflicted hell.

Memories,
Nothing but just an old trick.
The past,
Crammed with both agony and fear
Dignity is condemned from the outwitted.

Memories,
Nothing but just a recurring nightmare.
The future,
Hindered by unresolved guilt and shame.
Misfortune shadows the pessimistic soul.

Memories.
Everything that tells your history.
The present,
Judged by the notorious in disguise.
Faith is your only guidance this time.

I stop to think, and then realize; that time has raced ahead
And at some point, left me behind; to wither, till I’m dead

These days now slow, monotonous; drag on for so **** long
They seem to me, so arduous; I need a drink, to carry on

My mind then seems to wander, without inhibitions all around
To look back in perspective; or examine still, what is left there to be found

Considering I’ve amassed, all this erudition; it should at least, be passed on
So, I’ll share some with you now; before everything I know, suddenly, is gone

Inside me, lives a vibrant young man; who is begging to be freed
But, if I let him lose; who’s to say, to where it would all lead

When I was young, life seemed uncomplicated; so I made my way with ease
With old age, much harder, far slower, more painful, and with no guarantees

Back then, planning how to have fun and making friends; seemed to fill my needs
But now, enjoyment comes from the smallest activity; and friends, drop off like weeds            
  
As a young man “CAREFUL” didn’t come easy; it was a struggle, centered in my crotch
Now I find, to be careful as I age; it’s the very place, my doctor makes me watch

Having a wife, during senescence, truly is a blessing; as our prowess tends to diminish
As an old codger, I love to get things started; but always need that extra hand, to finish

I was proud of my manhood; back in those days, when I was fit and young
But now, with all this muscle loss; it’s my chicken skin, that is well hung

Break the bond, with your wife, and your ***** are in the rack
You can do the same, with your kids; but they, keep coming back

And having children, brings such joy; so enjoy them while they’re young
Cause in their teens, no matter what; it’s like being dragged, thru knee high dung
                              
But, spending time with the grandchildren; is the best thing on this earth
Somehow, they make a place, in your heart; and give you all they’re worth

Teach them but one lesson; which some of us, through time have learned
Work real hard, for what you want, and “SHARE”, what you have earned

Women were not put on this earth, to be controlled, or outwitted; by a man
So keep those opinions to yourself; and your big mouth shut, if you can

All that money, which we have saved; we really should have blown
Can’t take it with us, but spoiled the kids; so they should really earn their own

So, do we put it in a chest, at the end of a rainbow and let a Leprechaun hold the keys
“NO”, we invest with a bank, so they can make their millions, by charging us those fees

Besides, we won’t be judged; on how well we managed, all our earthly wealth
Which is good, because I hid mine in that chest; and it was stolen, by that fucken Elf
“I bet that would **** your doodle”

Don’t scrimp and save, in old age; we’ve worked hard, for everything we’ve got
Now, take the time to spend it, and enjoy it; just leave a little, for that plot

We should enjoy the ride, while we’re here; so in the end, we are contented
After all, it’s not the speed, nor the deed; but is the outcome as intended

Friends and neighbors die around me; and I’m not sure what I should do, or say
Move away, buy their house, pray the force went with them; or, just be more risqué
                                                      
We should do, what we’ve always wanted; not worry, where we’ll go, from that gurney
Count on that saying holding true; “IT’S NOT THE DESTINATION, BUT THE JOURNEY”

So now that I am at, the senectitude of my life; I still don’t know its meaning
Was it all about, ******* off my wife; or should have I, helped out with the cleaning

I find a daily snooze, is so very good, any time of day; it does not matter when
Days become much shorter; while the nights, don’t know where you have been

To be “RIGHT” all the time, is absolutely of no benefit; unless, it’s to change your life
Just like, making the truth prevail, is of no avail; if you’re trying to convince your wife

Believe in GOD, if you feel the need; may HIS blessings, forever on you flow
But if not, while on this earth, show only kindness; for your *** is held in escrow

Think of it this way; you do good, you’ll go to heaven; you do bad, you’ll go to hell
But if you do, nothing bad, nor anything good; then in which place should you dwell

Never hold back your thoughts, until you compose your words; before you speak
Your long time partner, will cut in first; and while you’re thinking, they will it critique

“See how I threw in partner here; no gender bias”
“I’m trying to be, androgynous and not too pious”

These days, I don’t get upset, if life goes bad; all things can be forgot or forgiven
Although, I’d just wait; and make **** sure, that first, you’ve gotten even

In the past, things would **** me off; gayety, geniality, sobriety and saying please
“THEY STILL DO”, but now, I must have mellowed; I play along, just so I can tease

I just read, our Prime Minister calls my CPP pension an entitlement..? WELFARE!!
I assumed, “MY MONEY”, was for my retirement; makes me wanna swear

I think I will, swear that is, “******* HARPER”; I worked for it, you just collected it
Now, it’s still mine, isn’t it; so don’t say you’re gifting it to me, you’re full of ****

I discovered, that excessive ***, like excessive alcohol; only ***** up how you think
But, a little *******, and a bit of moderation; prevents your disposition to a shrink

And I never cry, over a little spilled milk anymore; even though, it certainly is a pity
If it bothered me at my age; then I never should have, stopped ******* on that *****

I learned this as well, that all politicians are not bad; but, all of them are greedy
They’re honest, until they discover all their benefits; then, they think they’re needy

As a doyen, I don’t have much to say, on the abuse of ***; or other drugs of choice
It’s only when the pharmacist, won’t fill my prescriptions; that I will raise my voice

Life is hard, and I have tried, to keep up in the race; the world wouldn’t stop and wait
But, I didn’t jump off, cause I’d fall into space; and there, my life would have no weight

Remember also, “the FAD, the BAD, the SAD, and the MAD” each will have their turn
But in life, you must keep smiling, no matter what; “LIVE, LOVE, LAUGH, and LEARN”

Everything will come full circle, both the good and the bad; as I’ve always said
Nothing on this earth is, “WORTH AS MUCH” or “MEANS AS MUCH”, after we are dead
BOEMS BY JA 383                                                     25-02-2015

tumultuous tree-hugger terrorizing transnationals
nothing timid about firebombing the research lab
desperate attempt to save cancerous mice
and one old, dazed chimp subject
laws are meant to be outwitted
outdated equipment sit in ***** buckets
sprawled across the 1972 VW van floor
new world freedom fighter
too inebriated to understand injustice is just
the lack of social equality is equal to the abundance of cultural apathy
and yet, someone has to stand up for a cause
someone must right the wrongs
perpetrators perpetuate post-9/11 discord
throwing Muslims under tourist buses
an unshaved face sadly looks to the dirt underfoot
answers evade even nature
matted and disheveled hair hides a mind
bent on defeating the status quo
and limiting monetary political contributions

facilitating sweat-lodges and peyote ceremonies
seeking Zen through external chemical compounds
in a moment of clarity a thought crosses
what would I be doing
had Jerry lived?

Why do we laugh at 'cartoons,'
other than because they are funny

Is it the hopeless pursuance of...

catching a Tweetybird.....or
a Roadrunner.........or
Yosemite Sam outwitted by a rabbit....or
Michigan J. Frog singing "Hello My Baby!"

Think about it-
we are laughing at ourselves -
After all, it's their human traits and foibles
we gave them......that make us laugh.

"Blame it on Aesop, he started it!"


r. riddle: September 01, 2016

Some minor character in a TV Sunday play
Was asked to pick a day, (just one mind you)
That he would wish to live through once again.

And, do you know what?
Even though he seemed quite sane
He could not think of one.

Yet, don’t think this odd,
For even God (speaking on a late night show)
Was slow to answer.
And when He did, admitted that the question
Had outwitted even Him.
“The past’s been grim.” He said.
Adding, that the question was an unfair test.
But that, if pressed, He guessed
The best was still to come.

©James Rainsford 2010

I watched as she,
   The surf,
          Giggled and gagged  
                Against sand’s constraints,
                        Playing dead on shore’s lap she lay eager
                    In wait,
                            And he, outwitted by deceit’s delight,
                                 Allowed her company.

Then like a child at play,
     She crashed and caved,
            Swallowed, swilled and spat
          him up.
                She, Crowned in exultation,
                         She, Appeased by smug victory,
                         Arched and moaned and sighed.

She, with a smile that dripped sweet nothings
           Left him smooth,  
                   Polished to glint and gleam.  

                                         Yet, She, upon returning home,
                              As most guilty lovers do,
                   Finally lay still to sound of her lover.

                  I watched,
           as she,       
    sunk to the cries of the Sun,
uttered soft apology.

                    Though, that too, like such lies often are,
       Was drowned by her beloved’s glare,
And for all she had done,

                               Blue was burnt scarlet,
                             as the surf was set ablaze.

The moon haunted the room through its raw voyeuristic glow.
As she wrapped her bare legs around his frail torso she spoke at a tone that tickled his neck. The only thing he could keep in his failing body that day was a humble cup of yogurt. Minutes bled into hours that she rubbed his cold shoulders. They laid naked together with tubes in his veins. 

 The air in the room held the familiar  scent of a summer night. This night was a good one. No blankets damp with tears, or shallow breaths that punctuate eloquent apologies. Only the two meandering through distant memories. He closed his aching eyes and rested his head in her lap. 

Vertigo took hold of her as she looked down upon him. He was an asphalt flower trying to break free. He spent his days using a meager palette of activity.  Staring at the hospital ceiling he inconsolably searched for a crack. For hours he laid still, violently thinking. 

Then, beyond the shadow of doubt came the orchestration of happiness. Dopamine hit a  crescendo  at the cue of eureka.
 
He outwitted death. 
He realised he could succeed eternal rest by living forever in her. 
The simple loophole of death:
 love.

Dark skies of midday madness,
The world has been painted in darkness.
Moments ago, the carnage of day,
Personification of pride, ran rampant.

Outsmarted, outwitted, outmatched

Pillars of ego fall, as all do, to their knees.
Nature is less forgiving, she has grown bitter.
She batters and bruises, lashing with rage.
But is this not her right, more so her duty.

Clouds pour their thick mist across heavens,
Day light is of a when long forgotten.
Bless this fortune, this humility.
Rise, embrace the turning of tides.

My pride is as vast as the ocean,
It's boldness carries no caution.
My pride is as vast as the sea,
From truthful horizons it does flee!

I do not need this much pride
But it never leaves my side.
It's making me stray into the dark,
Closing in as I run out of luck.

My pride is a blaze of guns,
A masterful magician doing his stunts!
Welling up the dust in its void,
Till everything has been destroyed!

In its clothing I'm always defeated,
In this game I'm always outwitTed.
I don't need to fall into this trap again,
Getting out will be such a strain!

You've outwitted a sandstorm.
Your granular debris
seeping into every crevice,
every crease and fold
in between the stutters
in Sunday mass
and the temple underneath the sheets
on a Friday night.
Tell me
if its really intrusion
in the absence of refusal.
If not,
the moon
retains its audacity
to be beautiful
and us,
collateral damage--
tucked in from implosion.
A means to an end.

The sun gets up
and I'm left to wonder
how I feel nothing at all.

Remembrance of my juvenescence moments as a child,
I began to realize my calling as a black male.
Raised from the hood as a black ghetto boy who lived in poverty...
My intellect outwitted my age,
even though there was alot of abhorrent things I've done in the past.
My Mepa and Mema taught me how to pray,
and gracious for grandparents.
Stricken by poverty,
I excelled in reading and writing.
My daddy wasn't in my life,
but raised by a deacon and my Ma.
In elementary and middle school brawling was my skill,
and fighting made me feel strong.
Sports was my cue,
and wasn't just a scribe but was involved in physical activity.
Recalling childhood moments in Baltimore Maryland where I got ran over by a car,
but I'm not dead.
Jumped by ten ghetto black males that almost killed me in Florida...
there is Johnson blood in my dna.
It was the grace of God that kept me,
but it doesn't end there.
I used to want to become a preacher;
and the knowledge gained from studying the mosaic books,
and the insight attained from scrutinizing the new testament;
I felt like Paul who once was Saul, and began to ponder the Pharisaism life.
Knowing that Jesus wants to use me...
but stubbornness,
and resisting my calling which I'm still running from.
The feeling of abandonment...
there was love lacking in my parents house.
Filled with gall pondering why other kids had it easy;
when me and my kinfolk struggled.
Recall busting my head open with blood gushing in the shower...
almost died because majority of my blood was leaking,
but God kept me alive once again.
In this incident I was brought to the hospital to get stitches on my head...
and this is the reason my hair flourishes and grows so quick;
and why I decide to keep my afro and cherish my hair.
Nothing but God kept me,
and was suppose to be dead but it doesn't end there.
The gift within me made rehoboth...
the spirit of discernment and gift of prophecy made room bringing me before great men.
The adversary seeked to destroy me,
but I'm a Johnson with authority and power.
Thriving was necessary,
and it seemed like life itself hit me hard.
As a black child scribbling and working out was my profession.
The weights was pressed to release my anger, and I began using full strength pressing;
while pondering why other people had a easier life.
Graduated high school at age 17,
but the smile behind my face are scars.
Got kicked out my parents house 3x, and they wouldn't allow me back in...
but Jesus still had a place prepared for me.
My own kinfolk would smirk in my face and laugh at my humiliation,
but as a Johnson I'm a survivor.
They thought I wouldn't be succesful and didn't want me to go to college,
but I attended trade and got some college.
I'm sugarcoating nothing.
My stepdad which is a deacon...
me, my bigger brotha, and sister disliked him for the hell he put us through.
Truth is my Ma chose her husband over her 4 children,
which is why we felt abandoned.
There was a annoyance in the house,
and I knew light couldn't mix with darkness.
My kinfolk despised the annoting over my life, and they couldn't take me knowing my word.
Father figure I grew up without him,
but my daddy genes made me who I am.
Judged by people who couldn't last a day in my shoes,
only if they were on my level they wouldn't have sitnah.
New level there's always a new devil,
but the word hidden in my heart became a light to my path.
The nicolaitans encountered...
I began marvelling why mad deacons were ordained.
The struggles are prepping me for my future.
My vision is to become a pastor,
but it doesn't end there.
Mepa my grandpa would always say, "do you feel like God is calling you to be a minister?"
And my response was...
a inspired teacher who has the ministerial spirit who ministers.
Taken up a minister's class at a church,
but didn't complete the 6 weeks because my kinfolk hated the annoiting.
As said before light can't mix with darkness.
As a black man I realized the annoiting over my life.
Ain't sugarcoating but giving the truth,
because the truth will set me free.
Maturing as a black man;
and the lessons learned from my adolescent childhood.
I will be succesful,
and a advocate by sharing the gospel.

I missed those long nights,
Where I clapped my hands to those high pitched melodies
Those smart creatures
Outwitted the best of tutors.

Bees love nectar,
Mosquitoes can't you learn?
Drinking of red wine
like vampires
I wonder how African's blood make your taste buds feel.

Mosquito mosquito
You've Perturbed our nights.
Noisy and infectious
Your stings have made us sick.

Why rescue mosquito to safety?
Noah why let them into the ark?
We would  never have had to tackle witty mosquito.

There will be no secrets
Nowhere to hide
The left and right outwitted
And little brother inside

The drones and data crawlers delve
Dreams and nightmares being ourselves
Compiled evidences mount concern
While mankind’s bridges burn

Our cyborg image never shown
Our accessories scent allured us
Hums of technology a pleasant moan
We breathed deep the aroma’s service

Bandwidth culture firmly in place
Everyman has no face
Ethnicity of avatar and clan of choice
Everyman selects a voice

The blind face themselves feeling
Something’s missing out of sight
Reaching for the cognitive ceiling
Surrendering for wrong and right

To machines constant drumming
The overfuture’s coming
Where there’s nothing left to do
And no difference from me to you

The Messes We Leave
                                                             The Cats You Dump on My Door

There’s a black plastic bag sleeping in a tree
And an orange cat who treads beneath it,
Flinching at
The jack-o-lantern grins
That the coyotes give
As they prowl about at night.

                                                           Even after we take him inside,
                                                                             He’s often so scared
                                                                     Wide-eyed and meowing
                                        Like these new owners will leave him too.

There’s a whole litter
Gone in scattered bones
Except for one who watches from rooftops and trees.

                                                                  He never meows, that one,
                                             Never accepts the invitation to come in.

There’s a pregnant kitten
Barely more than skin,
And a white calico
Who stares at us with the same cunning eyes
That outwitted the wolves other pale cats did not.

             Those are the handful we tucked away behind these walls,
                                                                        The rest are not so lucky.
                                                     A pair of siblings who lost the third
                                          Two toms who yowl to each other at night,
                       Those are just the handful who survive still out there.
          Together, they are that small number out of countless dozens
                              Who disappeared under car tires and canine teeth.

on the gallows pole
at the turn of
the womanhood
of resistance  
I am naked
with my sins
but not
to the touch
white men
will be devoured
outwitted
unflavored
by my kind

because of the government
we know evil
because of the government
my people
rise from the ashes
of our pain
our grief
out of sleep
and into a riotous
rebellion
of soft skin
and hard fingernails
of women
who were never held back
but silenced
of women who were never held up
but let down
we will be the ones
to remind The Man
that we have been here
all along—
as prophets
as keepers
as an articulation
of the people
we refuse
to
keep quiet.

Blood-thirsty
the hounds were clipping my heels
panting, jeering
teeth showing

breath bereft
the lion's roar ceased
dying, faltering
ghost crumbling

light flickering
neither flight nor flight
doable, practical
discretion spent

outwitted
the lion lay low
willing, hankering
death by hideous hounds

a stranger to
fiery forces
converging, composing
resounding resurrection

eardrum busting
the lion's roar roasted the hounds
easing, mending
spirit rising

horizon spanning
my breath took hold
expanding, binding
fragments of me

Beneath the full, blood red moon
Grew Duir, the mighty ancient oak
By it's side, stood the vivacious Oestre
Both silhouetted, with the gathering fairy folk

Within the oak, upon its fine boughs
Perched Athena, Minerva, and Hieronymous
Three wise old owls, slowly blinking
Now no longer anonymous

In the distance, across an undulating countryside
Were Reynard the fox, And Muezza the cat
Screeching, and hissing, ready to fight
Under the glowing, moonlit night

Upon hearing the tu-whits, and tu-whoos
Distorted echoes, of estranged owlsong
Distracted, hungry eyes, now focused on the feast
Of the hare, upon the hill, ready to be seized

Oestre the hare, unaware
Spoke to the mighty oak
"Duir, tonight, i sense mischief, and magic"
The oak knew, of what she spoke

Whilst Duir cast an invisible wall
An unseen force-field, for their safe-keeping
Informing the hare, and three owls
"This protection will last, until the moon is sleeping"

Reynard the fox, now lost in the undergrowth
Having outwitted himself, with his own cunning
Muezza the cat, was distracted by the land of Fae
Danced with the fairies, until the break of day

The stars above, winked, but said nothing
As they gradually dimmed, then faded away
Whilst spiders wove their dewy cobwebs
Oestre vanished, into the early morning mists of day

by Jemia

Chapter 1:  Jack Thought It Was Laughter

Jack thought it was laughter.  The wind blew so hard it actually forced his soul outside where his body would follow. It was at the clearing by the creek where he first saw it. It looked like blood as the wind laughed at the absence of his reflection in the snow.  He didn’t know how to feel and for the first time in this most familiar place, he was really lost.  Fear blanketed the trees and he was alone inside himself.  He was now forced to deal with the result of years of living with only one eye open. He had blinded himself to something he had always denied and was confined to a place where men often become the victims of their greatest undoing.

There were no bear or wolf signs to match the lingering bad intent that was now spread all over the trail.  He looked around and the colors called out to him but there was no rainbow only a prism trapping his unborn redemption inside a false red image. He moved forward slowly unsure of his direction but unable to do anything else.

Fighting this enemy would be much harder now, as fear burrowed deeper and deeper inside. The harder he fought, the harder the fight became. Inside himself, he could feel the object of his intended destruction growing stronger.  In the distance a lone wolf howled — at least it sounded like a wolf. Its cry loomed high above as a mocking echo to his silence calling him in its direction as it then changed into something Jack had never heard before.

Why do men have to go on journeys such as this Jack wondered?  All he saw was darkness as the tunnel bored ever deeply inside him forcing him through the whiteout to the uncertainty beyond.  He wasn’t sure of anything as it howled again encircling him with its cry in the darkness. It was imploring him in his darkest places to finally do something. The far off cry was daring him to finally stop this killer, the one who was hunting in the corners of his affirmation, slaying with its fury all his hopes and dreams.

                                        Suddenly It Stopped

If it was an animal, it had left no tracks to where the wind had been laughing in the dark. It was laughing at a joke Jack still had not heard while creating another memory of something he still had not become. Do men only hunt for something that in the end makes them less of themselves?

Jack grabbed his quiver and bow, secured his pack, and continued North up the trail.


  The Red Stains In The Moonlight Beckoning Him To Follow



Chapter 2:   Jack Crouched In The Darkness

Jack crouched in the darkness.  The tracks looked almost human, but the only heartbeat he could hear was the one now beating inside his own chest.  He’d been following these tracks for the last thirteen hours.  The blood trail had now stopped, but the animal creating it hadn’t.  Jack estimated the loss of blood at over four pints.

What mammal could continue in this cold after losing so much blood?  Jack crested the next hill and saw something moving in the thicket seventy-five yards ahead.  Instinctively, he took an arrow from his quiver and laid it loosely inside his bow.  Would this finally be the moment that he would blow away the myth about the Hairy Man?  Would this be the time that Jack would finally come face to face with his own manhood or would it just be a turkey or a deer hiding behind the thicket now less than thirty yards ahead?

Jack now switched from tracking to stalking mode.  He lowered his body position at least two feet and tried to regulate his breathing.  The movement inside the bushes had stopped, but the tracks leading to them were fresher than ever.  It had snowed during the night and the tracks a mile or so back were rounded and contoured around their edges.  These tracks were sharp and defined with loose snow falling down their sides as if freshly made.  

The bushes moved again, and it was just then that Jack noticed it.  The top of his bowstring had come undone and slid six or seven inches down from the top of the bow.  Panic started to set in as Jack searched for a patch of hard snow to brace the bow against to reset the string.  From the corner of his eye he now saw it.  A large dark figure was stooped and hunched down in the shadows to the left of the thicket as if positioning itself and getting ready to strike.  

Jack pushed and pushed on the bow trying to get it to bend.  Every time he did, the bottom of the bow would slip on the wet snow and ice and the string would once again slide back down and go lax in his hand.  Again and again he tried always with the same result.  There was a tree just twenty feet to his right. The hard bark surface would give Jack the pressure he needed to bend the bow and force the string back up inside the notch.  

The only problem with this new strategy is that Jack would have to turn his back on the thicket bush.  If he were to survive this encounter, he would have to rely on just sounds, feeling, and instinct, as his vision was now turned away from the threat up ahead.  Just as the bowstring snapped into place, Jack felt something large, very large, collide at high speed with his left shoulder.  In a daze he was spun around and thrown face down in the snow and knocked momentarily unconscious.  

When his head finally cleared, he saw the same tracks that he had been following all morning on both sides of his fallen body. They were now heading straight back in the direction from which they had come.  Blood no longer accompanied these tracks, and Jack had to face the fact that maybe, just maybe, what he had been following all day would now be hunting him.

           … And That There May Be More Than Just One



Chapter 3:  Back Down The Trail

When Jack was able to once again walk, he headed off in the direction of the southbound tracks.  He went no more than two miles down the trail when he saw a large deadfall off to his right.  The logs and branches were all disturbed as if something or someone had walked right over them.  Jack followed cautiously.  With one arrow in his mouth, and one on his bowstring, he stepped carefully over the tracks that led around back.

It was around back that he saw the blood trail resume.  It had been over two hours since he had seen any blood, and this worried him for reasons he did not yet understand.   Behind the deadfall, and totally hidden from the trail he had been on, was a clear set of tracks. Something or someone was traveling or being carried or dragged behind these tracks. The blood was evident in the snow, right in the middle of the wide swath it made, at intervals of every ten feet.  The blood was heavier than before. The trail had turned and now headed due West up the 15 degree incline toward the tall mountains not two miles in the distance.  

What kind of animal, other than human, drags away its dying or its dead?  What other animal would put itself at such risk for something in such bad shape?  Wolves and bears will stand and fight to the death to defend their young, but there have never been stories or tales of them carrying off their dead and wounded.  Only humans do this. But the tracks he was now following were too big to have been made by any man.  There was now less than twenty minutes of daylight left and soon Jack would be alone in the dark.  Being in the dark, and in search of what he didn’t know and now feared, was something that was beyond his control but not beyond his haunting imagination.  

One question had been lingering in his mind and bothering Jack all day since his encounter with whatever it was that ran over him and knocked him unconscious. Why had the animal only knocked him down and not then stopped and finished the job?  Jack was unconscious and totally defenseless.  Why was he left alone in the woods just dazed but not seriously hurt?  Why was he left alive to now ask these questions?

Jack had to decide whether to continue following the blood trail or to camp for the night.  He had both a visceral and foreboding feeling that he was not only tracking the animal, or animals, ahead, but that something or someone was also following him and watching his every move.   Being caught out in the dark and alone at night and trapped between what were now at least two monsters was more than Jack could stand.  He decided to stop and wait two hours and watch and listen before going any further.  

With loaded bow in hand, Jack started to climb a seventy-foot -high Douglas Fir that sat about ten yards off the trail.  The tree offered both easy climbing and good cover once Jack was fifteen or twenty feet above the ground.  He had not eaten in over twenty-four hours and now that he had stopped, his ravenous hunger started to set in.  He had been eating snow all day to maintain hydration, but there was no visible food source that Jack could see in the snow. The only food he had brought with him was in the pack that was knocked from his back when the animal charged.  It was nowhere to be found when Jack regained consciousness.  The animal must have carried it off as it headed South and back down the trail.    

The wind blew through the lowlands as it headed toward the mountains and carried with it Jack’s fear — although he knew he couldn’t turn back.  Turning back was now for lesser men, one’s that would then lead lesser lives, separated once again from themselves.  Before the two hours had passed, Jack again heard what he was not able to see. At least two large animals passed below him on the trail and not fifty feet from where he sat high in the tree.  They were also headed West straight for the mountains that were barely visible in the quarter moon’s light. Jack could tell there were two because he could discern the differences in their breathing.  In the deafening silence, their breaths were first high and then muffled then high and then muffled again.  They made no other sounds, passed quickly, and were then gone. Jack decided to spend the rest of the night perched and hidden high up in the tree.

Abandoning all attempts at denial, Jack now reasoned that it was possible he had at least three and possibly four of these monsters headed in the direction that he was committed to follow. He wondered again … Had they seen, smelled, heard, or felt him up in the tree as they passed closely and quietly below?  Did they know he was there and have no fear of him at all. Had their understanding ******* his in what had just happened? Jack felt a strong Deja-vu overtake the prescience of the moment and a drive stronger than ever from inside him told him that he had to go on. He felt he was being lead but by who and for what purpose he did not know.

Daylight finally broke, and Jack dropped to the ground and headed slowly West following the now wider trail as it climbed higher into the trees.  There were now large tracks on top of other large tracks but one thing had not changed.  Massive amounts of blood were everywhere and the blood was still wet.  It took Jack until late afternoon, with dusk setting in, to climb the now steep trail to the mountain’s base.

Just beyond the tree line and in a secluded depression of the mountain to the northwest, the tracks ended.  Hidden in the recess of the mountain’s crease appeared to be the entrance to a large cavern or cave.  Jack walked to within a hundred yards of the cave’s entrance, crouched down, and watched for any movement or noise that might be heard.  In thirty minutes, no sound or motion came from the entrance.  The only thing out of the ordinary at all was the now almost totally red trail — created by the blood leading inside the cave.  

Now was the real moment of decision or indecision.  Now was the moment that all Jack’s life had been preparing for.  Now was the time between myth and reality where the price of the discovery could be the discoverer himself.  Now, it was Jack’s moment.

                                          It Was His Time

With one life-affirming step, Jack moved towards the cave realizing that no matter what, he could not turn back.  He dropped to one knee as he stepped inside the cave trying again to control his breathing as his heart tried to beat through his chest.  With just small rays of moonlight coming over his shoulder from the east to guide him, Jack now crawled into the darkness his bow still in hand.  He traveled not more than fifteen feet when he felt a sharp object underneath his right knee.  As he looked down and let his eyes slowly adjust to the very dim light, he saw that someone or something had made a circle out of rocks about twenty-four inches in diameter — a cooking circle.  He put his hand in the center but the ashes were no longer warm.

With his left knee he stepped on something hard and flat.  When he reached down to pick it up he saw it was a club or a crude hammer.  It had a rock attached to a shortened tree branch with vines and some mud.  It was a rudimentary tool or weapon, and whoever or whatever had made it was not a bear or a wolf or anything Jack had encountered in the wild up until now.

As he continued forward his head bumped into something hard.  He reached up into the darkness and realized he could now stand up, and as he did, he felt an enormous stone structure in front of him.  As he felt in the dark, he could tell it was a giant boulder blocking his way over six feet wide and at least eight feet tall.  Something or someone had dragged, pushed, or pulled the boulder in front of the narrowing passageway blocking further entrance to anyone who might follow.  Was this done by those on the other side of this huge rock or by someone or something that was still hiding on this side?  Jack pushed and pulled and shoved with all his might, but no matter what angle he chose or how hard he tried, the boulder would not move.  

He could sit there and wait, but wait for what?  Surely Jack thought: “Those creatures must have another entrance or exit available to them.  What if they did the same thing to the cave’s outer opening?”  Jack would then be trapped inside a prisoner of no known reality and unable to finish the journey that his life had set him upon. He now questioned what chance he would have had with his one small bow against creatures so endowed.  He realized then that he hadn’t questioned before because the question didn’t exist.  With just his bow, hunting knife, or only his bare hands, it made no difference.  Jack’s spirit was powering this hunt, and in its completion, his soul would hang forever as a trophy he could truly own.

It was at this moment that Jack’s epiphany happened.  What chance would he want to have against these creatures?  They had outran, outwitted, outmaneuvered, and outthought Jack every step of the way.  Why should he think any further pursuit would be different?  With a silent prayer he backed away from the boulder with a reverence only known by those no longer in fear of death.  As he walked back through the entrance of the cave and into the moonlight he stopped.  He removed the arrow from the bowstring, and as he did, he heard a primordial cry calling out from the wilderness.  In his thirty-seven years in the back woods he had never heard such a sound before.  

                             And It Was Calling His Name …

Jack had counted coup on his greatest adversary, and his spirit was now free. He realized that he had finally been absorbed into the great mystery. The one that must stay the way it was — the day before — and the day before that.  It was a new sense of himself that Jack would carry with him to the grave and beyond.  In failing to confront the Hairy Man, Jack found himself while alone inside that dark cave surrounded by his fear and passion for something more.  As he headed back down the mountain, he realized for the first time that it was not about what could be killed in the night but about what was promised with the dawn of a new rebirth … Jack never hunted again.

     The Wild Man Calls From Deep Inside Where Only The                                           Brave Can Hear



Epilogue:

Is the Wild Man only in the thickets and caves or now accepted inside your heart? What did that boulder really have locked behind it?  Who really had the power to make it move?  Is it a boulder we put in front of ourselves feigning entry to who we really are?  These questions and more puzzled and bothered Jack as he stood alone in the dark.  

Who does the Wild Man cry out to and from how far away?

How often have we heard his unanswered screams that we immediately translate into something of our own lesser choosing and something we more than anything want to control.  The Wild Man is the connection to our future, present, and past.  Laying dormant in our denial, he stalks the hidden trails of our hopes and dreams, leaving blood for us to follow on the one’s that we are most afraid to walk.  

Shedding his blood for the misguided, he suffers in our attempt to pretend he isn’t there.  The only part of us that was, is, and always will be, is that which he carries inside.  He dies because it is something he cannot keep.  He lives only by giving us back to ourselves usually at our greatest moments of fear and indecision.  He hides away on a dark mountaintop waiting for us to walk the trail of our own darkness, freeing us during our greatest moments of doubt, then allowing us to turn around and walk back into the light.

Who was it really that was being dragged up that mountain bleeding — and dying of unrecognition?

What Jack had always believed in was the source of his fear.  Tonight, he was at the crossroads of his destiny and all creation. The choice on this night to not believe would have in its undoing — left nothing of Jack.

Before, in always choosing between what to believe and not who, or who to believe and not what, Jack lived his life in the dichotomy of a false existence. Tonight, that dividing line was erased.

The Wild Man lives inside us all!  In exposing the lie that more protection offers us safety, Jack finally found himself.  No longer doomed to search endlessly through the deep snow, he was free to marvel in the connection of all that surrounded him.

I wish the same for you!  

Recognize and release the Wild Man you hide inside.  Refasten the eternal connection between what you fear and who you were meant to be.


Kurt Philip Behm

July 15th, 2010

Satan suggested the dems had to choose her
my god oh my god, so glad she’s a looser.

A no fly zone in Syria, did she mean bugs,
But perhaps its GI’s those american thugs.

Sent in by Sam, for their usual loo-tin
Outwitted we're glad, by Vladimir Putin.

Imagine her month, with a cloud covered moon,
the bad and the ugly, no good at high noon.

They say she confused, the word ***** with libya
after too many gin’s she made tripoli a trivia

Bet at least we are finally over the ****
Lucifer lost, so now we have Trump!!