The cursed Porcupine
The closer he gets to you
The more he will wound

"Do you have a lighter? Am I dancing **** yet? Are you watching me because I move alone?"
Well, look a little harder, because as glass reflects on me I reflect back revealing the other side of me.
Two-sided.
She dances with ease.
Do you feel the pain because it's pain that I unleash.
I am the inner workings of your mutability.
I switch up as I am never at true peace.
Look at me, watch me...
Feed on me as I feed onto you.
The perplexities of my intentions are at it's core when I move.
Lost, but just a crazy ***** with the master ability to play with your mind baby.
Do you see it?
I do.
And she's nasty.
Taste her, lick her, **** her.
She's the dark side of me and she's waiting to play.
Tear me up like I'm your doll and grasp onto my insides like the strings have been attached so the grip cannot lose itself in your sins of your sinful embellishment.
Dress me up, move me.
You are my puppet and I only want to tease your mind.
**** me like a twist of your mad insanity.
Play with me.
Taste me, and watch me because, I move alone.

My ****.

When you cease to talk to me
I feel empty more than you imagine
My life seems to drain away
I sit and wait for you to call
Or drop me some long awaited text message

Then does my heart rejoice
Trying to slow my return text

Oh, she replied in 15 minutes
That means I have to wait at least 45
Eh, I managed 35, let's do it anyways
And thus we continue our beleaguered talk

I want to be near you
To talk in person
But without a prepaid gas card
That will definitely not happen
Though every weekend just might be possible

I will do my best to be around you
But my lips will invariably stray
Wandering away from you is unquestionable
Though how often is up for debate
I will do my best to make it less than once a week

I'm sorry for quitting you so quickly
I must be the biggest freak
That you have ever met

Refuse to  think that anyone  else knows
better  than  you what  dreams will keep
your life energy humming with maximum efficiency.

****  out   wishy-washy  wishes   and  
lukewarm    longings   that  keep  you
distracted   from  your  burning desires.

Tell yourself and tell the world  that you
know  exactly what  you  want  and you
know  exactly what you  don't want and
you know exactly what you kind of want
but you won't waste your time on it because
it  sidetracks  you  from working on what
you really want.

Be  willing  to make mistakes  if someone
else is willing to learn from them. To hell
with boring enlightenment; I want brilliant perplexities.

                   Fall out of love with fear.
                                                           ­                                     Jon York   2022

not every poem is about beauty
too caught we are in the moment to write about it
that is what makes it beautiful
pain clings long beyond instants
prolongs and window reflections
engulfing our bones
masticating our stomachs
from slow drip bile coffeemakers in our chest
the line from that one song starts the burning
and the eyes of a stranger flavored with reminders
i wish i could tell him i finally got to ____
my blood is chunked with tomato slices
acidic clots and stagnant passions
float me in melancholy perplexities
a minute of oddity where emotions
are unidentifiable

Mankind
What are you doing
Black and white and gray
You twist and turn and rage and shine
My love, your love, our love
My brokenness, your tatters, she crumbles, he shatters
Closed eyes, open mouths, poisoned words, ***** words
Dates, times, places, people, smiles, faces, masks
Him, her, you, me
Talk about people, talk about people
Use them and wear them, win them and hang them
Elegance, poverty, hurricanes far away, imaginary crucifixions
Look at me, look at my scars, look at my hurt, look at my heart
Words and words and words and tasty, tasty words
Names, names, names, a thousand souls, a thousand stories
Changing, twisting, turning, losing, loving
Emotions, complications, complexities, perplexities
It makes me want to say
Mankind
What are you doing

Wonthelimar, in the last transmigration that he planned from Nyons in the cavern on the eastern side of the Rhone, surrounded himself with mountains that dwarfed them with promiscuous caves of the Eygues. From these buckets as a margin of power and go referring to the nocturnal wind of the Pontias; created his fundamental tool of attraction of the Mementos de Cartography of the Seleucids, decomplexing the logistical notions of the Diadocos after having resuscitated and liberating Alexander the Great from a Cartesian Underworld in the manner of apocryphal late Aristotelianism, mechanizing existential dualisms of Hades with formulas and psychotropic and geometric tricks, licensing them theologies of habeas corpus, coexisting in the first instance with Etréstles de Kalavrita who would establish the term of definitive transmigration of Alexander the Great, so that between the Diadocos and Wonthelimar they would contend the final and disciplinary action to revoke the high arrest, transhuming the sovereign as Macedonian next to the Hexagonal Birthright finally very close to Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth in the vicinity of the Megaron Spilaion Apokalypseos.

The generals of Alexander the Great shared his legitimate Ark without royal titles, they were Perdiccas, Antipater, Craterus, Eumenes de Cardia, and others like the satraps who came to be proclaimed as kings; Antigonus, Ptolemy, and Seleucus. Residing the most substantial in this parapsychological saga in Vernarth; his brother Etrestles de Kalavrita who seconded and predestined his monolithic and constituent sovereignty of Polis, for the purpose of ruling and raising his Kopis and Xifos in the independence of aldehyde and alcoholic carbonyl residues emanated from the ferment of the Backhoi and Nepente, depositing LSD in substantial amounts. to align himself with Seleucus, and materially present himself in the sphere of Patmos as two representatives of both empires, one ancient Christian and the other Panhellenic, placing himself in that totalitarianism of Seleucus over that of Alexander the Great who was splendid in the cosmogony of a king similar to David of Judea, solvent and illustrious in the conception of Apological dynasty and identity, of Zeusian roots and of eternal numeral politics. In the quantitative of the champion of Alexander the Great revived on Patmos, the Mashiach of Gethsemane will continue to be deified with such a signature of both in ****** skies in two absolutist emperors and of dogmatic differential Pythagorean, propagandizing both dynasties with domains in regencies and different latitudes of the conceptual decision. Base, to refute proposals to follow them in part of anti-Alexandrian perplexities or opposed to marginalizing himself from following them after they abandoned him in Babylon. This was sensed in the confrontation between both forces of univocal polarization, for the good of one and the bad of the other of having to distract them from the proposal to enlist and harass dethroned kings on purpose from their deaths and revive them in others than in their own court of observers and bosses, they will only exist in the empty temples and idols without dates to know to avoid and in prevailing dates that will not happen.

Seleucus says: “Khaire my Commander…, unite the divine sanctuaries of Apollo, and take up the harangue of Tel Gomel with us disunited and lost by you. This dating will remain in the offices of reforming Macedonian armies and we will both command our generals in the Panhellenic dynasty, overall the heavenly armies that you will ever have here with fragile oracles confusing your divine blood! "

Wonthelimar, already manifesting from Nyons, lightened his Bucephalus bases, having a great somatic affinity with the bridles of Alexander the Great's steed, unraveling here a great mystery in his parapsychological regression directed from the cavern of Chauvet.

Wonthelimar says: “I have been confined with early Neolithic alloys, here I have dwelt livid among all your intrepid adventures channeling the axons and sketches of manifestations of superior cause and effect of correspondence of the ages and their Aeon and paleo-uncrossing precessions of you and your new death, from the Ardeche river together with Medea and Hypnos, among all of them being aerial, visionaries and northern lights who traveled to my redoubt to spray them in river waters, on the night of Agios San Ioannis. The gorges that swallow the seal of the Pontias, make rivers form with their name since the bulk of their waves of gusts are grandiloquent and robust like a gaseous river that becomes hydrological in larynxes where the wind is astonished when entering the concavity that it is wasted in its nature of time and qualitative content. Unusually I have been the progeny of organisms of rapture and cytological drama, in each one that is represented in these walls in which they are trapped next to me as tricks, and radiocarbon tricks by these vicissitudes, and of their actions that have dated my radiation of radioactive carbon in these caverns and so-called fourteen carbon spaces, for more than fifty million radiometric years. I lived here with my parents until as a child I stayed with my godmother, but one day my father did not return. From that moment on I became after the anticipated axial carbon, to keep myself as a torch in the caverns to see where no one was light but me, only of someone who was more than a dawn to illuminate what they wanted to know in my organic depressions, my trident of dating and carbon, by my parents and I in incisive philanthropy staining all the walls detesting the otherness that made me move towards a Wonthelimar; with dated apparitions and curtains that behind them always like gargoyles appeared before Hypnos, and then Medea, taking me as a child with her hands. When they left, I was left alone and patiently waited for them, when they did not return in the harsh winters they would send me Gerakis Falcons, to deal with your pain my lord Vernarth. In this field, I live, but now I am on my way to grasp the horns of the ibex, which took me to their lair with their goat colonies to give me milk and ursid ***** herbs that shielded me from a lethal genre, although not every day. Remain so. The lord that you will be now is the reflection of the bodyguard along with his ibex that will cordon off your rebirth after leaving the traces and rods of your bone marrow, spleen, and glandular that now belongs to me, to take you to the coldest waters that run inside me since the last ice age. The interference of the Diádocos tried to convince Alexander the Great, this is already a new rock piece to represent him in numismatics, walls, and ceramics in a predominant and complacent way of historical, shamanic record and of astonishing parapsychological fold that I have projected on the walls of Chauvet without your consent "

The new turn from Nyons to Patmos was one of the seizures and ecstatic agonies, for a former little prodigy boy and son of an Íbez and a Bucephalus named Wonthelmar, who comes to rescue the entelechies of someone who was an ignorant man who carried in his arms his divine death, without knowing that before she was eternal life waiting for her in the Katapausis, after building the Megaron and negotiating with Seleucus the evolutionary stylistics of the resurrected Alexander the Great in the flames of the candle enlisted in the night lanterns and united with Saint John the Theologian. Seleucus' talks will be one of the stubborn and ****** visits to persuade and catechize his major general, in periods that do not elapse in real-time, and that will be the fatal fate of his obstinacies because Vernarth was already a prodigal son of the Duoverso-Universe., whose basal was unparalleled in attacking their ideals and hegemonic settlements of the material of minimal cause and effect, a wonder of worthy to lean on invisible gods who at a great speed never seen before..., trafficked in front of every gap or shoulder of their destiny, wandering under a pendulum of a sword and under the support of the farmer, who held prey and meat between a lightning bolt and an elder that supports him, cushioning all earthly sufferings, even more coming out from the silence and the most hidden isolation of those who dare to release from the vaporous darkness of Chauvet, Wonthelimar, already forging paths and ups and downs from where no one comes or goes.

artifice, oh artifice of deception

miraculously ameliorated

by a strategy masquerading as a reality

or a reality masquerading as a strategy

leads to unresolved questions

of the perplexities that tug

at the heart of many truths

laying bear the spontaneous rhythms

of a mind in motion with

an unprecedented intensity

of a struggle to articulate

perceptions of a shattered understanding

of absurdities proclaimed as violations

of moral obligation

for morality is nothing more than opinion

that has a treasonous alliance with itself

giving birth to illegitimate validations of stupidity

the world never fell out from under you, no
you constructed safety nets like trampolines because you were always paranoid about the end of the world and since i was your world you wondered about the end of me
but i don't think you thought very hard about the end of you
the one that got tangled in dreams bigger than yourself; the ones that validated you and made you feel you had something worth struggling for, a rope on your back to secure your insecurities as you scaled the molehills you made out of mountains
did you ever think about the girl who had nothing to prove
the girl who showed you everything and for some reason that made you the bigger person
it's just that-
i was peanut butter and you were two years old
i guess your mom never told you how to grow up and decide if you had phobias or allergies
because i wouldn't have minded the way the hives erupted across your face like volcanoes without a cause
i would've rubbed your back with chamomile lotion and tried to read your sores like braille--
but i was peanut butter
and you were two years old
and i guess your mom never told you how to grow up and decide if you had a peanut allergy or commitment issues
(perhaps you had both)
perhaps you were so scared of the reaction you would have to someone who would lace your veins with her own blood if you needed, someone who was so willing to hand over her perplexities and let you examine them like a rubik's cube- is that what i was
because i always made it perfectly clear that i loved you
because i don't like seeing you sore and angry like that
i hate the way i hear your bones sigh when you move
the sticks and stones were never really a problem for you
but i think the burdens of my words broke you a little
the words that always made it perfectly clear that i loved you and
i guess you would always ask why but i always thought that some questions don't need an answer
and the only thing i could think of was that if people really are dust like the Bible says, then i was a molehill and you were a mountain

And I kept seeking for an answer to the question, Whence is evil? And I sought it in an evil way, and I did not see the evil in my very search. I marshaled before the sight of my spirit all creation: all that we see of earth and sea and air and stars and trees and animals; and all that we do not see, the firmament of the sky above and all the angels and all spiritual things, for my imagination arranged these also, as if they were bodies, in this place or that. And I pictured to myself thy creation as one vast mass, composed of various kinds of bodies--some of which were actually bodies, some of those which I imagined spirits were like. I pictured this mass as vast--of course not in its full dimensions, for these I could not know--but as large as I could possibly think, still only finite on every side. But thou, O Lord, I imagined as environing the mass on every side and penetrating it, still infinite in every direction--as if there were a sea everywhere, and everywhere through measureless space nothing but an infinite sea; and it contained within itself some sort of sponge, huge but still finite, so that the sponge would in all its parts be filled from the immeasurable sea.180
Thus I conceived thy creation itself to be finite, and filled by thee, the infinite. And I said, “Behold God, and behold what God hath created!” God is good, yea, most mightily and incomparably better than all his works. But yet he who is good has created them good; behold how he encircles and fills them. Where, then, is evil, and whence does it come and how has it crept in? What is its root and what its seed? Has it no being at all? Why, then, do we fear and shun what has no being? Or if we fear it needlessly, then surely that fear is evil by which the heart is unnecessarily stabbed and tortured--and indeed a greater evil since we have nothing real to fear, and yet do fear. Therefore, either that is evil which we fear, or the act of fearing is in itself evil. But, then, whence does it come, since God who is good has made all these things good? Indeed, he is the greatest and chiefest Good, and hath created these lesser goods; but both Creator and created are all good. Whence, then, is evil? Or, again, was there some evil matter out of which he made and formed and ordered it, but left something in his creation that he did not convert into good? But why should this be? Was he powerless to change the whole lump so that no evil would remain in it, if he is the Omnipotent? Finally, why would he make anything at all out of such stuff? Why did he not, rather, annihilate it by his same almighty power? Could evil exist contrary to his will? And if it were from eternity, why did he permit it to be nonexistent for unmeasured intervals of time in the past, and why, then, was he pleased to make something out of it after so long a time? Or, if he wished now all of a sudden to create something, would not an almighty being have chosen to annihilate this evil matter and live by himself--the perfect, true, sovereign, and infinite Good? Or, if it were not good that he who was good should not also be the framer and creator of what was good, then why was that evil matter not removed and brought to nothing, so that he might form good matter, out of which he might then create all things? For he would not be omnipotent if he were not able to create something good without being assisted by that matter which had not been created by himself.
Such perplexities I revolved in my wretched breast, overwhelmed with gnawing cares lest I die before I discovered the truth. And still the faith of thy Christ, our Lord and Saviour, as it was taught me by the Catholic Church, stuck fast in my heart. As yet it was unformed on many points and diverged from the rule of right doctrine, but my mind did not utterly lose it, and every day drank in more and more of it.

Poetry doesn't always have to rhyme.
Sometimes it's just how you see life
Or how life sees you
Or sees itself.
It's a strange concept- life.
I was once asked by a younger friend of mine, although I am merely twenty-three, what was the meaning of life?
I, like many others, didn't know the answer to such a complex question, but still I pondered it.
I recalled a moment in my life where I had been experimenting with marijuana, not as a means of simply getting baked, but as a tool to experience.
In one of my psychedelic wanings between time and space, I found myself asking questions.
I swirled into myself, my true self, and found that, from my perspective, life is meant as an experience.
To live
To love
To feel
To learn
To understand
To teach to others what we have learned.
And in knowing this- life, and the world I see from my infinitely finite point in this mass of perplexities, became all the more beautiful.
I began to see things as others do.
And still, it was beautiful.
Beautiful, because I was allowed by the creator to experience and wonder the poetry that has been laid before us.

The many perplexities that form within the most important membrane of the human body can be unbearable.
It leads Anxiety, panic, worry, sorrow, anger, love and many more emotions that take over the body in an endless fluctuant ride.
Therefore comes the regret and neglecting of feelings which portrays as betrayal and absentmindedness towards beings who are significant within an individuals life
This results in solitude. Also, where the baffled pondering continues. Up until the point where the cycle reaches it's peak. Waiting for every precious thing to collapse in a forgotten hope.

I'm a song and a poem and an epitaph alike. I'm the dirt gravel path in the forest you hike. I'm the wind and the rain, I'm the first sip of tea
I am the red haze above the deep dark blue Sea.
I'm whips of hard smoke, fresh perplexities-
im only what
you want me to be,

outer, inner what are realities

conscious, unconscious

differing thought that gives

tangible form to such as that

which has only existed in my imagination

when voiced indicate the delirium

of those dark despairs

that hang pitch black draperies upon the wall of my mind

in continuous distortion of ordinary motives

amplify my feelings, implosive and apocalyptic

forming an agonized arena of anguish

whose illusion is a disguise of perplexities

in a deployment of destrubing exchanges

of dubious sense that sit like a petulance

upon the mind

while I in patience stand smiling at my grief

You can say that again, later, it is -time
lace up the daily bag and pass it
for all private interpretation
removal, from the rumen, to the next
- gaseous we, Huxley called us, 1957

No, this ain't show business, this
is living, made in a made up mind,
being finished doing, just
living.

Making up reasons to dispute liars.

Maybe not a good living, but it's free.
Or paid for, any way.
Bought with a price
my grands won't be forced to pay.
- divided attention makes
- ads obliviate into the mercantile
- classification, in attention econ 101
It's free - this living
in the way well fed children do,
in America, outside the cities;

Joy pursued and grabbed in happy
fistfuls that fill laughing memory bubbles
to store for when these become
the olden days.

No, this ain't show business,
its sacred duty,
work of a thing,
made from a boy who looks
into flies eyes, gazing up
from the bottom of the cup,
a little glazed, perhaps,

owing the fly an easy escape, look away

Tricae,
tricae
"perplexities, hindrances, toys, tricks,"

The collections of thoughts,
the access to held thoughts, knotted
messages
to you
private moments,
time alone, as a mortal human being,
humus built, auto-repairing thing being

being, eh?
One-like, only, or
on-like, only going on and on and on,

becoming fruitful
becoming useful
becoming less and less useful, but
becoming more and more curious
becoming full enough to become superfluous.

Lay preachers can create cushions
for lazy wishers wishing to be comforted,
but the weighing of the worth of comfort,

lay preachers seldom do, to my knowledge.

Terminus gnosis, all I know, my bubble of knowns;
this is it…
a thousand stacks of sensible lines, atop precepts,

strewn beside the trail.
Heavy
heuristic heretical how-to do as I dones,
published by faith in the thousands, litter
the little hills the psalmist asked,
why they writhed and twisted,
as in a dance of anger wishing,

clear channel, me and the truth, today,
just/instance, this/ now.

Free am I, by the faith in me, but you
already
knew that,

don't you?
Don't you know, there is a musing mind,
we wear to bed, some nights,
we lay on memory foam, some nights.

Thinking sorted thoughts, untying lying links,
links to educated guesses fed you as new reasons

to be ever vigilant, ever ready to defend the faith,
the laughing faith of a child, leaping
into the sky

- my grandson, I just learned,
- asked for more math.

No class common man, that is what I am,
on the cusp of next, looking back,
at the mess I left, like a cyclone,
randomly distributing seeds of kindness, specs
by which an idle word can activate troves
of ancient autoresponders, each guessing
what if, what if not,
what if, what if not,
what if, what
if
not now, when. Pop.
Bubbles of been, leave go, go on, think it

through, and passed through, into
the now
where we formed, letters, letting words wait,
sit still, ready
for the reader, ready
to steady the quivering fearful thing,
lost in thought,
stuck in stacks of holy orders, hearer only,
only ordainded doers do the trick,
intricate, folding to make not a paper swan,

too, easy. Make a protein. With no model,
just the idea in the word applied to science,
proper pose, super knowing, proto-life-ish thing,
that is digestible using an infantile nourishing node.

What tricks do you know?, the magi aske Moshe.
Snake from a staff.

From the crozier of goatherd, sure,
we can all do that. What else?
---
Allusions to ever knowing, knowing as old
as knowledge given girls at their flowering,
as old a mystery as any orphaned mother may tell
her great grand daughters,
nobody told me any thing,

but I took it as normal,

As the patient potency prefecting
effectual
fervent
prayer, dramatized, made big as all
art
any
bubbled artifice holding essences,

essential bits of the daily grind to gloss
the leading intellect's reason for being
so shiny,
Klimt golden, as that one kiss I recall,

yes, a facsimile, a memory evocation,

a kiss, golden in that moment, infected
with a feeling
dramatized to be offered to all who see,
intricacies,
khipu twists and loops and bundles and beads,

accounting for dues,
instructing kaballah, pass it on

Excuse me, are you in the right realm,
we feel pluralized,
but you don't fit,
we are uniform,
uninformed,

excathedra, listen up, all eight billion now living, are destined
for certain death,
it is a matter of time, dying once,
can happen anytime,

and if there is a second death, so far,
I never saw any body do it twice,
once truth makes what I am free,
we stay free,
amen,
reception accepted kaballah, et al,
take that greasy grace, feel it,
as the oil ran down Aaron's beard,

and there were no poor denied
starship rations,
until the comet hit and all
but a single mind
blew, into this
a complete fiction,
or another compleat guide to fishing

Imagine the magic of the sailor's accounting book,
envision the magic of levers, and pulleys and cogged
wheels feeling the weight

ping
2023 Gravity driven or gravity powered, is it
one
or the other, when it come be to inspire
first fears
to frame wisdom pools,
at depths we learn
to believe,
prove each participant,
worthy of keeping,
the secret.
Salt of the earth, deep down dehr dat
Caribbean Sea,
shore line fracture,
follow the riverwise road,
any thing you think you must bear,
don't blame,
sometimes it pays, to bend.
Grasshopper Locust practice, for the mind
of an ant.

Wisdom harnessed the fear of God,
put it down,
in other words,
when there was nothing
but E, mass and time being assent
esse, sentient, in sentient and ex
insentience, sapient over lay,
- honeycomb tripe pattern, say
- why not ruminate enclosed
- in a beauteous inner digestive
- recluse-exclusive-sub-science con
ified, tied ligously, fi,
to witty means, and ways we prove
gravity is our friend, driven power for all life,
strong as earth itself, but, we are

in the burning phase,
let me bring you down,
cause being accused, does that
to a stranger
being
entertained, or entertaining, on an aitia
let me
reason,

have you come for more, or do we have
too much
of too many things
to make too much
sense
of any particular reader/writer ifery algorithm,
if then,
else is this, current, slow, nodding, flux,
capacitance
loading axially,
if each mind thinks right once,
today, we have enough,
let's save the world.
- that easy, eh?
global restoration, Christ, yes,
that is the plan.
As the planet was.
Prior to Peleg's days.
Intended to have a single
dry land mass,
Wisdom pushed
for plates meeting
and using ice
at the top
of the world, as seen polaris up,
spinning
in a slow wobble
through four
seasonal positional hot-cool-cold-warm
gyre drivers, saline liquid epicycles, sisters
of the four winds
as a flywheel effect
in the telling times… a little imbalence leaning helps
with the wobble,
in the event,
slim to none,
the odds, but,
Don't Look Up. It could
reoccur, and shall, if
Nietzsche's epicycle

has wheels. Graham Hancock, on clocks…cosmic

Mindspacetime, the elite flight,
secretshitistic, it is, most certain, it is
fantasmic imagining
E not equal any thing, mere words
-jello-timingoooisht
between me and thee,
no point, not one, between the we
we become,
in the final analysis, if you wish,

might
you wish,
long, lazy river readers, re-mind
their lost selves, how innocense felt.

The worth of an unsold story, given
as a gift, as a poor artist might
attempt
a portrait
of their daughter's children

- "that little thing"
Done. As best he could, he believed,
at the time,
as it is
with
everything being as is when we arrive,
we adapt
or become the insane opposition,
to anything,
just
be the counter weight on the pendulum,

keep things swingin'

feel time slide
into the real deal,
at the crossroads
in the wayback seat,
sayin' honey, you ain't here
after what I'm here after,
y'gonna be there, after I'm gone, as  asong
that was
once a joke ended you gonnabe here
after I'm gone, but

seemsayin' eye
squint, see,
way back
when,
we were otherwise involved, affirming
sacred oathes, we swore as children learn
IT being life, whatever,
it don't mean
nothin'
is not a joke, it's ahint, to readers, ready
writing is key to reading,
vertical eyed
qwerty keying is learned,
phone wide,
natural, feels familiar
style adaptation
as cuneiform once was,
years of hearing the same words,
said and resaid, story after story stacked
in
time, measured by stargazers, called, by god,
eyes like eagles, these minds expand, and see
the order of the cosmos,
and the chaos of the collective sub-science

locked by a generational curse on oathes
under the God those kids had in mind,
September, 1954, first day of school,
all across the Wyatt Earp of Nations,
each child not religiously exempted,
stood, right
hand on heart and repeated, as a national
student body, K through 12, a pledge,
local time 9 a.m. nationwide,
not unlike
a true Tenant's pledge of fealty,
as recorded in
The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
- buzz nod what instance… seven seconds
Sorry, Under God, was added to the pledge
that year, that affectionizes those exposed,
we meander under god, think it not strange.
It’s a legendary trait, we'll all be remembered a bit.
- default modemod is always beguiling temptation
- for temptation sake, win a game, get the rush.
of chasing hares
to where the conies hide,
feeble folk, but they live among big rocks,
reason enough,
use what you know is right,
hide from things that eat you,
that evolves
in nations
with no elders, constant defence mode
peace makers seem
feeble folk,
who knew,
and fell away, impossible to renew,

whoah, zeke play me that riddle,
'bout scrublands being humbly blissed
so long- wayback, anchoring the authority
17
that's me, I
fiddled around
and blew the clearwater revival
to kingdom come, Muddy Waters, aight
and there was hippies, ever whar, swanee,
so I do, I swan no no no no mo
lie like the devil for the sake of church heritage,
holy warrior sworn, heart torn, tears shed, tongues
spoken.
You know, when gravity is taken
in, your weight, sunk
into the reasoning
swung wide
in progress, no aim, past the cloud,
for crying out loud, this is louder than ever,
listen, no
silence
all that
noise, is natural
to persons genitivally, ok, cross
shadowed animus anima imitation,
in your cultural genes, cowgirl
seeing the world a yingyang thang,
with gravity and the E-magnetic shields
allowing systems to com-uni-cate locally,

scarey
indeed

too much,
the scope
of any thing one might think
or ask,
as in what was that rule
of LAW once?
I read
Compleat Fisherman's Guide U recall led
to , yes, The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
is on Google books, masterfully typeset

Feel free to learn all you will, 'tis all in the Common.

as, by now is much that may have been, otherwise,
in needier times,
less riches, more sorrow,
less sorrows, more riches, peace.

Made that my after all battlefield task,
no mas win or lose.

My side, on the scalar models is gravity empowered,
heavyweight, ancient concept,
gradient slopes
with long lazy loops
on the downhill side,
listening
to kids make all the noise they wish,
two chalk walls away,
in the bubble we all breathe.

To this day, whatever it took, it worked.
Life gets as good as you can make up a mind

to accept, as
this is it,
this is my bit. My close up. To the exact point
where I breathed that bubblierised wedom-opinion

opinion opinion opinion okeh, settle years ago, okay
we all say okeh here, holy ground,
entire collection of recollection on that victory alone.

Okeh, is still the proto voice model, ok.

The perplexities of the dark night sky
Give the day a sour taste of pleasure
Tick tock
Mind, go to sleep
Let my eyes rest
To visit the dream world of fantasy and the escape from reality.
Imagination i set you free.
Tick tock
My mind is insane
Do not tell me I did not warn you
Tick tock
Mysterious sounds of the dark
The creatures of the night are back
With their habits, that no one dares to see.
Tick tock
Give up,
The malicious laughter in the back of your head will not stop.
The voice that come at midnight will keep you up
Tick tock
Sounds that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up
Air grows cold.
They are finally here...
Tick..... T

The spoilt demons coil out the merriment which I feel inside my heart to rid off their vibes which lead them towards insecurities. They just want their needs to be served and cravings to be fulfilled. They have a virtual dissent from my claim that I own them. They think they are inherently independent and will always remain. Their coherent behavior has made me remember the words of those royalties which used to persuade me about the existence of these demons and I used to seize those remarks and then try so hard to make them slip away like a gushing sand so I could make an excuse that they were non-existent. Those royalties were brimmed with a longitude of wisdom and a latitude of experience. I still feel the vibes of those affliction which these demons send towards my way so I might get mutilated through them. But, they fail each time. After collapsing from a great height of my courage, they just enclose themselves in a prairie of desolation. I abduct them in the cage of my valor and ask them about their endeavors which they have channelized to make me their captive. I ask them about the further strategies of crushing me down. Their weak laughter spills out everything whatever they yearn to utter but then those utterance is roped by the pull of tongue and these ****** black holes become silent and remain in an unanswered state forever. I plunged deep into my perplexities and found my answers myself. Those answers didn't dazzle because I guess my introspection triumphed this time. Those answers came up with a ****** of agonies and a drummer of torments. The only thing which was in scarce was the tumultuous droughts of wisdom which nulls out the ferocious waves of experience. I couldn't do anything except closing my eyes and going with the flow. Alas! I could destroy those ****** dark holes forever. They still can transform into various ways because they are 'independent' demons. Let counterattack their modes of transmission so they can get dependent on me. But, wait, what if I invited them myself through my vengeance and rage..Then, they will have a right to maintain an usurp ******* on me and I would be devastated. Lets just go with the flow and enjoy the perks of Dementia ——forgetfulness.

I’ve been left alone in my class as I always am.

I observe how beige encrustings work on the ceiling humming electronically in this feeble light we have with our current weather like mistied silver with choked charcoal out of someone’s throat stoic with inexistent illness.

It seems to me I’m pressed with time to go out as I usually am
by some codexes
but I just can’t help being glued standing to my chair and watching with an unspecified wistfulness and melancholy as students’ bike
/
come and go here from above
/
and no one knows how many afternoons of watching or window sill standing I’ve spent like that,
where the window the teacher has every time overlooks one
of these trees only I keep in my mind’s eye
and all that with me included stays
abandoned (but not exactly morosely) to play the part of watch keepers lasting still
like pillars no one will account for.

And l felt how my shift there and the thing I and this room made chose you to be answered there.
And as I couldn’t help but keep carrying the conscience luggage with you within it so carefully whilst I was blending my abandoned singing there with how you might be transfixing yourself in perplexities of uncertainty.
And I’m telling you I read your text place just when it came, have been carrying you as my desired task to, as an injured animal yet with no degradation this state. I kept making a letter I would give inside my eyes and small fidgets of hands.

I wonder at how it is I who writes
and how it is You who writes.
One another.

Once in the midst of a bleak October, as I wandered, meek and sober,
Over the piles of crisp and crunchy leaves on the lonely forest floor–
I began to ponder what was true, when suddenly there came into view
As if someone carelessly threw, through the forest’s ****,
Some wood and glass and shingles, amidst the forest’s ****.
A House, there stood, with a solitary door.

“A lonely House,” I muttered, and promptly thereafter shuddered
At the whisperings I had uttered, and the weight that each word bore.
This lonely House seemed haunted, yet part of me still wanted
To carry on undaunted, and discover what was in store —
What, beyond the creaky porch and faded walls, did lie in store.
I approached the solitary door.

Trembling and trepid I clambered up the stairs, poised for any future scares.
Each shaky breath lingered as I faced the lonesome door,
With a **** I began rapping, gently — ever so gently — tapping,
Hoping that my slapping, admission beyond would implore.
But it soon became clear there was no one to implore.
With that, I opened up the door.

As my eyes to this new dim lighting did adjust, I noticed first the layer of dust
That covered every table, every curtain, every drawer.
Photos hung on all the walls, from floor to ceiling and down the halls,
I could nearly hear the calls from the faces framed in the House’s decor;
From every piece and parcel of this House’s aberrant decor.
Behind me closed the lonesome door.

It was then that I first noticed, abruptly and in the remotest,
Something even more erratic than before.
The walls — they were breathing! The lungs inside were seething.
I could even hear a beating, beating beneath the floor;
A heartbeat — I swore it was! — beating beneath the floor.
I turned and fled toward the door.

Locked! The door was locked! I recoiled as if struck and balked.
In my panic to escape I stumbled and swore.
I felt the House around me shiver, every photo began to quiver,
A shuddering sigh it did deliver, as I stared blankly at the solitary door.
The single, lonesome, solitary door.
My efforts to escape were no more.

Slowly then I turned — I could not deny I was concerned —
As an eerie creak alerted me to the opening of a second door.
Without warning the ground beneath me bucked, and I nearly lost my conduct
As through this door I was ******, and taken to its core;
Deeper into the House I was drawn, and taken to its core.
Behind me closed the second door.

In the next room, I noticed straight away, the House was in much less a state of decay;
Beneath the layer of dust and drear, there were elements I did adore.
Though still ramshackle and broken, this room appeared strong — oaken —
As if it held secrets unspoken, and desired me to explore.
The House, I think it trusted me, and I desired to explore.
The fear I felt — it was no more.

This room was full of closets and chests, all of them locked to prying guests,
Each one a mysterious piece of the House’s hidden lore.
This House, I felt, needed to be known, though its secrets were rarely shown
And it was accustomed to being alone, so I wanted to know it more.
The curiosity inside of me longed to know more.
Yet I was wary now, unlike before.

“How could something so exquisite,” I murmured as I paid the pictures a visit,
“Be left so empty, so dark and dusty, so completely uncared for?”
Again I felt the walls throb, releasing a sound like a strangled sob.
“I once had caretakers to do the job, but they ravaged me and left me sore.
Yes, they rattled and ruined me and left me sore.
And for that, newcomers I do deplore.”

I was startled at first, I will admit, by the House’s unexpected wit,
Though not dissuaded even a bit by her poignant roar.
I was more determined than ever to know this House’s heartbreaking tale of woe,
And I longed to in some way show that not everyone wanted war —
This House deserved to be loved and shown that not all people wanted war.
Her confidence I wished to restore.

“Your story is horrific, to be true.  Why would anyone wish to harm you?”
And with sincerity anew, I continued, “Please do not abhor
The state of my ubiety, nor misinterpret my dubiety.
I do not desire to cause anxiety, nor for you to suffer anymore.
I will do my utmost to guarantee, you shall not suffer anymore.”
To this I swore.

“House, you are a treasure. You were meant for so much pleasure.
I can see the perplexities, all the wondrous mysteries in store.
I know you have been hurt, and to outsiders you stand alert,
Your pain has caused you to invert, but I want to know you more.
To study you, to hear you, and to come to know you more.
Only this, and nothing more.”

The House moaned and trembled, “I’ve come too far to be disassembled;
I’ve been whipped and whacked, and been made into a *****.
I used to be addressable, to everyone I was accessible,
My love and trust were irrepressible, once in the days of yore.
I was open, but misunderstood and unexplored, back in the days of yore.
That was all before.

“You see, my design is ever-changing; my rooms are constantly rearranging;
I have closets and chests and attics and cupboards galore.
For most it’s just too much; too much work, too much effort to touch,
So they abandon me as such. For them I became a chore.
Tiresome, irksome, heedlessly rushed through — to them I’m just a chore.
Only this, and nothing more.”

It was here that every wall then shook, every niche and every nook.
“I only long to be truly known, and for the torment I once bore
To be completely disproven, and for a second chance to be given
For someone honorable to move in, to appreciate me to my core.
Someone I can entrust with my rooms, who will know me to my core.”
Then I heard the opening of every lonesome door.

From here the House guided me, and slowly relinquished every key,
Acquainted me with every banshee, and accompanied me to every floor.
Never once did I desert her, it never crossed my mind to hurt her,
And all her scars that once were, after a time were no more.
The longer I stayed, the deeper I knew, and soon her scars were no more.
I daily felt her spirit soar.

It’s been years since House and I first met, and I’ve never been to her a threat.
She’s never had reason to fret, because this haunted House I do adore.
Some days are hard; sometimes I find she’s on her guard,
Or a window she has barred, but I never have need to implore.
No longer do I wonder and fear, nor ever have need to implore.
For I know what lies behind every lonesome door.

rinsing my flask, this late afternoon
and scouring to steal anything from my father's humble tavern: Chilean.

bought on stolen wine, this daze,
pacing itself carefully, as masterful as
a leering puma poised to strike

with a dull blade duller than stab-wound,
nobody heard this primal man cry in the
woods and i'm no dangerous man.

just a shadow that fits the sizable hands
of the world cupped, the afternoon is slain and the hue is its blood:

something the brush of the wind
sensuously brings a roulette of red
  blue, lavender, viridian,
plucked out of the vermilion
wading out as a debris forgotten waltzes
with the river underneath the kamagong— an answerless enigma amid all
    perplexities,

are we but nothing whilst we live?

In time,
we all become the pearls
until then the
swine have their way.

Oysters and clams and man's desire to rule,
the opening and shutting of mouths
oh
the fool of it,
blowing perplexities like bubbles of gum
chewing on daydreams hoping some truth
will come from the eyes of blind soldiers who
fight for a King to bring home their blindness
who then will sing of
the beauty in war?

only the dead for the quick get away.

Stay awhile Sally and tell me some more of
the why and the wherefore,
art thou the scribe who writes legends on skin
tattoos the bullets that rattle on in and in a moment
of madness draw pictures of children asleep
in the fray,
stay awhile Sally and write me this death of a day.

In time if time allows the why and the how of it
will be written on tombstones and in this place
of dry bones filled with sorrow and grief,
a relief
is surely on the way.

here begins the inconsequential tale of the often dazed and disordered galaxy that is myself, a being complied of a disarray of many perplexities that seem to structure this petite framework of a human body, attained with a memory of pablo neruda balladries and an affinity for the convoluted, intricate aspects of life. many of these compositions are latent, obscure pieces that i have chosen to keep undisclosed, however i firmly believe that sharing my expressions and assessments of what i have envisioned through my eyes could be deemed cathartic. consequently, enjoy these chaotic chapters of very extensive yet overtly down-hearted paragraphs and ostensibly compressed sentimental writings; they were all short-lived, yet felt like an eternity when scribbled senselessly into a diary by a hard-headed omission.

the Unknowable Other - God
         my unknowable self - Todd
              lately my lonesome life - odd ...

July 1999

The moon makes patterns on my floor,
leaf-edged and almost still.

The thick blanket of night silence cushions
the little sounds
of talking wood,
the rhythmic heartbeat of a dripping tap,
a bark in the distance
that is passed on faithfully in highs and lows
to north and south and east and west.
I wish I understood its message.

Sensitivity quivers
and a hundred crawling perplexities
mate and multiply and mutate
into grotesque monsters
that pulse electric shock
after shock
after shock
until the patterns on the floor
reduce them to limp, exhausted slugs.

I long for night to end and never end.

Leaf-edged and almost still,
the moon makes patterns on my mind.

Laced with historic allusion
Confusion
Don’t know what to speak of
Or how to exude it
A presence relentless
In its mystifying
Perplexities tantalus
Solace undying
Engaged in the way
I fall prey
To her spell
When I’m under the cover
Of darkness
I dwell in