A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

Yo im off the dome
Like JFK snipped by the CIA
Serenade the streets with AKs
Day by day i prey the prey
Im the predator
I keep my styles mixed up
Like  a news editor
So **** a critic and a creditor
The source can **** my ****
Til the nuts shown
From the microphone  
I hold ya know the storys being told
The true about me replica of the old hip hop
This ******* got to stop
Nigguhs rhymin' no meanin'
Everyday im.schemin' load the triple beams and
Aim it at the radio station this is **** nation
No hesitation
Give up the endz and the ******* with the flawless skin
And big ***** smoke L's til the filter ashes
Im rougher than babies rashes
I leave a **** bigger than car crash
The means my rhymes is collision
Ya need a new vision im your envision
Ya wish you could be next to me
Or that BiG
Rap phenom droppin bars like a bombs
Come get it if you want some??
Only to my carnage the merciless
Holocaust
Got my enemies prayin' more than a Holy Mosque  
Your fadin' and hatin' only creatin'
A bigger ground for my stage persona
Tote Marijuana got a stash of cash in Tijuana
MEXICO and if you come close to the cheese
Im.gonna
Burn you nigguhs hotter than a sauna
The black iguana
Camouflage with my fatigue up my stakes
Now im the major leagues
Hittin' this fools harder than Joe Louis  
Who could do this??
Hits better than we
Bow ya heads and send a prayer for thee
Pray that i dont catch you slippin'
Put a mute to a lippin'
Ill empty more LA clips than Blake Griffin' 

Verse 1 (Honey *******):
***** I'm Honey *******, bout to bring em some pain.
All my haters like a choir, they all singin my name.
Ain't got a heart for a broad that's the rule of the game.
Now you a fool if you aim.
Ill put a tool to ya brain.
I'm bout to get it and spend it.
If I said it, I meant it.
#FuckYoFeelings. ******* weapon.
Act like a ***** Ill raise your blessings YOW
You are not familiar with me.
If you come makin a move, ***** yo visitor me

Verse 2 (Tyga):
Its that drop top phenom chop.
All gold rolly top.
**** yo fans, **** a cop.
All my ******* Betty bop.
Betty boop, ******* out.
Gangsta **** punch you in yo mouth.
***** I don't know what you talkin bout.
Flossin now you need dentist now Augh AUGH
**** around and Rodney King the beat.
Bout that war like Vietnamese.
Feelin froggy ***** leap.
I'm that *****, you obsolete.
I'm in that game you know P-T
R-E-C My Swa A-G. Only way you copying me ***** Augh

Verse 3 (Honey *******):
Asian ***** on another degree.
Give me some space, move out my place, ***** I'm just tryna breath.
Now if you, see me around your way don't holler at me.
I just can't waste all my time cuz I be eatin these beats.
Listen you rats here just a captain me.
You ain't me homie you just act like me.
Well you should watch yo actions please.
Cuz there might be some casualties Augh augh
They about to witness it. Last Kings but I'm still on my Queen **** SCHWAG

Verse 4 (Tyga):
Aim aim at yo membrane just for sayin
I'm insane and your girl give me neck, Hang man.
I ain't playin, I never did lie.
Lay around and open yo thighs
****** gon pop like fish gonna fry
Nggas talkin greasy like the sh*t got slide WOW
High 5. Clap yo face. Change yo disguise, I work hard for the money. Money don't ever come in yo life.
A ******* right. When you lie, everybody wanna be just like.
******* to the middle of yo eyes.
Young young Ty T-Raw need a Heisman Aaaahh

Beauty is of the colors in the garden of fruit, You are beautiful from the texture to the bottom of your roots, Oh so beautiful I lust for your flavor, Beauty is of the twinkle in your eyes that remind me of the stars, I see you shine in the night from the light on my walls, Oh how I wish upon you, Beauty is of the soul I see inside you, If it's too late can I just get time too call you beautiful..

Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall  in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away

Logan Robertson

4/14/2019

THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Staid quanta of individuality. Phenom asks if they can go. The Big Mouth replies, babble babble. In a fit of rage, Phenom shouts, I’ve had enough of this. They wrench themselves off the dissection table, fetters flying into the air, but a sudden bout of vertigo sets in. They lie back down. The Big Mouth sticks a thermometer into their mouth and begins heating a can of corn soup.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Professor Kippotkin takes the stage. She coughs into the mic to quiet the audience, but they are caught in sordid *******. She coughs again, managing only to project a trail of spit onto the shoulder of the nearest security guard. He turns immediately, a perfect ninety-degrees spin, automatically signalling the first in command. He has been trained since seventeen for this one task of momentous disciplinary precision. The first in command bellows, Let her speak! a phrase his colleagues repeat in serial down the chain of command.

The crowd soon catches on. An isolated few nod in consternation. Let her speak! they yell from the pits of their lungs, Let her speak!

Thank you, thank you all, Professor Karlpoppins exclaims, cheeks flush with amazement. More and more of the crowd join in. It is a rousing spectacle, a poignant display of human decency. But something is awry. The professor’s gratitude is swallowed into a cacophonous whole. Let her speak! The carnal grip of the big Other’s command unleashes the crowd’s jouissance. United in the master discourse, the crowd fragments into a bewildered totality. Let her speak! they scream at one another, arms jostling, heads tilting back, necks bared to the beating pulse of the earth-sky. LET HER SPEAK! Their combined blows begin to generate an ominous om.

Pl-please, Professor Kibbiezsche sputters, please, everyone! but the crowd have already forgotten her existence. Reams of toilet paper fly through the air. A crashing plane sounds in the distance. Crops burn.

The security team are forced to intervene. They close in from the sides, wielding riot shields and tear gas. HYPOCRITES! one of the members of the crowd screams. OPPRESSORS OF THE WORD! another follows. Footage of security guards flailing on the ground circulate on social media, tagged with the phrase WHO SPEAKS MY SPEAK?

Within twenty four hours, the whole country is ablaze with media coverage. Political scientists gather with literary scholars to speak the unspeakable into commercially-viable forms. Semiotext(e) sign a deal with Hollywood to write a docudrama about Baudrillard’s turbid *** life. Professor Kubblebutts is flown to Hawaii to give a speech on combine harvesters.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
I desire, therefore I am not. Incantation of the other spills through my greasy fingers as I fumble towards the hot sauce, dollop dollop, chicken salt strewn across the nommy wedges. That’ll be $4.50. They have already handed me the note. Our fingers touched for the briefest second, an anointment of the greasy chicken, the wedge fingers, the have a good night mister gurgle bop.

The taxi man sits outside in the cold, back heated by the friction of the smoothie machine, an indefinite spin, western civilisation’s meltdown. The turgid heat breezes past my neck and I sigh, almost in delight, but mostly out of convention and solidarity with the other workers. I hear the pitter pat of my shiftpanion as she scoops hot chips into the fresh night; it is so fresh, there is still so much night, why are you giving me $5 dollars, there is a bug on your face.

I take a break. The cool taxi man glances over just as I put my hands down my pants to shift my boxers into a more comfortable why is it always like this.

Everyone blames Foucault for destroying agency, but agency only arises in the gap between discourses, which is never a gap in power, but rather, the transversal of one power relation into the discursive matrix of another; what appears original is merely the same performance in the wrong site, that’ll be $24 for your **** and condoms.

The crumbled fish is shrinking with each passing day, little gasping body beneath the heat lamp, waffle waffle, waffle waffle, I am suffocating :)

WHY WE OPPOSE:
|||||FEeling BOLD? FeEL BOldbous ;;;; new Paracetamol Jelly and the KINK-CATS tour out the last week—
Thank you for holding. Please note this conversation may be recorded.
To continue, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
and again, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
Please note that this conversation is being recorded for the purposes of confirming your identity.
||"thanks"

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Slowly, slowly, Juniper sinks into the bed frame, the draughty window, the rotting sink. Hibiscus coveted for its prophetic dreams, pale steam smites nostalgia for a vision of the beyond. Streamlined entry into New World, an endless reshelving of family-value Mi Goreng, stormwater through the hollow vessels that twist beneath Juniper’s soles.

Juniper climbs the Garden steps. Pale trace of past motions set to automate at the slightest incline. The cloying rot beneath the pines pulls her closer and closer to the vital cache, the hidden excess. Another hedgehog climbs the mound; it admits its body, it expands in putrefaction.

Exiting onto the street, Juniper is greeted by a sign that reads “Caution. Night Shooting. Stay Out.”

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Steam creeps the mouth of the lid. Pallid flesh of yesterday’s body, settles the kitchen table, the hand, as motes crumple beneath gravity’s well. Mottled refuse, tied with a plastic ribbon, thrown into the street. Keys digging trenches, grandfather, the hollow behind my knee.

Last summer I waited for the rain in the dry concrete channel of the Leith. I was alone with the kayaks and the road cones and the fish, holes festering, showing their ribs in the walls of our flat, legs spread wearing high school sweaters, unable to breathe through cling wrap.

The summer before that, I watched films of myself bashing in the heads of strangers. Every night the ceiling of my mouth would transfigure into a doorway and I’d force my tongue through its serrated edges, waking with a new face. The cassettes would arrive soon after, testimonies of a brute physicality I could not remember enacting.

Earth grins, death strides. Hydraulic incisors pry the dead awake. At the smallest unit of life: phones, condoms, water bottles.

Her heartstrings are breaking chords
Her tears are like pepper flakes
Her hands are just the right size, holding up the neck of her favorite art

LET'S RAISE A TOAST
TO THE HERO OF ZEROS.
THE NOMINAL PHENOM.
THE LEGENDARY LOSER!
LAY WREATHS AT THE FEET
OF THE SLACKER KING,
AND ASK FOR NOTHING,
WHICH IS ALL HE CAN GIVE YOU.

NO SONG OR DANCE
OR MINIMAL EFFORT.
JUST AND ONLY
ABJECT FAILURE,
TO SPREAD LIKE BUTTER
OVER AN ARMY OF SLEEPWALKERS,
WHO TRUDGE THROUGH THE NIGHT
TO GET NOTHING DONE.

SAY A WORD FOR THE MAN
WITH TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS.
WHO ISN'T WORKING ON ANYTHING
SO THAT WE CAN HAVE EVERYTHING.

Fourteen days after impact
I reached into my pocket and found a phenomenon
on a crumbled up piece of photo paper
him and I stared back up at me
and suddenly I stood alone on the crumbled memory
next to a stranger with a face I've never seen before
Barely wallpaper, a face in a crowd
A passerby on a street that never settles to a simmer
Fourteen days after impact I threw away a crumbled piece of photo paper
That might as well have been a candy wrapper
A phenomenon called
out of sight, out of mind, out of hearts, out of photos

I look in the mirror and I see it in my eyes,

I start to feel it in my heart,

It's all things that can make a man cry,

It is distance that we part



I didnt think it would take much for you to realize,

To read between the lines,

To look deeper inside,

Take the time,

For us to confide



It's love I wish to share,

It's something fragile I need to give,

So please listen, take a chair,

My life...with you, I want to live



One second,one minute,one moment,

I want you to give me,

To show you what Im worth,

To get you to believe

Cupid has lended me a curse,

Of falling in love with the first I see



Im sickened by you, I need a love nurse,

I really think I do, I do

They say that some phenom makes your heart skip a beat,

And I know its because of you



The thought of love, passion, or desire,

I think of it as love's heart burn,

Because my heart finds you hot like fire,

For the love teacher, I have already learned



Now I want to quit wasting time and acually experiance it,

They say choose where your heart takes you,

So I try things a bit,

because your heart is known to seek truth,

And I followed my hearts footsteps

It lead me to where I met you...

A phenom pursue movement
by midnight if entrained encampment
flush by her heels while quatrain will absorb
when she only a heaping there in life with
hers round circumference as deeply met
for a week if her sorcery became a tempest rife
in horsepower with such antigen that an earthquake
with even more liquefaction than mere mention
on cruises her regression must also play into her automobile
and forebode her ritual in speeding in class action.

Separation Anxiety.
To court this phenom, we must first observe
Its grandiose stature, to which we will unnerve
For as permanent as the night sky may be,
Only its constellated decorations do we see.
And each single time we interrupt the night,
We initiate stellar parallax, and to our sight,
We see the shift of our feeling strangle
And find the cords of our heart untangle
To twists and and turns in heaven’s shrine
And a comet shall fall in my hands
Its all mine.

I look in the mirror and I see it in my eyes,

I start to feel it in my heart,

It's all things that can make a man cry,

It is distance that we part



I didnt think it would take much for you to realize,

To read between the lines,

To look deeper inside,

Take the time,

For us to confide



It's love I wish to share,

It's something fragile I need to give,

So please listen, take a chair,

My life...with you, I want to live



One second,one minute,one moment,

I want you to give me,

To show you what Im worth,

To get you to believe

Cupid has lended me a curse,

Of falling in love with the first I see



Im sickened by you, I need a love nurse,

I really think I do, I do

They say that some phenom makes your heart skip a beat,

And I know its because of you



The thought of love, passion, or desire,

I think of it as love's heart burn,

Because my heart finds you hot like fire,

For the love teacher, I have already learned



Now I want to quit wasting time and acually experiance it,

They say choose where your heart takes you,

So I try things a bit,

because your heart is known to seek truth,

And I followed my hearts footsteps

It lead me to where I met you...

.

It comes and goes
Wind and laughter
Does it matter
No one knows

Bend to break now
Gutter phenom
Hated Hinnom
Oh and how

such a voice....
quieted, but never stilled
the world has.... one less
phenom.....
one less laureate....

we as poet's .....have lost a mother
a keen eyed woman....that could speak to souls...
....make the caged... fly
her voice soft, or strident
knew my heart....led me forth...
gave me countless fresh starts....

is now at rest... but echoing
still... and forever.....
and the bird still sings.....
a beautiful song..

god bless ...maya....god bless

She use to be strong enough to cover me
When the devil peeked a view
In the summer
Now she a walker numb to her pain
Like a wife who plays dumb to drunk dialing and lols
Knowing none of those calls or text went to her cell
Shes on fire from his smoke
Blowing out ignorance her intake
deliverance from hades that
Plagues her from the Amazon to the Euphrates
But he rather talk Zion being a potential phenom
Instead of air quality becoming a dichotomy between lobbyists and kids playing without a health risk
He tears what holds your beauty together
Every article tossed aside
Headline reads destruction
But he rewords and calls it “needed construction”
When improvements are made its only in his favor while you keep him safe like a good neighbor
You are losing your cool, temperament
Rising but it isn’t surprising the sentiment
He provides resides undisclosed
Since your only valuable without clothes
So your mouth stays closed
No man is different from China, USA, and Iran
Your health can melt over there wealth or at least thats how they all portrayed
Since your the only one for him but he acts like he can draft another Trae
So you just let him be young and
dumb but the path ahead won’t leave either numb

It is like shaking hands with a bag of oyster crackers;
Joints sprained, ligaments torn, fingers fractured
And splayed off in several different directions
Like a weathervane that has had a rather nasty shock, indeed,
The whorls of his fingertips, the uneven rise and fall of the knuckles
Serving as a travelogue of a lifetime spent
In towns not quite ready for the big time:
Olean, Oneonta, Visalia, Valdosta, a dozen more besides,
A million miles on buses
Of uncertain vintage and roadworthiness.
Each scar and swelling, each uneven path
Between base and fingertip has a tale of its own;
The ring finger on the left hand first broken
By a Big Bob Veale fastball that was supposed to be a curve,
Later snapped again by Steve Dalkowski,
Who, drinking quite a bit by then
(When ol’ Steve had put away a few, he notes ruefully,
You didn’t want to hit him, catch him,
Or sit in the first few rows behind the plate)
Most likely never saw the sign
Indicating slider instead of high heat.
The index finger on his throwing hand?  
Well, that was from a foul tip in…Wellsville in ’59?  Walla Walla in ’62?
When you’ve bit up by the ball as many times as I have,
You tend to forget what you tore up when.
Ah, but no such problem with the right pinkie;
That was snapped one cold April night
Somewhere between Winnipeg and Duluth,
During a poker game when a backup infielder
Produced an unexpected and wholly inexplicable king
Seemingly from nowhere.

But those hands!  They were, in the lexicon of the scouts
(The same ones who labeled him
With the dreaded tag of “good field, no hit”)
Who trolled the sandlot parks
And high school fields of his childhood, “soft”;
Indeed, he could cradle a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball like an infant,
And, with the gentlest and most imperceptible of movements,
Turn the wildness of a nineteen-year-old phenom
Into an inning-ending third strike, and even now,
Two decades of bad lighting and jury-rigged equipment
Having turned the topography of his digits craggy and asymmetrical,
They seem as smooth and supple as they were at nineteen,
With all the strength and unsullied smoothness of youth,
As he grips and waggles an unseen bat
In the course of retelling
(In his one brief, glorious spring in camp with the big club)
How he doubled to the gap in right-center
Off none other than the great Whitey Ford himself.

the length of the write....
varies with the vagaries
of the topic and  type.

the time taken,
is often time....
forsaken,
forgotten,
forgiven.
a pause,
a rest.
stolen,
from a busy life.

the inspiration,
the notion,
the intonation.
sometimes,
a slow burn....
sometimes
a conflaguration

for me,
there is no formula.
no ritua.
just a pen
and a scrap of paper.

for me,
it is a brain,
just letting go,
giving up....
word flow

flotsam and jetsam
driftin along,
caught in the framework
of  creative phenom....
and given to me,
as i wander along.

thats why
punctuation,
does not figure.
just workin,
the beauty of
the words.

stitchin rhymes with
non, appros, de rigueur.

making words dance
on sprained syllable ligaments.
******* with thoughtful
ligatures.
spread with inspirational
linaments.

not needing,
the lime light.
but wanting some
bright candle work,
for to illuminate,
the process of the precepts,
to the multitudinal few...
who see through...
the intricate footwork,
to the stumbling
fatigue underneath....

sometimes long
and wordy,
sometimes succinct
and brief

but always, always,
with purpose...

sometimes mine
but often left
up  to you...

the reader.

thats how i do.....

Life is meaningless
Life is pointless
Is anyone seeing this
Disappointment?
I become avoidant
From annoyance
I slip into a depression
Bringing an obsession
Of not learning lessons
Just getting high every second

I’m ****** in strife
Not living the examined life
Against a canon’s might
Loaded with grams of white
Shooting me high as a kite
So I can ignore my plight
Of having to fight

The murky waters shifted
Into my blood stream they drifted
I was euphoria gifted
Learning to be lifted
I became a hedonistic
Phenom misfit
Talking cryptic
And apocalyptic

I see the haughty led
Talking heads
As the walking dead
Stalking dread
They want me red
But their haunting bled
My arm instead
The only blood I shed
Is from my carnal bed
On the path I tread

A needle goes in
Blood comes out
I live in sin
I live in doubt
Looking for an escape route

I’m a cynical buyer
In a situation dire
Sick and tired
Stuck in fire
Becoming a liar
To get higher

Trust has disappeared
But I am still here
Filled with fear
Not knowing which way to steer
I try to act cavalier
To placate the cattle here
But I live in the saddest sphere
Even though I’m in the stratosphere
I see madness near

I can’t keep it civil
With my head on a swivel
Wearing the addict’s sigil
Track marks mean no acquittal
So subterfuge is pivotal
All communication is digital
When I have to hide my visual

I have no grace
I’m given no mercy
Every decision I face
Ultimately hurts me
Making me *****
From what I’m observing
And for what I’m deserving
Because of truth I’m deserting
To stay on the line I’ve been skirting
With death who’s been flirting

All I want is to binge
On the swamp in my syringe
On society’s fringe
Because once the ****** goes in
I can see heaven in hell
By ignoring the smell
Of where I dwell
In a euphoric shell

When all that remains
Is more of the same
I pray to the lord for rain
To wash my spirit away
So I can be a hero slain
Rather than singing a loser’s refrain
You pass these people everyday
They’re roadkill in the street
By the time you look in your rear view mirror
The vultures are back to eat
Gnawing their bones to defeat
Until they’re stripped of all meat
And their skin is baked in the heat
Their eyes melt staring into the sun
Once their blood is diluted by fun
So they can no longer be the one
Transmitting Jesus’ love

A lot of people
Say religion is evil
But I don’t need to go to a steeple
Or take a bunch of college classes
To learn opiates are the ****** of the masses

A soul a light with desire and vibrance
The wings of a glorious soul asoar
Can be seen from space
A spectral phenom
Pure beauty manifest.

volcanoes in la palma - the hands of the deities
... The Disturbance Storm Time Index sounds like a great song name.. but kinda scary for a world phenom.
what if pathetic fallacy was the quantum effect of emotions on a collective consciousness?

Would you excuse me . ? I would stay for desert but my world is in chaos
A Phoenix rising from the ashes , phenom
Sleepless with eyes open I can dream on
Maybe a stream I can lay under a tree on
So I can chill like freon on a field like dion
Just chill for a second so I can be empty
And the waters could slightly wet the grasses to splash me on my tired soles
Drooling is fine as long as no-one knows
Just ask your pillow he's been cool about it for some time now and always been there for you to lie down even caught some tears in all the years now that-sounds like a friend to me if we wasn't
kin at least intimate amigos and nothing short of it

A radical thought rose to greet me. At the root of this adventure,
there was a dare to defy the unknown holders of keys to gates
and vaults and amphora, sealed to preserve the power of
knowing truth that makes free, by the very knowing.
The secret meanings exposed as conspiracy. Aha.
Readers know of things working together,
line upon line, next after last,
precepts are not commands, but ladder rungs.
Grip first precepts, take hold, know that we do know.
Each of us obeyed... the messenger from truth said read,
that there is ought to read goes unsaid,
be not deceived, that we have received,
accept... thank you... from one alienated mind to another.
This is the most-read piece I have on HP- from August of 2018,
- something changed in the world I share, I dove in to the depths
of the ocean of opinions, and found i could breathe.
----
A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.2 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

"From Dust"


From dust to dust a time frame
       Cravings gather dust
To sentient coils infinitude
       Of ego self and i.

A standing wave of universe
       Gifts a conscious life
It thinks! And in it's centric way
       Proudly creates the sky.

Sprung effect of cosmic mote
       Fleeting cognate span
Can such a phenom limited
       Ever fathom why?

Turn up the sound effects
Moans keep me going
Love when it's snowing
Cocain should *******

Go grab the crucifix
This ***** don't know me
Let her control me?
Can't even zone me

I've gifted life before, just like a mother
Wear me on your shoulder, and I'll love you like no other
Based upon these instances you've never had a lover
Let me show you something new and take care of each other

I got a big idea, trapped in my head
I don't know, if you wanna see this ***** in bed
**** all the foreplay, and just give me head
Don't change the subject, trust me instead

Blessed as the victim, honestly mislead
Surface my kingdom, all my sins were said
Sold were my phenom, change my gold to lead
You want the distance, run across my head

I've gifted life before, just like a mother
Wear me on your shoulder, and I'll love you like no other
Based upon these instances you've never had a lover
Let me show you something new and take care of each other

Bucking the system, I aim for the head
Changing reality, all my kids are dead
Twisting her *******, she said that they bled
Oh no I'm sorry, she said go ahead

As sloppy rendition, go and break some bread
Sharing your story, yet rarely share your bed
Up in the mountains, training in your head
Down in your valley, guess my tongue is blessed

Turn up the sound effects
Moans keep me going
Love when it's snowing
Cocain should *******

Go grab the crucifix
This ***** don't know me
Let her control me?
Can't even zone me

I've gifted life before, just like a mother
Wear me on your shoulder, I'll love you like no other
Tell me am I interesting because I cook with butter
Margarine is made for fiends, creeping through my gutters

Invisible lover
If she screams, just club her
When she's sad, just rub her
If she swings, recover
I read emotions
But can't see your face
All of her pictures
Show me with blank space

Are you just a fill in for my nightmares or fantasies?

It is like shaking hands with a bag of oyster crackers;
Joints sprained, ligaments torn, fingers fractured
And splayed off in several different directions
Like a weathervane that has had a rather nasty shock, indeed,
The whorls of his fingertips, the uneven rise and fall of the knuckles
Serving as a travelogue of a lifetime spent
In towns not quite ready for the big time:
Olean, Oneonta, Visalia, Valdosta, a dozen more besides,
A million miles on buses
Of uncertain vintage and roadworthiness.
Each scar and swelling, each uneven path
Between base and fingertip has a tale of its own;
The ring finger on the left hand first broken
By a Big Bob Veale fastball that was supposed to be a curve,
Later snapped again by Steve Dalkowski,
Who, drinking quite a bit by then,
(When ol’ Steve had put away a few, he notes ruefully,
You didn’t want to hit him, catch him,
Or sit in the first few rows behind the plate)
Most likely never saw the sign
Indicating slider instead of high heat.
The index finger on his throwing hand?  
Well, that was from a foul tip in…Wellsville in ’59?  Walla Walla in ’62?
When you’ve bit up by the ball as many times as I have,
You tend to forget what you tore up when.
Ah, but no such problem with the right pinkie;
That was snapped one cold April night
Somewhere between Winnipeg and Duluth,
During a poker game when a backup infielder
Produced an unexpected and wholly inexplicable king
Seemingly from nowhere.

But those hands!  They were, in the lexicon of the scouts
(The same ones who labeled him
With the dreaded tag of “good field, no hit”)
Who trolled the sandlot parks
And high school fields of his childhood, “soft”;
Indeed, he could cradle a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball like an infant,
And, with the gentlest and most imperceptible of movements,
Turn the wildness of a nineteen-year-old phenom
Into an inning-ending third strike, and even now,
Two decades of bad lighting and jury-rigged equipment
Having turned the topography of his digits craggy and asymmetrical,
They seem as smooth and supple as they were at nineteen,
With all the strength and unsullied smoothness of youth,
As he grips and waggles an unseen bat
In the course of retelling
(In his one brief, glorious spring in camp with the big club)
How he doubled to the gap in right-center
Off none other than the great Whitey Ford himself.