1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

This is a story about Milo the mighty
His sword at his side, he was forever so mighty
His armor gleamed, how he shined brightly
On the cliff side watching the sun as it set
Milo the mighty set up shop, it was time to rest...

He started on a stallion his pride on his horse
Did he ride out of Ridgeburrow,
to revenge his remorse
Townspeople cheered and waved
Villains and monsters flee'd their graves
As Milo the mighty Rode through town
The townspeople cheered out
"DONT LET US DOWN"!

It was a quest of vengence he'd seek
For years have past, that have been quite bleak
goblins and Gouls steal all the gold

As the mighty hunchback golem screams "duel-me droll"

The townspeople fear him,
Helplessly run they do
But Milo had other plans
For the golems unrichous uphold,

He slashed and stabbed,
Staggered with joy, as the blood of his victims
Fell to the floor

One-two, one-two, his sword went through and through

He sliced through golems head,
Leaving him dead,
Just a slab of meat on the floor

And Milo the mighty traveled forth
Unto the dark forest,
He traveled with sorts,
Battles with pillagers and pirates alike
Did Milo fight with all his might
To make it to his mighty quest
Where all that sweet gold lies in a chest....

Traveled onward he did
Straight through the pillagers plains
Did Milo have a quest for his own grave?
No said Milo the great as he traveled on his adventure
His adventure was great......

Looking up at a tower
The clock struck the fifth hour,
Towering over Milo was the tower of Shiloh
Looming over him in a dim shadow
Did the ominous tower show more
Than just what was for fleeing cowards?
NO,
Milo opened the door
To find the riches
his princes had ever wanted to adore

So up the grand stair case did Milo the Great do
Up in spirals the stairs never seemed to outgrew
Up and up the tension was rough
As Milo unsheathed his great weapon
A sweat drop uncoiled from his headband
So Milo mustered the mutual feeling
Felt far before him,

Upon the double doors of steel,
Did her master wait for her hero
Weapon ready in hand,
Ready to use against Milos stand...
Stanced fearless, ready to fight
Did her master wait to show his might.

MILO screamed her master
Come for me have you not?!
"Yes you ungodly gat" shouted milo
Far from his throne,
Did Milo know his match or was his match outgrown?
Her master swung first,
Cut Milos cheek he did,
But when milo swung back,
Off with his head!

Milo picked her up, her ankles unshown
He walked her to the parlor,
Where he released her,
He let her go........
"Thank you Milo, Your heroism is now know"
Said the fair lady who Milo help'd go.

Milo the mighty walked straight to the cellar
Where all the gold and riches awaited his pleasure
With his might he carried it right
Straight to his great kings who declared Milo
"Milo the Mighty"

WHILOM, as olde stories tellen us,                            formerly
There was a duke that highte* Theseus.                   was called
Of Athens he was lord and governor,
And in his time such a conqueror
That greater was there none under the sun.
Full many a riche country had he won.
What with his wisdom and his chivalry,
He conquer'd all the regne of Feminie,
That whilom was y-cleped Scythia;
And weddede the Queen Hippolyta
And brought her home with him to his country
With muchel glory and great solemnity,                           great
And eke her younge sister Emily,
And thus with vict'ry and with melody
Let I this worthy Duke to Athens ride,
And all his host, in armes him beside.

And certes, if it n'ere too long to hear,                     were not
I would have told you fully the mannere,
How wonnen was the regne of Feminie,                            won
By Theseus, and by his chivalry;
And of the greate battle for the *****
Betwixt Athenes and the Amazons;
And how assieged was Hippolyta,
The faire hardy queen of Scythia;
And of the feast that was at her wedding
And of the tempest at her homecoming.
But all these things I must as now forbear.
I have, God wot, a large field to ear                       plough;
And weake be the oxen in my plough;
The remnant of my tale is long enow.
I will not *letten eke none of this rout.                hinder any of
Let every fellow tell his tale about,                      this company
And let see now who shall the supper win.
There as I left, I will again begin.                where I left off

This Duke, of whom I make mentioun,
When he was come almost unto the town,
In all his weal, and in his moste pride,
He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,
Where that there kneeled in the highe way
A company of ladies, tway and tway,
Each after other, clad in clothes black:
But such a cry and such a woe they make,
That in this world n'is creature living,
That hearde such another waimenting                      lamenting
And of this crying would they never stenten,                    desist
Till they the reines of his bridle henten.                       *seize
"What folk be ye that at mine homecoming
Perturben so my feaste with crying?"
Quoth Theseus; "Have ye so great envy
Of mine honour, that thus complain and cry?
Or who hath you misboden, or offended?                         wronged
Do telle me, if it may be amended;
And why that ye be clad thus all in black?"

The oldest lady of them all then spake,
When she had swooned, with a deadly cheer,                 countenance
That it was ruthe for to see or hear.                             pity
She saide; "Lord, to whom fortune hath given
Vict'ry, and as a conqueror to liven,
Nought grieveth us your glory and your honour;
But we beseechen mercy and succour.
Have mercy on our woe and our distress;
Some drop of pity, through thy gentleness,
Upon us wretched women let now fall.
For certes, lord, there is none of us all
That hath not been a duchess or a queen;
Now be we caitives, as it is well seen:                       captives
Thanked be Fortune, and her false wheel,
That *none estate ensureth to be wele.       assures no continuance of
And certes, lord, t'abiden your presence              prosperous estate
Here in this temple of the goddess Clemence
We have been waiting all this fortenight:
Now help us, lord, since it lies in thy might.

"I, wretched wight, that weep and waile thus,
Was whilom wife to king Capaneus,
That starf* at Thebes, cursed be that day:                     died
And alle we that be in this array,
And maken all this lamentatioun,
We losten all our husbands at that town,
While that the siege thereabouten lay.
And yet the olde Creon, wellaway!
That lord is now of Thebes the city,
Fulfilled of ire and of iniquity,
He for despite, and for his tyranny,
To do the deade bodies villainy,                                insult
Of all our lorde's, which that been y-slaw,                       *slain
Hath all the bodies on an heap y-draw,
And will not suffer them by none assent
Neither to be y-buried, nor y-brent,                             burnt
But maketh houndes eat them in despite."
And with that word, withoute more respite
They fallen groff, and cryden piteously;                    grovelling
"Have on us wretched women some mercy,
And let our sorrow sinken in thine heart."

This gentle Duke down from his courser start
With hearte piteous, when he heard them speak.
Him thoughte that his heart would all to-break,
When he saw them so piteous and so mate                         abased
That whilom weren of so great estate.
And in his armes he them all up hent,                     raised, took
And them comforted in full good intent,
And swore his oath, as he was true knight,
He woulde do *so farforthly his might        as far as his power went
Upon the tyrant Creon them to wreak,                            avenge
That all the people of Greece shoulde speak,
How Creon was of Theseus y-served,
As he that had his death full well deserved.
And right anon withoute more abode                               *delay
His banner he display'd, and forth he rode
To Thebes-ward, and all his, host beside:
No ner Athenes would he go nor ride,                            nearer
Nor take his ease fully half a day,
But onward on his way that night he lay:
And sent anon Hippolyta the queen,
And Emily her younge sister sheen                       bright, lovely
Unto the town of Athens for to dwell:
And forth he rit; there is no more to tell.                       rode

The red statue of Mars with spear and targe                     shield
So shineth in his white banner large
That all the fieldes glitter up and down:
And by his banner borne is his pennon
Of gold full rich, in which there was y-beat                   stamped
The Minotaur which that he slew in Crete
Thus rit this Duke, thus rit this conqueror
And in his host of chivalry the flower,
Till that he came to Thebes, and alight
Fair in a field, there as he thought to fight.
But shortly for to speaken of this thing,
With Creon, which that was of Thebes king,
He fought, and slew him manly as a knight
In plain bataille, and put his folk to flight:
And by assault he won the city after,
And rent adown both wall, and spar, and rafter;
And to the ladies he restored again
The bodies of their husbands that were slain,
To do obsequies, as was then the guise.                         custom

But it were all too long for to devise                        describe
The greate clamour, and the waimenting,                      lamenting
Which that the ladies made at the brenning                     burning
Of the bodies, and the great honour
That Theseus the noble conqueror
Did to the ladies, when they from him went:
But shortly for to tell is mine intent.
When that this worthy Duke, this Theseus,
Had Creon slain, and wonnen Thebes thus,
Still in the field he took all night his rest,
And did with all the country as him lest.                      pleased
To ransack in the tas of bodies dead,                             heap
Them for to strip of *harness and of *****,           armour *clothes
The pillers* did their business and cure,                 pillagers
After the battle and discomfiture.
And so befell, that in the tas they found,
Through girt with many a grievous ****** wound,
Two younge knightes *ligging by and by             lying side by side
Both in one armes, wrought full richely:             the same armour
Of whiche two, Arcita hight that one,
And he that other highte Palamon.
Not fully quick, nor fully dead they were,                       *alive
But by their coat-armour, and by their gear,
The heralds knew them well in special,
As those that weren of the blood royal
Of Thebes, and *of sistren two y-born.            born of two sisters
Out of the tas the pillers have them torn,
And have them carried soft unto the tent
Of Theseus, and he full soon them sent
To Athens, for to dwellen in prison
Perpetually, he n'olde no ranson.               would take no ransom
And when this worthy Duke had thus y-done,
He took his host, and home he rit anon
With laurel crowned as a conquerour;
And there he lived in joy and in honour
Term of his life; what needeth wordes mo'?
And in a tower, in anguish and in woe,
Dwellen this Palamon, and eke Arcite,
For evermore, there may no gold them quite                    set free

Thus passed year by year, and day by day,
Till it fell ones in a morn of May
That Emily, that fairer was to seen
Than is the lily upon his stalke green,
And fresher than the May with flowers new
(For with the rose colour strove her hue;
I n'ot* which was the finer of them two),                      know not
Ere it was day, as she was wont to do,
She was arisen, and all ready dight,                           dressed
For May will have no sluggardy a-night;
The season pricketh every gentle heart,
And maketh him out of his sleep to start,
And saith, "Arise, and do thine observance."

This maketh Emily have remembrance
To do honour to May, and for to rise.
Y-clothed was she fresh for to devise;
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress,
Behind her back, a yarde long I guess.
And in the garden at *the sun uprist                           sunrise
She walketh up and down where as her list.
She gathereth flowers, party white and red,                    mingled
To make a sotel garland for her head,            subtle, well-arranged
And as an angel heavenly she sung.
The greate tower, that was so thick and strong,
Which of the castle was the chief dungeon
(Where as these knightes weren in prison,
Of which I tolde you, and telle shall),
Was even joinant to the garden wall,                         adjoining
There as this Emily had her playing.

Bright was the sun, and clear that morrowning,
And Palamon, this woful prisoner,
As was his wont, by leave of his gaoler,
Was ris'n, and roamed in a chamber on high,
In which he all the noble city sigh,                               saw
And eke the garden, full of branches green,
There as this fresh Emelia the sheen
Was in her walk, and roamed up and down.
This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon
Went in his chamber roaming to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe:
That he was born, full oft he said, Alas!
And so befell, by aventure or cas,                              chance
That through a window thick of many a bar
Of iron great, and square as any spar,
He cast his eyes upon Emelia,
And therewithal he blent and crie

Couldn't care less
shouldn't care more;
Should have said less
and win the war.
Mixed up in this mess
heading straight for the bar.
Thoughts so fussy, clumsy, mossy
and aches became excessive.

Over-drunk, heading to Road West,
chatter and giggling at their busiest.
Then it started raining.
Pillagers couldn't make a move at me because it is raining.
I love the rain.
Soaked in beer
and Drenched in rain
Every where was muddy,
and slippery.

Still stangering,
He left foot step on air
weightless and painless
till his right foot joined in curiousity.
no OUCH sounded
or even any wincing from him.
Death became physically present,
Its gripped his skull
and enveloped his heart.

"Sweet Torture come to me", he thought.
Then he passed out.
He woke the next day
on the hospital bed.
His wife saw his state
and a tear drop escaped her lids.
He turned his face away.
Somewhere in the background, the sun ray focused on His face.
Hope is seemed,
the new him is redeemed.

Match off
Burn the cigarettes
Read my eyes, tell me my regrets
****, I got depression
I got ******* passions
My mother was asking,
I'm a burning mess
I'm a disaster
Don't you dare lay a hand on her unless you ask her
I hate all these cowards
These addicts
This magic
I hate all the pillagers
Who destroy my villagers
I hate the rapists, and abusers and catcallers
Cause when I get my hands on you
You're gonna be running and falling
Off of the edge of your world
Don't think you'll get away with it
You ******* idiot.
AHEM
Sorry, I got carried away there,
Hey Mr. Internet,
Thank you,
You saved my life in February, yea
Thank you,
Because of the internet
I got an audience,
To hear the stupid **** I wrote down
In class on a sticky note with my red pen
Thank you,
Because of the internet
I got a bunch a friends
But because of the internet
I got a bunch of mood swings
And I'm losing grasp of things
**** the internet
I love the internet
I love this girl
I'm talking to, through
A screen
But is that real love?
Because we only know each other's words and not our voice
But is that really a choice,
Man, I'm ****** up.
It's ****** up because like
You get so lost in someone
That the only way to get out
Is to just,
Delete them
Because you can't really delete people from real life
But you can
And it's ******* horrible

Freedom or liberty, whatever your name exactly is.
How subjective your nature truly is,
There are those whom for you are willing to ouster life,
yet another group which accepts to give you away as an exchange,
oh a rather foolish one it is.

They believe,
they will never care for as long,
their well fare is not threatened, dangered,
at stake, or being labeled in a gamble, to be priced, so to speak.

Oh, how every single one of us, pillagers, poets,
murderers, lawyers, painters, doctors, musicians.
They all adore and crave for you!

Most of them do as they please indeed, indeed they can,
others have forsaken, all hope of meeting you ever again,
that is in fact, what hell feels truly like, usual yet so tormenting,
and all you are able to do is to weep, to mourn and
to dwell in eternal woes.

Freedom feels like sore thighs and *** dreams, where the epicenter of forever lies in forgetting everything but now.
It makes you wonder sometimes if its just a sharper spike of ASMR or the tickling truths of your soul pricking you on the back of the neck, electrically, as you do all the things in the dark you only heard whispers of as a child.
But there's a real something about how a pair of tongues collide and a summer's day turns into a summer's night, where a young girl goes out to play but returns a grown woman back from partying with one hell of a bite.
How can't you feel like you're flying when just a little to the left and you're seeing starlight in broad day and all the lies you were told to protect your innocence, or womanhood, or whatever to protect the ego of elders and mortality hung over your education like a plague?
For me, I can't help but do the cliche bitten lip and think about all the words that jumble in my head to burn me up before bed.
Yet that fire, as I got older, became more wild and curious and burned without asking just starving for the answer to what was the surprise between my legs that was some sort of angelic kingdom to hide from the boys like they were pillagers and not people.
Funnily, I dragged some ****** boy into the fires and felt some expressive liberty I had never experienced, no one giving a **** about the **** in my head or the **** who I was, just ******* me.
My ****** renaissance led to a swift beheading of the boy, who to my knowledge has yet to grow into a man, yet that feeling of validating importance yet complete erasure of all of my fears and pains has made freedom one hell of a hot, three letter word.  
If I hold on tighter my fingertips feel grafted onto his skin, and without words or letters my whole universe has found some landing just from pleasure and a pinch.
If I kiss his lips and he smiles beneath, there's a roaring power of how letting him touch me brings my body the earth while also tossing it up like a kite, ready to fly the winds, for once careless.  
If my hair gets pulled a little harder I can nearly feel the Declaration of my ****** Independence on my lips and old society lady Great Britain scowling from its high castle, putting its hand together in judgmental prayer thinking it'll never last; I'll come back (I won't).
Freedom feels like forgetting to try to do anything right and ******* everything up, in the best and worst ways, only to come out strong and laughing and better than before.
Freedom is like *** because no one has the right to do anything to my body; not the educators who think I'm forever too young, not the boys who think my **** are rocking but don't know my name, not the parents who lock me up with a key only to find I was born to fit through the bars, not the girls who spell S-L-U-T like its their accusatory safe word against being alone in an unjust world, not anyone.
No one except the syllables between my lips and the brain behind the way I swing my hips, and they say: Hell Yes.

the world is a scary place right now
all around looms apocalypse foretold
and I think back to simple times when the villagers mined and farmed unaware the pillagers forthcoming,

does it really benefit us to know whats coming?

is not fear of disaster only an extension of our fear of death?
does she not catch us all eventually?
no matter how hard we fight eventually we will be forced to surrender if we are not prisoner of war
machines breathing for you

your mother's heart beats like the most beautiful song
but you don't know for how much longer
and you don't know what you'd do without her
and you don't know how you'd ever be able to pay the bills or work a trade with your history of anti social behavior and inability to integrate and troubles with authority

yes, indeed we all love to fight it
every single power that be
man will strive to **** God until he surrender
yes he will
and every time he will lose

we all will lose eventually

-

it was Auden and stop the clocks
at age 12 in the top floor of the academy
I felt loss and I understood it
and I knew this is how i could communicate it
the inherent suffering we all feel,
that comes for us all, some more than others

I never really felt good (and that is best for artists after all)
and I always tried to die, likened myself to Plath and tried to martyr myself to the melancholy

dying is an art,
like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well

but what was any of it for? why live a life of surrender?
I believe so much in the beauty of life and people and all things bright and beautiful
the reason death and disaster are so horrific-
because its all just gone and it never comes back and its so simple and I'll never ever understand it
nearly two decades and only now has the passage of time grabbed my head and forced me to look,
forced me so.
I cannot look away no matter how much I want to
and I am filled with so much regret I spent all those years siding with the enemy
poisoning the water that I too drank from
I dont know why I did that
I really dont
I really thought that time would wait for me

I would do anything to stop her walking foreward,
but there is nothing one can do

that is the root of our fall;
no matter how hard we fight it
she really comes for us all

Guarding an abundance of ages past and to come;
Outside an ethereal arboretum of
rustling sugar maples, green ash leaves dancing in the wind,
scarlet berries burst from the hawthorn branches.
Were two golems, anchored to their post.

Long green blades grazed their shins,
Discipline echoed off their clay skin.
A path submitted between them
As if the dirt beneath them was at their whim.

The constant breeze caused their skin
To crack, the pressure of perennial purpose
Created small canyons on their skull.
The scent of honeysuckles escaped their open crania.

No matter what approached their garden
Gargantuan locusts, pillagers in the shadows,
Nothing was stronger than the grip of
their hands melding into one another.

We as humans will never understand just how insignificant that we are in the grand scheme of life.

We are nothing more than murderers, pillagers and cowards here!

And as each generation comes and goes,
they only embarrass the human race ever further.

Think about this.

Why are we the only species/organisms that doesn't seem to be evolving anymore?

Cancer OWNS this species!!
Absolutely kicks our ***** and OWNS us!!

In saying that,
I can tell you this,  we aren't the most intelligent species/organisms that resides on this earth!

In our narcissistic minds, we only THINK that we are.

w. h. auden said that only the Hitlers of the world
wrote at night,
but Bukowski only wrote at night:
oh, oh the horror of writing during the day
and not laboring as an understudy of being
and doing: an electrician electrical- (respectively):
just this flimsy dealings of language
and love of curbing enthusiasm...
wayward to Victoria and Ukraine with
a monstrous face: succulent smiles...
    almost like the finish touches to Ezra Pound's
cantos:
because i giggle and lay in the garden
with my arm folded into a pillow:
this darkly grey humid Augustus' month allure:
poetry is to paint with sounds...
i sometimes see it: i sometimes don't:
i do say when people are poorly organized
and i see a ****** painting...
but writing during the day is like the antithesis
of carpe diem... truly:
only i but soon enough: not even me:
will know that writing is best done by candlelight
and alone and with no one awake in
the household so
that it doesn't feel like you're robbing them
of their thoughts...
will i ever reach the tides of Kauai:
*** as leverage:
a woman in my past once did that:
tried to leverage the whole point of conversation
with ***...
shackle me, domesticate me...
i am domesticated on my own terms:
i cook what i like to eat,
i don't like fussy eaters of cheese maniacs:
what i wouldn't do to be
like this child and eat dry pasta...
i knew a guy for 10min's worth of a train ride
who confused coffee grains for chocolate:
he attempted to head over to Edinburgh
for the fringe festival and tell a few bad jokes...
me: alone... how else...
rolling metal pellets from a balcony into my mouth...
they might still be in my body:
i don't know whether you can ****
out metal...
but this does feel like an after-party poem
from the one i already provided:
journalistic entry:
i listen...                            i don't necessarily
have to see: well:
at least not see with both eyes to go
all cross eyed...
with two eyes i can enter the underworld of the sea
but with only one eye
i get to play hide and seek with the ridge
of my nose...
barbarians they said:
but how intact was their veneration for the tongue
and letter...
that the Prose Edda are: still intact
and at least that's more than what the other Nomads
disclosed!
why bother ourselves with these Books
of a People who can't be bothered
to lift up a toilet seat when *******
and instead **** on the toilet seat:
for someone, "someone" to later come
and curse needing to take a ****
having a dry wipe of the seat
but then imagine worm parasites that travel
in ***** to osmosis birth themselves
into the ****-cheeks, huh?!
******* camel jockeys and the Halal sheep
shaggers!
huh?! and this concept of a queue:
so i barked out: mate?! you see this?!
is this something ******* imaginary?!
you in the special orbit of bypassing how people
organize themselves or what?!
so you're telling me we're not queuing?
you can just bypass this meager architecture of
a human scribble of timing out from
a workplace?
wow! wow! the ******* Islamic tinged ignorance
like the story of how one ******
Esau gave up his birthrights for a bowl of
******* gravy... or whatever it was:
i don't like the sacrosanct attitude of these desert
nomads...
what about the nomads of Polynesia and
the nomads of Scandinavia:
where ontology was intact:
knowledge of good and evil was ontological(y)
intact:
where these people knew instinctively:
they weren't confused Sodoms and Gomorrahs...
we don't need the Arabs and the Hebrews
to tell us that pig is bad but their morality
is intact by metaphor alone...
**** them!
if the Jews think that by resurrecting Israel
they can flood Europe with their cousins
they can have this day...
this day...
                             which might feel like a hundred years
but i have no respect for people
who **** on toilet seats: the ******* audacity:
these, ***** ******* rag bags
***** skin not white piglet not glistening mahogany
chocolate of fatty fruits of Kenyan nights
by the Indian sea...
this fading hue of diarrhea semi-brown toilet paper
complexion...
yes: not Japanese porcelain...
i'll be a racist homophobic:
PTSD victim-hood mentality scruple...

           **** on the toilet sea and who wouldn't be?!
am i to sit on that?!
dig a hole in the ground and let those
***** ******* just squat and **** and ****
simultaneously like pigeons!
is anyone going to laugh about this
testament to the concerns for hygiene?!
i'm so ******* hygienic that i was allowed
to have unprotected *** with prostitutes
and ha ha
having unprotected *** with prostitutes
i didn't catch a single batch of chlamydia!
or anything...

i don't even know where these people are from:
not a word of English on these shores
is like burning Shakespeare or Dickens
and the intelligent ones
will probably call this a passing...
              but not like this: these people would
have no abode in either Poland or Russia:
since, at least in Poland:
the very fabric of existence: language:
was once undermined and even suppressed
by injection of German and Russia...
but fair enough...
the 3 partitions of Poland
and the one implosion of the British Empire...
if that's how empires implode:
then i adore the French implosion more at least
no chance of a ninja habit of:
girl...                pretty is pretty but such masked
a culture clash
how about i don a balaclava?
but such a waste of a day writing during the day...
oh i think the *** is such a distraction:
i think i was only the tool
to ensure
that her mother left and she could have
the home to herself on beautiful Kauai...
i was never going to get any involvement in raising
Reyla...
it was a lovely daydream:
just like at the beginning of the shift
i was talking about:
well... if i were in power:
i would stretch the law enforcement even further:
i would ban the selling of alcohol at all football events...
it wouldn't just be:
no drinking of alcohol in view of the pitch...
no selling of alcohol at any football event...
rugby yes cricket yes
but not football:
if, it is, such, a... ******* "beautiful" game...
why even think you can appreciate it with alcohol
can't see it like chess
like a mind and intellectual excavation project
away from the everyday soap opera of being
married to a woman?
doubly numb mind ****?!
seriously... so drinking alcohol while going to see it
live is... carousel and instead of 22 ballerinas
and 3 cosmonauts in black
you have double vision and 44 button holes to
later simply pretend to sing about?
Arsenal has origins in Woolwich:
it's not north London and there's no Tottenham Hotspur
competition...
Millwall is also south London and founded
by Scottish dockers...
i don't understand why everyone hates Millwall:
i ******* hate the West Ham welders and
other iron workers...
or maybe i just love the Scots more than
these Saxon-Gaelic pillagers...
because once Rome retreated from these isles...
          Rome never even bothered the people of the Vistula:
even though they knew about us:
they didn't bother to spread their message
that far:
            maybe we were a wholesome people
and not like the tribes of what would become Germany...
i'm only writing this because i think
that i've forgotten something...
apple... bread and wine...
shot of ***** and a flick of ash from a cigarette...
no tree no serpent just the womb
and the fetus...
                 Olympic way at WEmbley
and the crowd leaving and me like the ***** to be born
rushing through the crowd...
Barker Street: my favorite underground station,
Bakerloo: my favorite line:
i rarely use it: but they kept it vintage...
i don't know how long they will keep the Bakerloo vintage...
they kept the District Line vintage for a while:
but then they replaced the AEC routemasters...
next thing to go are the... 1972 STOCK:
i don't know how long this line will work...
Taylor: your love of London is probably just my London
and i want to leave but i don't
and i would leave but i'm only 38, 39... em...
can't remember: not 40... not 40...
and what... ******* to an island in the Pacific
with a population of 60,000...
your concerts drew in 94,000 each night
and it's not that i would ever talk to every soul:
point being...
*** is a short leverage: like lies...
*** is the best lie...
*** is a lie while the truth is the child:
and clearly: there's no talking point
concerning the child:
since the child is so incubated and would later
become what?
the warning i've been hearing?
oh: i'm not familiar to her, yet:
then one touch and prison
because a lost temper and now: voyeurism...
if you work under c.c.t.v. scrutiny you can
hardly relax privately:
but i've experienced *** being utilized against me
and i don't like being manipulated like that...
so the expectancy that with enough time:
what is this muddle:
have i lived enough to now suddenly
retire on that beautiful isle and
forget the world but at the same time
the world doesn't require remembering it:
not by me not by anyone: just doesn't...
but i did mention it...
no alcohol at football games in England...
none... forbidden...
it's sport... no? so why would you go to a sports
event and pretend to enjoy it
then later return home and play video games?!
oh i drink: i drink to elevate
the experience of music and to fall asleep
and to relax...
alcohol just doesn't agree with these football fans...
the alcohol disagrees with them:
you need to find something that aligns
with you...
you can abuse it: but to the good intent...
intellectual explorations...
but such pacifying hostility simply because you
want to escape the opposite ***...
jeez...
                  it did help that i frequented
a brothel and once a strip bar in Athens...
all these healthy children (i am implying
14 year old almost fully formed females,
in Medieval times the kings would have had their
way)... but that's what i thought:
**** *** but a face of a child:
oh...            hmm...                  what a healthy child.

The anxiety that wears the Emperor's coat
for the Emperor's serfs with twenty-twenty visions
the Depression that takes the teasing micky
out of the blanched Tonton Macoute leaving eggs
on semi-illiterates fish and chips opposers' faces
the mama-I-am-crying simpletons because a blackman
has done better than us flakes in ***** Levi's
the angsts of the minute-men with their stub guns
venting frustrations on *** Magnum
the joke of ex-Slave Traders demanding reparations
from the sweat of ex-colonial immigrant
the absurdity of greedy pillagers and looters pointing
fingers yelling parasites and germ man
the unreal masking theft and extortion as revolution
hiding designer white robes and pointed hats
the psychology of clowns where right is wrong and wrong
is right if you're pale & steal your neighbour's goods
welcome to Vaudeville and tickets are free at the Red door
on the left near the left underground sign
your hard labour is appreciated and scums are most welcomed

visa a vis militaristic plan
a boot 15-20 million people -
undocumented hard working Americans
(maybe some living here legally) forcibly,
and violently shipped out,
when victoriously, surreptitiously,
and purportedly illegally entering
our ports of the world wide web.

Though born, bred, and raised here
in the U S of A (The 'short a' /æ/),
I feel aghast how the
de facto dictator wannabe
shakes a fist and forbids those people
clamoring to become bonafide citizens
(and generally escaping mayhem
in their respective country of origin)
entering one supposed, enchanted,
and blessed land of life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness,
to become punishingly ousted
should other than Kamala Harris
and Tim Walz acquire
the presidential/vice presidential
vote of confidence.

No secret the Don will abrogate,
his strict ban barring
employees to acclimate
themselves, to live within United States
legal tender, and accommodate
themselves comfortably anonymous,
though "NOT FAKE," but accurate
reliable, trustworthy, et cetera
resources who did activate

my awareness, his hired hands
never received adequate
pay if any,
(perhaps greater than minimum wage),
despite the fact he
does vehemently administrate,
adulterate presidential decrees, and thus
passively advocate, those supposed:
intruders, marauders, and pillagers

(rapists thrown in for good measure),
thus being party to affiliate
with contrary doctrine makes
him more than a flagrant hypocrite
since such migrant fiasco does aggravate
me as well as innocent lives that aggregate
within a country, whose motto
rather than alienate
purportedly offered sanctuary:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse
of your teeming shore."

No excessive effort needed to insulate,
expedite and ameliorate
the woeful plight of ordinary peoples,
whose culture club, those very
governments aim to annihilate
driving a figurative wedge (gee),
I decided to annunciate
(a spurious whim),
and suspensefully anticipate
if affection toward
asylum seekers will arise

decrying duplicitous action (exhibited by
Janus faced courtesy former commander in chief),
undoubtedly other citizens do not appreciate
(minus the bajillion dollars purposelessly
allocated to ***** a skyhigh wall,
when more humanely appropriate
measures beg attention at
less expense I aver and approximate
and avoid unfairly
incriminating, but to arbitrate
(with some degree of justice) pitted

toward migrants flagrant
human rights violation,
those in power arrogate,
and wield for the luxury,
exploitation and convenience
of those wealth mongers,
who fail to articulate,
how when families
get forcibly rent asunder
fallout does asphyxiate
the human species
far from madding crowd
in toto including
Dorothy, Cowardly Lion,
Tin Woodman and Strawman.

No, I am not speaking
of Buddha but that drum
we all carry beneath our
belts.

Furnaces of achievement
which we furnish with
spoils of ill gotten goods
that we refuse to boycott.

We have become obese by
our shameful unwillingness
in condemning pillagers who
feed ***** to our Belly God.