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Alexander   k   Opicho

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

Contents                                                                                                                Page
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?


I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv
Katie Price
Had a collection
Of last season's
Which she indexed
With the help
Of a sincere
Bilingual reindeer
Dressed in spandex
Who for some reason
Was single.

Is so important to me
Said Katie.

So they were labelled
And kept in taxis
At disused angle grinder factories
Near the Tower of Babel
So posterity
Would be able
To analyse
The finer points
Of her physiognomy.

Quite an unusual praxis
And something of an anomaly
For someone like me
Wouldn't you agree?

Cross my heart
And hope to die
I agree.
During the winter of {twenty-thirteen/twenty-fourteen}
many a night I did spend alone, marathoning powerful
series (namely, Game of Thrones), until eventually
the sun crept up and finally I'd fall
into troubled sleep, exhaustion was the only stuff.
So eager to forget the world I was
that I found myself in such a lonely place. I kept what
it offered me: an escape. I went a week without daylight.
The night was all mine for this nocturnal escapism, it was
great, a ridiculous and foolhardy thing, I needed it so badly
back then. In this act of praxis I vilified.

It was during one of my worse times,
When I'd be out sessioning regularly
'til dawn and for days afterwards I'd
still feel the come-down. Two lives fit
into one sleeping pattern all-too-perfectly. I remember skagging with an odd fondness now, fairly irreligious yet therapeutic somehow.
I found reprieve awake in the dark of night.
Patricia Drake Feb 2013
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we

You and I pick verbs

Inflect them to match
begin narratives

Transitive verbs take objects

You touch
take skin
me with words

Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?

For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tease me ON my *******

Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
Positioning is envisioning.

Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative

And adverbs elaborate experience

You fill me deeply
violently with all that is you

But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace

This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.

Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis

(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)

But we coordinate conjunctions
I touch you
You touch me
Exploding sensory functions

So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives

Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!

Oh! Please, come!

I love the English language... ;)
Steve D'Beard Dec 2012
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:

The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions

etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas

her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
******* clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion

the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment

the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…
Best YouTube of all trust me:

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  


High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55 Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♦   ♦   ♦

She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.

Alexander   K   Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

It is freedom of universal poetry
And the political democratic space
In the economic government of poetry
By the poetrizens for the poetrizens.
Ascription to which I get Faiz of Urdu a true poemocrat
The male mistress of poetry’s counter-narrative
To its extremism in the Nerudaistic poemocracy
Known in the West as the 'Neruda of Urdu poetry
Faiz wrote romantic lyrics with a different a touch
He fused it with contemporary social issues
Progressive Pakistanis have commemorated
His jolly and poemocratic 29th death anniversary
Faiz Ahmad Faiz, a progressive Pakistani poemocrat
Has inspired almost three generations of Pakistanis
He believe in secular and liberal values poemocratically
A proclaimed poemocratic Marxist Faiz received
The Lenin Peace Prize from the then Soviet Union in 1962
The poet was also involved in many political struggles
And was jailed by Pakistani rulers a number of times.

Good poetry can always be used as an agent for self- awareness
In terms of the poemocratic quality of his poetry
And his poetical expressions he is unparalleled
In the whole history of Urdu poemocracy.
His metaphors, the string of nouns that he uses,
The rhythm and the structure will never go stale
Faiz will remain relevant mostly because of his themes
- He wrote extensively about human misery,
Despair, squalor, Inequality and injustice
These are timeless democratic issues
These are universal issues and are not restricted
to a parochial nor Provencal  country or  group.

Good poetry can always be used as an agent for awareness,
But Faiz is more relevant in this context
Because he speaks in contemporary poemocratic idiom
But let me be clear that Faiz is exceptionally among the equals
Poemocratic like Meer, Ghalib and Hafiz make us open-minded
They make us appreciate and cherish the poemocratic diversity
And differences that we have in the world mother earth’s sire.

Faiz weeps over oppressive problems in Africa
And talks about the oppressive racism in Palestine issue.
Faiz’s poetry makes us feel the pain of others
Indeed Faiz's poetry serves the world a bonanza ever
As a counter-narrative to extreme Islamist ideologies
Faiz and Neruda both belonged to the poor World
The conditions he was dealing with during his life,
was The colonial hangover as it  was
Something Neruda also faced in his country.

Faiz talks about the concrete realities around him
And not only about some imaginative issues
This is also true of poemocratic Pablo Neruda
They both deal with real issues of bread and butter,
Of poverty, hunger, nakedness, jiggers, peace and security.
Not only are the sensibilities of the two poemocrats is ditto,
But also the socio-political fabrics they lived under
Kudos to German poetry and fiction
That always had good influence
On the poemocratic Urdu-Chilean literature
Soul literature has inspired countless Urdu writers and poets.
Its influence was starker during the 20th century
Faiz was not only inspired by soul writers and philosophers,
But also by praxis of poverty and agonies of diverse oppression.
Austin Heath Jan 2015
When I was 20 I learned all
the music I liked was garbage.
When I was 21 I realized I

couldn't write a good song

and by 22 I remembered how.
When I was a child
I was more suicidal
than now,
and I'm still a kid,

I had a couple tapes when I was 17
and not again since then, but
I'm still a pretentious ******* *******.
I've had a couple students in guitar
over the year, but

I am a yawn and poor excuse for a human at most.
Ego is on point like maybe her crotch hairs are "fleek",
but who the **** is gonna say that to
the back of her head? Without shame to hide,
dignity to keep intact, or
a head on solid shoulders, ever, ******* ever,
never ever.

Fire for breathe. Kiss me till my lips bleed;
Speak my face in, or smash my consciousness.
**** me to death, till I die, make me dead.
I wish I was well fed and not scared of people.

Nice things come to people who work and practice.
Alexander  K  Opicho

Ladbrokes, the online betting firm has once again nominated Ngugi wa Thiong'o as a candidate for Nobel prize in literature 2014.The firm arrives at the probable nominee through a highly polished probabilist mechanism.It also nominated Ngugi as the probable candidate for literature Nobel prize, but the final was Alice Munro the Canadian short story writress.The eventuality of Ngugi winning the literature Nobel prize is a long a waited event in Africa , especially among Kenyans.
However, Ngugi is not the only nominee , he is among others and even to make it worse he is not the top scoring nominee. He has tied with four  others at the score of 50/1 points.These  are; Umberto Eco who wrote the famous book In the Name of the Rose, Nuruddin Farah a Kenya *** Somalian veteran poet and prose writer   and   then Darcia Maraini.
There are eleven writers of global stature who are currently scoring above Ngugi wa Thiong'o.They are operating at the level of 50/1 scores. These include ;Margaret Atwoo d, Salman Rushdie, Cees Nooteboom, Don DeLillo, Amos Oz, Javier Marias, Cormac McCarthy , Bob Dylan, Peter Handke, William Trevor and Les Murray . The missing writer in this category of global writers is Yan Martel the author of Life of Mr. Pi , whose also on the list of the favourite writers of president Barrack Obama.His book Life of Mr. Pi once shared  a prize and equivalent acclaim with Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Legs. So, why Martel was not nominated remains the usual intrigues of Nobel nomination process.
Haruki Murakami ,Assia Djebar,Svetlana Aleksijevitj , Peter Nadas, Joyce Carol Oates , Adonis ,Milan Kundera , Philip Roth , Mircea Cartarescu, Ko Un , Jon Fosse  and Thomas Pynchon  are currently scoring below Ngugi.They are operating between 10/1 and 26/1 scores.However among them Haruki Murakami, Joyce Carol Oates and Phillip Roth were very story contenders and hence competeters for the same prize with Ngugi during last year.But Joyce Carol Oates is a weaker contender this year given than he recently wrote an offensive and tortuous poem against the eminent American  poet Robert Frost .  Oates drew from the book Lovely, Dark and  Deep  which   paints the  Frost  as an arrogant, sexist pig who gave up on his mentally ill children. The story has outraged Frost’s fans, biographers, and  his survivors.
Inspite of all these there is no literary value that can make Ngugi wa Thiong'o to deserve a Nobel prize reward for  Literature. Apart from his first  two books weep not child and the river between that had concrete literary position, his later works are pamphlets of communism , that keep of regurgitating communism as initially written by Karl Marx and France Fanon.His second last book Globalectics is written as annual lectures in respect of Rene Wellek, the books is a practical duplication of Paulo Freire , and Spivak Gavatri.His contemporaries at the University of Nairobi accusing him of tribalism when it came to supervising post graduate students. he was soft on his fellow Kiguyu's and discriminative agains Luo and Luhyia students.He lifestyle as communist ideologue is also self defeating as teaches in america at Irvine University , very busy amassing wealths just like any other capitalist.He campaign for vernacular writing is egually not water tight on the bench of praxis, as he himself teaches special English in America but not kiguyu language.
Another stunning revelation from the Swedish academy is nomiantion of Vladimir Putin the Russian president for Nobel peace prize alongside fifty something  organizations as competitors.the nominations is based on his role he played in the Nuclear disarmament of Syria.The Ukraine question has not been yet raised.But logic of these goes like historical imbroglio that puzzled the world in relation to the role of ****** in relation communism against the then gathering storm for the second world war.
Kelsey Robb Sep 2012
I pulled a piece of string
from my sleeve,
watched it float to the ground,
collecting itself into a small circle.

The ring reminded me of days past
when I thought that was what I wanted-
that ring.
How odd
that such an ordinary string
on such an arbitrary day
could teach me about myself
in one split second,
pointing out that the ring
was never what I wanted,
never what I needed.

The wind blew the flowers around me
and tossed up my hair
yet the ring remained,
a praxis,
like the boy who still hoped for the promise
of a ring.

So I collected my things
and rose from my spot between those two Hydrangea bushes,
stepped over the ring
and continued on my way,
movement from the
staleness of monogamy
to the chaos of something more.

Always moving
to something more.
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
Tonight I was *****.
I got persuaded by a ten year old boy,
A boy of 6,
Into doing "things".

His supple boy skin,
Mine suppler not even sun kissed,
yet kissing ****.

Tonight. I'm 24.
I hurt from every pore,
As my breathing shallows.

I tried *******, only a taste.
I ate a pin ***** size morsel.
Throat closed, anaphylaxis.
The praxis of finding out, through rashes of histamine.

Every time I shower.
I played in the mud.
Doesn't wash off.

Oh man, how my grandma used to try.
Scrub me.
I'd scrub just as hard,
Till raw in  my arms.

Every evening.
I lay in bed.
contemplate things.
Look at what has happened.
I see him again.
I cry,
I weep,
I spit,
Oh curses.

Can't change it.
Can't take my mouth off his ****.
You know. The good stuff.

Bein' a kid is hard...
Bein' adult that was once a kid is harder'

You know. They used to put us in prison.

Line us up in rows, make us do LOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG division.

Walk in a straight line. Hold your inmates hand.

I used to work the problems backwards,
The teachers would get mad at me,
Make me work at their desk,
Knew i must be cheating,
Made me teach class,

I never grew up from that.

I used to think that this happy trail led to a ******,
Once closed up.
I thought I was gay.

Now...I just know that.

Well happy trails aren't always happy.
At least mines finally growing hair.
Kinda got ***** at 6 years old haha. booooo hoooooo fun stuff. Win some lose some. Please no comments. Unless they are negative or about the poem not the content. Want no consolation. seriously.

Rhetorical questions
Asked and answered.
supporting, Sifting,
and sorting bafflement

For awhile the whorls
were made of sadness and fears
from my internal musings
and the desires of my heart
extrapolated by magpies

Like you said,
They busted the lock.
Matthew Harlovic Sep 2016
at a certain time and space,
the density of absence
threw me off my axis.
i felt like atlas,
bridging the gap between
theory and praxis, text and world.

© Matthew Harlovic
wehttam Jan 2015
A puff,
two puffs,.... A narrative or cleft notes for the Praxis exam.  Otherwise, as smart as a equinimity is, a expository form in writ.  The monkey's wait in Compton.  
I belay the last law they have and will naught forgive or forget a Jesus freak.
Nepotism, in animals and fraying democracy.
katewinslet Nov 2015
Dies ist ein unfairen Anliegen , wie erwartet , aber es ist sicherlich wirklich braucht, um sein erkundigte angewiesen. Moderne Tages Option : Was ist drastisch falsch mit Hilfe klinischen Profis werde ihr Heil Ausbildung ! Was ist in der falschen über klinischen Schulbildung ? Für eine einzige Sache , gibt es eine einfache namhaften helping Prozedur issuing Ärzte ( sie haben erwies sich Praktikanten) Tages Pläne , so dass sie erwerben keine nap vierundzwanzig für Sie 34 Stunden . Ihre Lebensstil kann dacht , bewusst , um die eigentliche Schüler-Arzt direkt in ein Zustand wenig Schlaf für die emotional aufgeladen Funktion erfahren , wie er kann ' unter ständige Sorge . In Das möglicherweise gewinnen eine Menge von , sondern ein mehr real suchen Grund diese Aktion ist immer, Gehirnwäsche a jüngeren Praktikanten. Männer und Frauen, die Wunsch Ende wird Fachkräfte des Gesundheitswesens kann , Anfang stimulated wegen die wirklich Die besten Konzepte with uns auf aktivieren mit Hilfe . Sie Übrigen wissen, dass Es gibt Massen in zugeordnet components konstruieren y wird nicht dennoch ein Verständnis für Samsung Galaxy S6 Kante. So , sie auch sein mögen wollen to wissen neben fertig Antworten .

Wenn sie übermüdeten werden die perfect Zeitraum ihnen beizubringen, wie umrissen mit etliche Dozenten . Sie nicht über die muscular Stärke sicherstellen, dass Sie einverstanden - es nur Genießen Wissen unter Hypnose . Es 'funktioniert' Bedeutung sie herauszufinden Fakten integriert in zu , trotzdem Vorgehensweise umgeht fast jede zerstören personen Intelligenz . Bei jeder übermüdeten denken die eigentliche intern nehmen die eigentliche false datum die in der Regel '60 Milligramm zum Vitamin C täglich wird vielleicht alle die Tatsache, dass any Person wirklich braucht, und dass er bekommen könnte es wieder mit die Ernährung Einbauten Das ist definitiv ein unwahr datum , also auch der intern die tatsächlich hört wenn Achtunddreißig viele Stunden mit einbezogen zugeordnet sicherlich keine schlafen ist unglaublich Planung bis nehmen tun es definitiv . Auf die gleiche Weise , er akzeptieren a massive Menge andere Informationen , in Bezug auf Drogen , medizinische Verfahren , oder vielleicht medizinische verwandte Ethik . Healthcare professionelle . Bok, als Blei-Designer mit einbezogen Stanford Hochschulwesen , verharmlost a Stanford Medical School ,

dass angegebenen der medizinisch-technische Bildungshinter, dass gesundheitsbezogenen college student devoted weniger als 5% aller this Klassenzimmer ein Individuum Zeitraum am drei topics von 'präventive Medizin , Essen Plan und gesundheitsbezogenen Integrität halben Zoll Trotzdem in diese erhalten winzige Vorlaufzeit , , dass sie 'lernen' Unwahrheiten. Zu den Benachrichtigung Daten gespeichert für Ihre Menge alle der Lehrzeit. Der spezifischen Tutoren in a Dermatologen Lehr gibt nichts oben Mann oder eine Frau Praktikanten - - es sein kann, Mund Informationen von empfangenen die besondere Healthcare übermüdeten Heil Studenten Samsung galaxy s6 edge+ 64GB. Neues . Scott S . Mendelsohn war eigentlich ein gemeinsames Besucher kleine jede Nacht den Äther zeigen in der Vergangenheit , und sogar erwähnten über diese häufig . Er möglicherweise encouraged als a Gesundheit Lernenden dass versuchten erarbeiten mäßig 'unabhängigen Denkens' während seiner Lehr wäre wahrscheinlich unterwegs . Medical instances häufig Fragen Sie nach schnell preferences, und das ist nicht genügend Platz a great newbie und dann unerfahrene Heilpraktiker . Was bedeutet , diese small Praktikanten halten Sie sich an die live in der Senior , fähiger Praktikanten nicht zu erwähnen, Fachkräfte des Gesundheitswesens. Wenn your frische intern ist eigentlich übermüdeten, er ' ll gehen zusammen mit robotically . Das Letztere Henry s . Mendelsohn eingereicht der Ausdruck 'iatrogenocide' während seiner feinsten Händler , Confessions Gesundheitspflege Klinische Heretic. Die Bedeutung , nicht überraschend , sein könnte Vergehens Durch den Arzt , Nutzung it ,

Regel die departure with Gesamt Kultur Typen als Folge mein Arzt. I legen nahe, dass Schlafentzug, zB Gehirnwäsche, häufig a zweck education Praxis in Ihrer medical Schulen , , wenn es darum geht, Implantieren rote Überzeugung für die Qualität Medikamente . Ein Jahrzehnt gerade nach med schule, wobei Studium Arzt , es ist immer Das Ausbildung das ist den Kern with eine individuelle automatic Flughafenterminal jeglicher Art von einige Tipps 'alternative Gesundheitswesen Ins Die normale Arzt passiert zu sein, Gehirnwäsche , wunderbaren merk great Ziel , geeignet Diener Haltung Wie dem auch sei gedankenlose und sogar nicht wert was diese Einzel glaubt, dass wirklich. Es ist eine gute Zuschreibung in Bezug auf neuronalen Reinigung draußen , und dann die Element davon Stecker Schlafentzug Wahl techniques Sie feststellen hier | auf diesen Link | zu den Informationen} Günstige Samsung Galaxy S6.
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ConnectHook Feb 2017
♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♪ ♩ ♫

[for Snare Drum]

Client-centered, data-driven,
yet their sins are unforgiven.
Tweaking the assessment standard
while the Word of God is slandered.
Current practice (science-based)
meanwhile, souls are laid to waste.
Evidence-based evaluations
fail to stall abominations.
Power slideshows, bullet-pointed
bypass Christ, the Lord’s anointed.
Titled expert: talking wraith,
buzzword-based, devoid of faith.
Sources cited, praxis theorized.
Mankind’s plight ignored, unrealized.
Humankind enthroned, enshrined,
entombed in shadows yet unshined.
Branding, marketing, organized crime:
brother – can you spare a paradigm?
one of the basic rudiments of drumming, consisting of four even strokes
played in the order L-R-L-L or R-L-R-R.
♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♫ ♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♪ ♩ ♫
Sum It Oct 2013
Standing here like a child long left in oblivion
Staring into the deepest abyss of the hole-
Stuck like my most important part, now
Created after quick perforation of emotions
One quick tumble down the street - Astray
Think back, Think one more time ; vertigo!
Drop down to unconscious limbo - trying!
Eyes still open to illusions around vicinity
Yell a silent disapproval of praxis- moving on!
Hold me! The fall comes back!
Pull me up ; my hand stuck to my heart!
Después de todo qué complicado es el amor breve
y en cambio qué sencillo el largo amor
digamos que éste no precisa barricadas
contra el tiempo ni contra el destiempo
ni se enreda en fervores a plazo fijo

el amor breve aún en aquellos tramos
en que ignora su proverbial urgencia
siempre guarda o esconde o disimula
semiadioses que anuncian la invasión del olvido
en cambio el largo amor no tiene cismas
ni soluciones de continuidad
más bien continuidad de soluciones

esto viene ligado a una historia la nuestra
quiero decir de mi mujer y mía
historia que hizo escala en treinta marzos
que a esta altura son como treinta puentes
como treinta provincias de la misma memoria
porque cada época de un largo amor
cada capítulo de una consecuente pareja
es una región con sus propios árboles y ecos
sus propios descampados sus tibias contraseñas

he aquí que mi mujer y yo somos lo que se llama
una pareja corriente y por tanto despareja
treinta años incluidos los ocho bisiestos
de vida en común y en extraordinario

alguien me informa que son bodas de perlas
y acaso lo sean ya que perla es secreto
y es brillo llanto fiesta hondura
y otras alegorías que aquí vienen de perlas

cuando la conocí
tenía apenas doce años y negras trenzas
y un perro atorrante
que a todos nos servía de felpudo
yo tenía catorce y ni siquiera perro
calculé mentalmente futuro y arrecifes
y supe que me estaba destinada
mejor dicho que yo era el destinado
todavía no se cuál es la diferencia

así y todo tardé seis años en decírselo
y ella un minuto y medio en aceptarlo

pasé una temporada en buenos aires
y le escribía poemas o pancartas de amor
que ella ni siquiera comentaba en contra
y yo sin advertir la grave situación
cada vez escribía más poemas más pancartas
realmente fue una época difícil

menos mal que decidí regresar
como un novio pródigo cualquiera
el hermano tenía bicicleta
claro me la prestó y en rapto de coraje
salí en bajada por la calle almería
ah lamentablemente el regreso era en repecho

ella me estaba esperando muy atenta
cansado como un perro aunque enhiesto y altivo
bajé de aquel siniestro rodado y de pronto
me desmayé en sus brazos providenciales
y aunque no se ha repuesto aún de la sorpresa
juro que no lo hice con premeditación

por entonces su madre nos vigilaba
desde las más increíbles atalayas
yo me sentía cancerbado y miserable
delincuente casi delicuescente

claro eran otros tiempos y montevideo
era una linda ciudad provinciana
sin capital a la que referirse
y con ese trauma no hay terapia posible
eso deja huellas en las plazoletas

era tan provinciana que el presidente
andaba sin capangas y hasta sin ministros

uno podía encontrarlo en un café
o comprándose corbatas en una tienda
la prensa extranjera destacaba ese rasgo
comparándonos con suiza y costa rica

siempre estábamos llenos de exilados
así se escribía en tiempos suaves
ahora en cambio somos exiliados
pero la diferencia no reside en la i

eran bolivianos paraguayos cariocas
y sobre todo eran porteños
a nosotros nos daba mucha pena
verlos en la calle nostalgiosos y pobres
vendiéndonos recuerdos y empanadas

es claro son antiguas coyunturas
sin embargo señalo a lectores muy jóvenes
que graham bell ya había inventado el teléfono
de aquí que yo me instalara puntualmente a las seis
en la cervecería de la calle yatay
y desde allí hacía mi llamada de novio
que me llevaba como media hora

a tal punto era insólito mi lungo metraje
que ciertos parroquianos rompebolas
me gritaban cachádome al unísono
dale anclao en parís

como ven el amor era dura faena
y en algunas vergüenzas
casi insdustria insalubre

para colmo comí abundantísima lechuga
que nadie había desinfectado con carrel
en resumidas cuentas contraje el tifus
no exactamente el exantemático
pero igual de alarmante y podrido
me daban agua de apio y jugo de sandía
yo por las dudas me dejé la barba
e impresionaba mucho a las visitas

una tarde ella vino hasta mi casa
y tuvo un proceder no tradicional
casi diría prohibido y antihigiénico
que a mi me pareció conmovedor
besó mis labios tíficos y cuarteados
conquistándome entonces para siempre
ya que hasta ese momento no creía
que ella fuese tierna inconsciente y osada

de modo que no bien logré recuperar
los catorce kilos perdidos en la fiebre
me afeité la barba que no era de apóstol
sino de bichicome o de ciruja
me dediqué a ahorrar y junté dos mil mangos
cuando el dólar estaba me parece a uno ochenta

además decidimos nuestras vocaciones
quiero decir vocaciones rentables
ella se hizo aduanera y yo taquígrafo

íbamos a casarnos por la iglesia
y no tanto por dios padre y mayúsculo
como por el minúsculo jesús entre ladrones
con quien siempre me sentí solidario
pero el cura además de católico apostólico
era también romano y algo tronco
de ahí que exigiera no sé qué boleta
de bautismo o tal vez de nacimiento

si de algo estoy seguro es que he nacido
por lo tanto nos mudamos a otra iglesia
donde un simpático pastor luterano
que no jodía con los documentos
sucintamente nos casó y nosotros
dijimos sí como dándonos ánimo
y en la foto salimos espantosos

nuestra luna y su miel se llevaron a cabo
con una praxis semejante a la de hoy
ya que la humanidad ha innovado poco
en este punto realmente cardinal

fue allá por marzo del cuarenta y seis
meses después que daddy truman
conmovido generoso sensible expeditivo
convirtiera a hiroshima en ciudad cadáver
en inmóvil guiñapo en no ciudad

muy poco antes o muy poco después
en brasil adolphe berk embajador de usa
apoyaba qué raro el golpe contra vargas
en honduras las inversiones yanquis
ascendían a trescientos millones de dólares
paraguay y uruguay en intrépido ay
declaraban la guerra a alemania
sin provocar por cierto grandes conmociones
en chile allende era elegido senador
y en haití los estudiantes iban a la huelga
en martinica aimé cesaire el poeta
pasaba a ser alcalde en fort de france
en santo domingo el PCD
se transformaba en PSP
y en méxico el PRM
se transformaba en PRI
en bolivia no hubo cambios de siglas
pero faltaban tres meses solamente
para que lo colgaran a villarroel
argentina empezaba a generalizar
y casi de inmediato a coronelizar

nosotros dos nos fuimos a colonia suiza
ajenos al destino que se incubaba
ella con un chaleco verde que siempre me gustó
y yo con tres camisas blancas

en fin después hubo que trabajar
y trabajamos treinta años
al principio éramos jóvenes pero no lo sabíamos
cuando nos dimos cuenta ya no éramos jóvenes
si ahora todo parece tan remoto será
porque allí una familia era algo importante
y hoy es de una importancia reventada

cuando quisimos acordar el paisito
que había vivido una paz no ganada
empezó lentamente a trepidar
pero antes anduvimos muy campantes
por otras paces y trepidaciones
combinábamos las idas y las vueltas
la rutina nacional con la morriña allá lejos
viajamos tanto y con tantos rumbos
que nos cruzábamos con nosotros mismos
unos eran viajes de imaginación qué baratos
y otros qué lata con pasaporte y vacuna

miro nuestras fotos de venecia de innsbruck
y también de malvín
del balneario solís o el philosophenweg
estábamos estamos estaremos juntos
pero cómo ha cambiado el alrededor
no me refiero al fondo con mugrientos canales
ni al de dunas limpias y solitarias
ni al hotel chajá ni al balcón de goethe
ni al contorno de muros y enredaderas
sino a los ojos crueles que nos miran ahora

algo ocurrió en nuestra partícula de mundo
que hizo de algunos hombres maquinarias de horror
estábamos estamos estaremos juntos
pero qué rodeados de ausencias y mutaciones
qué malheridos de sangre hermana
qué enceguecidos por la hoguera maldita

ahora nuestro amor tiene como el de todos
inevitables zonas de tristeza y presagios
paréntesis de miedo incorregibles lejanías
culpas que quisiéramos inventar de una vez
para liquidarlas definitivamente

la conocida sombra de nuestros cuerpos
ya no acaba en nosotros
sigue por cualquier suelo cualquier orilla
hasta alcanzar lo real escandaloso
y lamer con lealtad los restos de silencio
que también integran nuestro largo amor

hasta las menudencias cotidianas
se vuelven gigantescos promontorios
la suma de corazón y corazón
es una suasoria paz que quema
los labios empiezan a moverse
detrás del doble cristal sordomudo
por eso estoy obligado a imaginar
lo que ella imagina y viceversa

estábamos estamos estaremos juntos
a pedazos a ratos a párpados a sueños
soledad norte más soledad sur
para tomarle una mano nada más
ese primario gesto de la pareja
debí extender mi brazo por encima
de un continente intrincado y vastísimo
y es difícil no sólo porque mi brazo es corto
siempre tienen que ajustarme las mangas
sino porque debo pasar estirándome
sobre las torres de petróleo en maracaibo
los inocentes cocodrilos del amazonas
los tiras orientales de livramento

es cierto que treinta años de oleaje
nos dan un inconfundible aire salitroso
y gracias a él nos reconocemos
por encima de acechanzas y destrucciones

la vida íntima de dos
esa historia mundial en livre de poche
es tal vez un cantar de los cantares
más el eclesiastés y sin apocalipsis
una extraña geografía con torrentes
ensenadas praderas y calmas chichas

no podemos quejarnos
en treinta años la vida
nos ha llevado recio y traído suave
nos ha tenido tan pero tan ocupados
que siempre nos deja algo para descubrirnos
a veces nos separa y nos necesitamos
cuando uno necesita se siente vivo
entonces nos acerca y nos necesitamos

es bueno tener a mi mujer aquí
aunque estemos silenciosos y sin mirarnos
ella leyendo su séptimo círculo
y adivinando siempre quién es el asesino
yo escuchando noticias de onda corta
con el auricular para no molestarla
y sabiendo también quién es el asesino

la vida de pareja en treinta años
es una colección inimitable
de tangos diccionarios angustias mejorías
aeropuertos camas recompensas condenas
pero siempre hay un llanto finísimo
casi un hilo que nos atraviesa
y va enhebrando una estación con otra
borda aplazamientos y triunfos
le cose los botones al desorden
y hasta remienda melancolías

siempre hay un finísimo llanto un placer
que a veces ni siquiera tiene lágrimas
y es la parábola de esta historia mixta
la vida a cuatro manos el desvelo
o la alegría en que nos apoyamos
cada vez más seguros casi como
dos equilibristas sobre su alambre
de otro modo no habríamos llegado a saber
qué significa el brindis que ahora sigue
y que lógicamente no vamos a hacer público
brenda callahan May 2017
We live

We breathe

We eat

We talk

We touch

We see

We Feel

We ****

We love

We hate

We ****

We do not understand
Seema Aug 2017
I've got a handsome brother
Like I have, you may have to
Each day, I weave off his negativity
By praying to god sincerely
His life stays longevous  
Never shall he get upset unnecessarily
This thread, is a protection virtue
Never get upset, this heart gets upset to
Whether am far or near
Don't you forget this lives praxis
Brought 'rakhi' with love to tie on your wrist
Brought you lots of sweets and gifts
Let me embrace your forehead with sandlewood powder and wave this lighted lamp upon you
Tying this thread and serving these sweets
This day comes once a year with treats
My brother, remaining years of my life
I wish, be bestowed upon you...

*Raksha Bandhan*
Hai ek salona, bhai hamara
Jaisa hai mera, shayad waisa ** tumhara
Roz mein uski nazar utaroon
Bhagwaan se mein prathna karoon
Jeewan uska rahe salamath
Kabhi wo mujhse, bewaja roothe math
Hai ye dhaga, raksha bandhan
Dukhi math hona, dukhta hai maan
Mein paas hoon ya dur
Tum bhul na jana jeewan ka dastur
Layi hoon iss rakhi mei bhar kar pyar
Barfi, jalebi, peda aur ye uphaar
Tilak lagaoon, arti utaroon
Dhaga bandhoon aur methayi khilaoon
Din ye saal mein, ek baar aye
Bhai, meri umar bhi tumhe lag jaye...


Happy Raksha Bandhan
Rohan Press Aug 2018
'her' as whispered praxis:



brush me in
nature is just an expression of her.
(f. ellie)
davi bauer Nov 2013
She's now through the wilderness open door
And  here victims still protest the conflict
Where  my living proof is ravaged by dead faith
As if there is no counteracting perplexity.

Yet you remind me and it's not your duty
Love hides behind innocence
With common ground commemorating charity.

She sang the number spiral
To destroy the despair barricade
But his imagination endlessly
Stretched and twisted synchronous imagery
So I projected ambient praxis
Into those broken musings.

Do you still think the world's words
Should be sacrificed by knowledge as music?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.what the most plush drink i've ever had? well, i'm drinking it now... Tennessee honey liquor by Jackie boy... mm, yum as ****... just ice, no mixer... what do you expect? at 35% vol strength, you're going to enjoy it on its own... mind you... i am going to a country where there are no 37.5% vodkas... 40%: standard.

- but i won't be drinking,
                 odd how i can turn off the drinking
whenever i go back, "home"...
it will be winter, really short days...
limited internet access, or, literally none...
and a 3 volume book i decided
to get through...
   the English language will be turned off,
and i'll be pulverized by
the language, t.v. radio,
everyone around me...
   not a single word of English being
         it's nice to get away from
all the Anglophone drama,
whether on the internet with the vloggers,
or anyone for that matter...
small town Poland...
          early nights in the mid-afternoons,
a book, a single lamp light...
mind you... why do people always
choose to read a book on a beach?
how about i sleep in a lit oven?
or next to the radiator with a closed
   i do not claim to be a quick reader,
i don't like reading quickly...
i already talk quickly...
       "slow" reading is so much more
   but at least i chose a book that's
just over 1000 pages...
   5 weeks away? yeah, i should be
able to do it...
          what's it about?
the Great Deluge... of Poland...
   by the Swedes, when our aristocratic
democracy, the electoral authority
decided to give the throne to a Swede,
and subsequently his older brother invaded...
a historic epic, fiction, with
a pinch of historical truth...
you could even call it a reading holiday...
i.e. go to a place colder that's much
colder than where you heading out from...
and... make sure you're surrounded
by old people, perhaps your grandparents...
****! i knew i forgot something
when packing...
how am i going to cook them curries
when i haven't packed the spices?!
well... i could gamble on feeling refreshed
with 4 hours sleep...
or i could drink this right here
Tennessee honey liquor...
    lie down for an hour with closed
eyes, to rest them,
but prior to... prepare the spices...
the latter...
                  power naps are for the Japanese...
in their 15 minute hotspots...
oh they have them... sleeping hubs...
**** that sort insomnia diet...
give me a decent 8 and we're cool...
ugh... but the dreaded thought...
i live in relative isolation...
i interact with less people than
i have fingers... on one hand (most of the time)...
the dreaded airport...
the moment i walk into an airport
i just think of... transported livestock...
the liquor will certain take off the edge...
from having to see so many people
all at the same time...
               plus, i've done longer stretches
of staying awake...
dunno... once i might have teased
the 48 hour mark...
but with this beauty of a liquor in me...
bah!                 easy-peasy-Japanese;

and the music i'm taking with me...
on C.D. (oh! the travesty,
employing technology from the 1980s!):

dikanda - muzyka czterech strong wschodu,
żywiołwak - nowa ex-tradycja
wager - an assortment
schumann - fantastic pieces op. 12
beethoven - symphony IX in d-moll op. 125
egberto gismonti - solo
sonic youth - *****
fairport convention - liege and lief
neon neon - praxis makes perfect
queens of the stone age - rated R
!!! - strange weather, isn't it
handel - music for the royal fireworks
water music...

that certainly packs a punch...
         to associated myself
with making portions of relevant
spices for the curries i'll be cooking.
katewinslet Nov 2015
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¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
     As I walked the cobbled road,
a fallen leaf had called to me
“There, they sit atop the elm
and sing in wing'ed harmony!”

     As I looked beyond the limbs,
t'was as the amber leaf had said!
Crows—a trio, black and jade—
sat sewing thoughts into my head.

     Doting all, their call, acute.
Feared, as they began to chime
and paint the scene in cackled rhyme—
a stunning scene of ag'ed time!

     “As the Earth sits up on high,
          Await the end; the end is nigh!
          And shaken from its pedestal,
          a common custom—gone awry!

     “And as the scrib'ed granites tell,
          the darkened lord shall cast his spell,
          and all of praxis slashed to
          barren ash and taken to his Hell.”

     Their words, a curse to roam the world—
a call, aloud—a siren's scream—
their call—the Cawling of the Wind;
this flawless song's an endless dream.

          They sing an endless, painted dream.
          They dream of endless misery.

     As I walked, my mind raced on
and paced about this patchwork key,
both singing of that cursed song
and laden with reality.

     And then this bent my hashing mind:
this pasture’s blinding paths abroad!
So ****** by its ****** disguise,
what once was fair is now but fraud.

     The thought of sin had bound my feet—
a burning chill that once was good.
His hell was just beyond my reach.
My body fell; yet, there I stood.

     And through the void, his spirit falls.
Gone, entranced, as he recalls
a house of cards with meager walls.
Atop the crown, his spirit calls:

“Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life you lead.
     As you age, the world will die.
     Your questions, answered;
          so, says I.”

     Around me, then, were those a’brood;
their dreamless nightmare once bestowed.
Our numbers fall; his rise in lieu.
Alas! Submit! We chose that road!

     This pasture waned an age ago—
a mountain, this buffet of lies.
For in his realm, the truth will show
that deaf ears harken not our cries.

     To a deity of piqued display,
upon a steed of dark dismay,
a fleeting wish, we're told to pay.
He'll raise his staff and he will say:

“Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life you lead.
     As you age, the world will die.
     Your questions, answered;
          so, says I.”

          Your eyes say no, but his say yes.
          A curse is thrown, and so we stress:

Our Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life we lead.
     As we age, the world will die.
     Our questions, answered;
     so, we cry . . .

. . . and so, we cry . . .

∘ ⊱‧⌍  ⌈✞⌋  ⌌‧⊰ ∞
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
i'm dead serious about conceptualising a su doku...
               i'm on the basis of fractions...
  praxis            9
                            ­  /  4
                   optical coordination of stressors of furthered insertion
for some reason i cited:
           9 x 6 = 51
                         and then           9 x 9 = 81...
              ****! 1 is such a difficult number to muster /
master in a goemetric class...
     1 isn't exactly geometrically "sound" -
                       hello φoνoς -
alternatively, when you're doing a really hard su doku,
quote this quasi-copernican interpretation,
i.e. doing the puzzle "lying down"...
     i dunno(h)... when complexity arises
   numbers "lying down" makes perfect sense...
     su doku?
        it's like onomatopoeia in terms of arrangement...
81? and it's still a perfect square?!
              o.k. o.k. (leo getz style),
                   3          ß
         what the **** was alternative to the said?
        u p
        n                        ­     p
                                       d o w n
                                  by now you're ****** kidding...

3          Σ
      W                         ­         my name's matthew,
so you can imagine why i get all hot and bothered
about this variation.
      now for some dead etymology (i,e,
i don't give a **** where the words came from,
i just like the way they sound) -
     all, if any, emotional intelligence equates
       itself toward an intensity status...
       i.e.         the more you feel, the more
                           your emotional competence...
for sure... apathy is the "placebo" guarantee
                     cure   for any type of pathos -
       or the λoγoς of guaranteed explanations.
   to be honest?
               λoγoς has been reduced to a suffix status
with that basic "accomplishment" of -ology.
       another "funny" word... by was of saying:
it's actually a city...
                             Płock -
alternatively? let's juggle

            ò (grave)            &       ó (acute)....
      now i see the funny side of the *tetragrammaton

concept... it really is omnipresent...
        between           ò       &      ó
    you want the sort of incisor that's basically |
                      something that really might **** off god
once and for all...
           with nietzsche it didn't really happen...
         i mean an    |
                         ­     that would get rid of god in
the classical roman sense of:               oh...
      and return to the omicron basis
                   for having revealed a phonetic encoding
that's simply O...     and that means doing away with
the god's portion of a hammer (H) -
                     or the second syllable of the name:
                    η          - weh...
                                         eta weh...
i'd start translation phonetic encoding if i were you...
            that variant stated? eta?
              it's also called: a short e....
            the opposite like loki to thor?
      epsilon... and it's called the long e...
      in greek it's ε, in latin it's the basis for avoiding
diacritical confrontation / application...
    i.e.          ee           in the word keep,       e.g.
Science Apr 2013
От мен се очаква
te doen
βιολί μου
Praxis aber
أنا فقط
but I need to but I

(I lost my line)
(I lost my line)

(I lost my line)

(I lost my line)

(I lost my line)(I lost my line)
(I lost my line)(I lost my line)(I lost my line)(I lost my line)(I lost my line)
(I lost my line)
This is just a sampling of our regrets
To be the best at anything is to protest
That our attachment theories
Are merely empirical strategies
And praxis slips out of my mouth
Like dancing dragons
We climb to the top of Everest
Faster than you can say lightning
Mightier than a sword
Your words stand taller than an evergreen
Pinecones maneuver in the winds of destiny
A painter’s son takes lessons from the master’s failures
Congratulations on lying in your bed again
I befriend the endings so I can begin refreshed
And bed the brides at their commencement ceremonies
How are we so good at pretending
That it's always been alright to ask questions
When we already know better
Than to laugh at these humble representatives
Of our own defenselessness
spooky doopy Dec 2014
Master of self contained combust
sustained breath ******
bust pushed back words cut
swords clacked knacks “nails ‘n’ tacks for snacks” lacked facts
Your facets flow-faucets expel droplets: fire
where the burnt bed liar lies crying -- you

Filled glass full brims past with *****
line crossed etch embossed last sonnet promise
kept not-sigh-Stitched inner eyelash
compelled to expel by belch lost items:



truncated candles

defunkitated mandibles

Overflowing belly ripens open
bile burns sigils thighs sizzle
urns drizzle ashes past my battle axis
orbiting faxes from your praxis
binds my essence to my existence

Peaceful waters rest
this *** is glass
Forgiven and Clear
bleh Jul 2014
You know, friend,
the strangest occurrence came before me,
as I was walking under these auburn branches of birch just the other day.
I came across an old man
playing with marbles on a grassy verge, among the tumbling leaves.
So I asked of him,
'Surely there is a better terrain for such a game?'
to which he responded,
'The pleasure of completing the sensible endeavour,
was lost long ago.'
and so I but had to ask,
'Surely then pick a hobby that bears easier fruit?'
To which he said
'If a hobby lies on the praxis of habit, then any newfangled venture is necessarily improper.'
Quite perturbed, I could but reply;
'Is not the wholesale rejection of the erudition of change blinding?'
To which he smiled, and held up a marble
he'd found lost under a strewed leaf, to the light
it's smooth opal contours glistening in form,
and said,
'Babel, too, was built on a sphere.'
And so that was that.
But the days are getting shorter, aren't they?
Or rather, they're the same length, but the colours have faded round the edges
frayed dead leather
binding empty rusted old bones.
Isn't it funny? How something hollow and brittle is thought to be fragile,
while it's only after becoming hollow oneself
that one can drink from the cusp of influence and power.
Age is a wonderful thing; it lets one rationalise and contextualise all ones excesses,
that one felt so uncomfortable about
back when they were actually enjoyable.
But I am so tired of all the moralists;
where we thought we thought on what we ought to have fought,
instead we fought on what we ought to have thought.
Thats the thing about the absolutes,
be they Hegelian or Platonic,
is, if they're true to their namesake,
are scarcely a thing that needs defending.
Not that the opposite is any better;
To both the aged romantic
who sings praises to his mortality,
And the jejune one
the teenager drowning in lust and love,
I can but simply say;
'He who worships living flesh
has a fool for a god.'
for the illusion of form
has a conclusion forlorn.
But, ah no, don't go that way,
the traffic's terrible there..
Though, what way was it to where we live again?
KathleenAMaloney Apr 2016
Idea of Heaven
So Greatly Loved
I pray your Children's
Heart Remain

I love you more
Every minute of these Final Moments
It is Your Love I fight For
Grace Feeling Lost to me

And yet I can't Accept

I Love You
That is the only Reality

Your Smiling Eyes
So Beautiful

What is a Castle
Without a King
Or a Temple
Without a God Adoring

Hogh Priestess Dowry Given
For the Bride of Heavens Kingdom
Your Work God's Presence
Your Vision Gods Life

Mystery of the Snake
Power of Gods Life
A priests  King
And a Woman's Man

Come To Me
Or May it Be
That I come To You

— The End —