~for the one who will know it was written for her~

muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled

have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?

the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear

this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature

I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif

muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess

even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman

I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever,
absentia, dementia, both self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun,
yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating my muddled mind

He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.

He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he's been hit by the wind.
He's worried it will become pneumonia.

In Cambodia, he'd be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.

Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.

I ask the interpreter what it means.
It's a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits—
she is tracing the lines with her fingers—
and those who meet him for kindness.

The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of dipthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.

He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict.

His lungs are clear. You'll be fine,
I tell him. It's not your time to die.
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.

Ar-kon, he says. All better now.




                                                        by Peter Pereira



.

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Electrodes to nodes
and nothing bodes well
electrickery and it trickles into me
revolting and jolting
and Frankensteinlike bolting me
to the bed.

The head
this head will no longer be as free
as the thought imagining in me
while hot electrotomoty
burns me to
anonymity
and it's a pity I can't be
a less condusive entity
but the powers that be seem to have it in for me
and I am strapped to non lucidity
in the name of all humanity
don't put a shilling in the meter

Later I meet myself
in a shell of who I used to be in a picture
painted hastily
on a background
which I cannot see
and what was once no longer is or was it ever and did I once was clever too or were the words electricked through the nodes that boded ill?
Will it stay or will it go
somewhere out there
do you know
or are you waiting for the leads that lead you to electric feeds?
Can someone bring me bread and water
call my Mother
call my daughter
or like the lamb led to the slaughter
will I bleed to death?

mama warned me
about becoming attached to ghosts,
about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids,
   trailing their
     ruminant symbiology
      down labyrinthine tunnels
till you're left, stranded
   in a nowhere from where you started
and they fade
away
to nothing.

...

I keep loosing sight  in the lag
    that hesitant flickering pivoting between footsteps,
those   pauses  of breath  between paragraphs
of the mold in the ceilings dictated speeches,
the decade old dust encrusted spider-webs on the coffers abandoned superstructures, intricate semantic patterns, still present, present, but encapsulating nothing.

                                     (Educations warped my mind
                                       into prescriptive paradigms
                                      drugged up on science fiction
                                      alternate attritions of future presents)


–//

One day,
      the ocean promised to swallow the world,
but failed to set a date; just a vague sense of inevitability.
and everyone gets uncomfortable about the liminality,
and there's
                     a moment of rupturing
                      unveiling the blanketing
in the process of our mass comatose suicide,
                            That    no     ones sure what to do with.
And we collapse into the indecision
of what to make of this wavering present
  loosing sight
between barricades of candy bars and cheeseburger pies
while the radio static sighs
'boys only want love if it's torture'

                                                  (i find it a bit optimistic)

//–


I keep becoming waylaid in the lag
   the hesitant faltering between long warn down footprints
   travelling down some path set out by the last
   in no way definitive; but, at least, defined
   by the haphazard indentations left behind
  while sometimes there’s treasure in the depths that we climb
   it's never the kind
                                 that explains itself.

            (But still time turns and churns and burns
                while we frantically mine all the scattered urns.)


   –\

            The philosophers and neuroscientists keep working to find the foundations underlying why
               we think what we think, why we feel what we feel,
     they peel up the carpet and peer into what's beneath, but
                                     they just keep finding

                                         ripped up carpet  and musk.

                 \–


I keep searching for home in the lag,
    the tumbling bind of footfalls enshrined.
      but even if there's no way out of here,
      there's occasionally a whisper of camaraderie in the air


       (you never escape,
              no no,
            but sometimes
                the enclosure unfolds )

...

mama warned me
about becoming attached to ghosts,
about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids.
    but here in the dark,
  i'm not sure what else to follow.

I am not exotic
But I am ******
I’m not this flesh
Or these bones
This body is
My home,
My temple,
For I am
******
Mother and
Sacred Crone

I am not exotic
But I am ******
I am the fire
Of Holy Desire
I am kundalini Shakti
Sacred Power
Life Force Energy
What you cannot
See in thee
You project
Onto me

I am not your
Mother Wound
Projection nor
The cause of
Your demonised
*******
Open your eyes
To the lies
You cannot
Cage me
By category
Tick me off your list
Make me invisible
Divisible by
What is not true
For I am
Another you.

Reclaim your Desire
This Holy Fire
This creative force
You're not seeing
Is what birthed you
Into being

Embrace your Passion
Let your tongue
Kiss the truth
With compassion
Proclaim your name
Without shame
You are not toxic
You are ******
Let your desire
Flower
Own your
Power!

We need to change
The conversation
Between this nation
Of women and men
Generations of trauma
Perpetuated
In the name
Of some sod
They call their god
Defy the lie
Don’t comply
With temptation
They control
Our needs
To spark their
Insatiable greed.
Don’t cage
Your longing
To feed your
Belonging

This individualistic
creed
Consuming
Subsuming
To fill the void
Left by
the ban
On Pan
Earthy
deemed *****
Horn scorned
Turned into ****
Scapegoated
Emasculated
Devil
Demoted
Goddess
Demeaned

Rise­ up
Open your heart
Resist the force
Tearing communities apart
Face your fear
Shed those tears
Cause a commotion
Release that emotion
Lets change
the agenda
That segregates
Our genitals
From gender

Refrain
Unchain
Shiv Shakti
Eros Aphrodite
Mars and Venus
Liberate your *****
Own your passion
Penetrate compassion
Don’t measure
Your Pleasure
By some
prescriptive
Fashion

Embrace your
Inner lover
Honour our
Earth Mother
Stop blaming
Shaming the other
Let’s form a union
Let love be the sacrament
The Holy Communion
For we are ******
We are the fire
Of Holy Desire
Let Compassion flower
Let the power of love
Banish the love of power

Forcing imagination to reestablish itself, after prescriptive onslaught of docs, scientists, specialists and quacks, lacks for ease of descriptive purpose, genuine motivation. The pills, darling, the pills usurp rational outmode. This to counteract that, which causes symptomatic supersession of more to set aside a succession imposing supplant more supplements. I submit! This breaking down of the other and then an other in a pharmaceutical battery of which ***** next? Can common sense overrule? Overruled! As another script is scribbled, a blank gaze overcomes, and the drool drips and overruns.

the 102nd Iteration of Sonic Moses brings down the Sound from the mount. The Prescriptive is delivered in 2 second cuts to every Citizen of Nowhere. And in this bare proclamation every man sees his desire
and his prejudice and it guides him and his screams and his traffic. I am told I do not feel pride in my home. sapphiral anubis is barking on TV again and it makes no difference how loud they warn against the *****'s blight: her pups bite themselves rabid to be like her. And everywhere the ill men are dying in style.

The exchange is condemned
flesh for payment in the hand
while the world ignores the same
as equal swaps have no blame

those servitudes by married states
proceeded by the dating game
ask that skin be exposed
prior to forms of *******

while the outcome is alike
imaginations seek to decry
those outside the prescriptive ways
when doubles standards are in play

purity separate from the price
what’s made right in a thought
curse the ones who provide
just the same in God’s knowing eyes.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20191020.

He found what he was looking for,
   his shadow turned inside out

He moved beyond prescriptive cure,
  all questioning and doubt

He left the future-past behind,
  silhouette of all he’d missed

Impregnating the moment within himself
—to light the dark abyss

(Winston Salem, North Carolina: October, 2017)

there is no limit to prescriptions for improvement
that say the only way to obtain doability - Condition A -
is to first create Conditions B through Z,
the lack of which make Condition A impossible.
But since Condition A is the ability to Do,
there is no explanation of how to Do
B, C, or ........ Z
before A.
Maybe the word “before” is the error.
and all of A through Z must occur simultaneously-
which, since A is logically prior,
means that  B, C, ........ Z are all actually subsets
of A.
Everytime prescriptive language uses a transitive verb,
as in “Create a...” or
“Establish a...” or
“Change the...” or
“Set up a...”
it’s referring to an imaginary world
in which forms of the phrase “To Do”
can affect real life.
There are, though, other verb forms
that are often substituted which are
less unrealistic,
as in “Fight for...” or
“Work towards....” or
“Settle for nothing but...”
the difference being that
these verb forms admit the possibility
of delayed success, compromise,
or even failure.
Then there are a whole other class
of word forms, which are
not really players in the game,
but are stuck back in a previous stage,
using not action verbs but queries
and the mass of confused verbiage
that tends to accompany them; queries like,
“What would it take to...”
We can’t really claim this has ever helped a lot;
diagnosis and treatment of the human condition
has a terrible record of failure.
But on the other hand,
the record of people saying “do this,” “do that”,
and actually succeeding in improving things
is just as lousy. You don’t agree?
Sure there have been some improvements,
we can tentatively agree - for one thing,
there does seem to less slavery now - meaning
the all-out, state-endorsed, I-own-another-human-body
kind of slavery - than there was 160 years ago.
So, who did that?
I’d be laughed right off the planet
if I said Lincoln or U.S. Grant or the 19th century Republicans.
What about people whose motives and actions
were purer? Do you really think
a finite, identifiable group of 18th - 19th-century activists
were the factor responsible for ending
international slavery as an economic institution in the West?
(Why did England ban slave trading before the U.S.,
without having a civil war about it?)
Just aligning yourself with a cause that then
turns out to get done doesn’t mean you caused it.
Remember all those hippie ******* who ended Vietnam?
Or, you may believe no end of slavery ever happened,
too many fine distinctions are being drawn,
and the world goes on as before.
If so, what does that say about To Do?
What to do, how to do it, who or what does it,
and what should we be focusing on - or,
What would it take? What would it COST to have
BCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ, or in other words
How do you A?

Prescriptive and
I run, run
claiming my freedom
expressing myself.

Prescriptive prescriptions
For restricted positions
That all twist
(Just being facetious)
That's the way.
That's the way love is
But the point of
No return
Could make me yurn
How to learn.

empty, he hangs
hunger echos eternally
euphoric echelons unreached
up tips the glass
all sixteen ounces vanished
split second, drained down
our dry roiling throat
oscillating, undulating
fleshy chords twanging discordant
as our eyes scan
the floor
for food

the hunger is
not unknown to
me. he speaks
his piece each evening,
growling guttural in the
ear of my psyche
in a word-like lilt
he needs
a constant cadence to
feel full, as he
enthusiastically entreats
every evening

tonight is no
different. across the
table he sees  
one. entrée du jour.
body fills with foul
pitch and sulfurous fire.
and shame, of course,
always shame.
i shouldn’t need this
and neither should he
prescriptive philosophies aren’t particularly
obtainable, he
offers ourselves

rising, a snap
audibly cracks from
my ailing back.
ours? his? hard to
quite say these days
but i digress anyway
we’re halfway to target
rolodex of first topics
spinning manically
searching, manipulating, looking for
that lone loquacious line,
algorithmic in its alignment
to enthrall
engulf, enamor

the spotlight of
consciousness is fickle,
you see. bodies
are only loyal to
themselves. they contain all.
and mine, sometimes, does
not even contain me.
no warning, he simply
begins his hunt, filpped
light switch
so banal and flippant
i am not needed
and so aside cast
succubi schema
sunsetting sense

i don’t know
where i go
it is the
sense of nothing, absence.
my body simultaneously there
and gone. i feel
some of it. pleasure
sneaks seductively up into
my sinew and bones.
i always wonder who
was first
which of the ******
spirits presiding amongst my
cells was the first
to see
sumptuous sunlight

as his evening
seeps into me
squeezing into the
small spaces where i
still exist, i flux
both small and sprawling
my void form changes
with me, taking direction
from my wandering thoughts
“was he born here?”,
i inquire
ineffably to no one.
expecting an answer, none
comes. just the squawk
of *** and sheets,
vibrato voices
vigorous, vehement.

couldn’t say who
was first out
but i’m first  
up today, rays rousing
from sleep and stupor.
i see her with
my eyes for the
first time, curled up
like a kitten, exhausted
of the evening’s destruction.
cast into her shoulder,
his teeth
show i’m the stranger
here. like mine but
aren’t. can’t be. never
met me. still, she
serenely slumbers
silent, sensuously

voiceless now in
his void, we
are finally separate.
abandoned to the labors
of the morning, infernal
impulses satiated, i go
method, best impression donned.
she is, obviously, confused
by the reality of
me. former affection burning
away like vampire’s flesh
in light of day
succubi’s *******
now gone dry. so
too it’s mosquito’s charm
subtle and soft, now
irritated, vulnerable. hurt. and
alone i
am again.