Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you

Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay

The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up

Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:

I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers

Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me

Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight

Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.

there's a guy
sequestered
someplace in a
secret location

his job is to keep
****** alive

since the purported
death of mein Fuhrer
this has become the
most important job
in the world

with ****** alive
and well, we know
what evil looks like
and it sports a
funny mustache

compared to ******’s
lip growth even
old Beelzebub’s
goatee looks
kinda cute

with ****** alive
nations churn out
industrial strength
collateral damage
on the scale of a
Fortune 500
sausage maker
wholly blessed
with the
moral impunity
of profiting on
the war on
terror

assembly lines
manufacturing
the stewed vats
of pink slime
soylent green
lays a wide grin on
Henry Ford’s face
watching happy
Chinese proles
grind through
the day’s
bleating stocks
grateful to have
a wage paying job

we are
the righteous
dudes,

hanging ten on
Malibu pipes
water boarding
the terrorists

pouring waves of
umbrellaed  
Coolattas down
the desert thirsty
gullets of
dead enders

and they don’t
even have
the decency
lay a tip on
their earnest
servers

freakin
barbarians

we are the
empowered
heavies
licensed to
dispatch
immediate
fast food
have it your way
justice,
with
drone strikes
on reprobate
Americans who
spent their last
bill of rights on
a Happy Meal
of Freedom Fries
leaving the
executioner
begging for nickel
change so he
can pick up
a dime bag
of the best
Afghan horse
after laying a
bullet between
old Osama’s
cross crooked
eyes

when civilized men
begin to wonder
if the modus operandi
of intelligence
gathering could be
construed as torture,
we point northward
to scurrying Koreans
sneaking briefcase
nukes over the the
southern border
cleverly disguised
as Chicano grape
pickers heading
for Napa.

in national
tantrums of
undulating
shock and awe
we launch
cruise missiles
to deliver the
news of a well
considered
Bush Doctrine
self conferring the
sweet liberty
to detonate
bunker busters
in noble strikes
of preemptive
interventionism

we hate war
so much
we initiate
warfare before
a war breaks out

we reserve
first strike
blitzkrieg
prerogatives
as an exalted
strength to
alleviate the pain
of enduring
the weakness of
protracted peace

we are firm in the
belief that the blasted
dust from our bombs
form the cornerstones
of future democracies

to serve the greater
global good, America
has dispatched a
humanitarian team of
Navy Seals to East
Africa to get Kony

we’re rooting out this
bad guy whose
trying to implement
his twisted version
of a Santorumish
10 Commandment
based paradise

Kony is living proof that
Islamo Fascists don’t
hold a monopoly on
terror and though
Kony’s got some
powerful supernatural juju
Seals got motion sensors
that can spot a
cantankerous poltergeist
through the darkest jungle
canopies

it also will minimize
the risk of friendly fire
casualties

they’ll have to be careful
not to wander into
the disputed oil fields
of southern Sudan
and they’ll need to
be mindful of Chinese
engineers building
pipelines and refineries

But thank goodness
that guy has kept
the touchstone of evil
alive and well.

we’ll always
recognize it
when we see it
and get hot
on the trail of
******’s latest
incarnations
when they
show their
ungodly face

civilized people
demand justice

and we will not rest until
Kony’s head is displayed
atop a spike on YouTube
buzzing with the hum
of ecstatic flies joining
the chorus of happy
tribesmen singing
kumbaya with
stirring gratitude
from the aboriginal
comfort of their
mud and
grass huts

****** lives
Osama is dead
Lets get Kony

Music selection:

Smash Mouth,
Walking on the Sun

Oakland
May Day
5/1/12
jbm

In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.

born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation
complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience
ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow
breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty
divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs
fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds
seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake
so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake
to take her language for another world
visions died with imminence and grandiosity
a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture
living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity
glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity
careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins
glossy water robs apostles of oxygen
filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry
& now the god’s live in ignorance and misery
crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground
astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds
powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude
another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood
confused prisoners gifted with the write to think
proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings
a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions
matter undermined the undefined enlightenment
spirals in the light comprise a present tense
evanescent destination sensei keep I humble
so many stripes up in my wavelengths
widowed endorphins scrape the pain away
balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity
many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny

Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.

“Better than working in a factory.”
Truer words were never spoken while
Smoking a big fat *doobie.
For Doug Clifford & John Fogerty
It was a motto; an anthem.
Creedence always respected &
Loved the workingman.
Working stiffs know--
They know in their bellies--
That Republicans are good for the
Proles, here in Oceania,
Good in particular for the building trades.
I recall a distant mob of
Swarthy plumbers & carpenters,
Electricians & masons,
A toolshed parliament & all-purpose
Construction industry trade show;
So many, many Italian family
Weddings & funerals attended . . .
Sometimes my residual blue-collar instincts
Show up during the most inappropriate,
White-collar times. But I digress.

Which brings us down memory lane
This evening, as in “Good-DEEVE-ning,”
Welcome aboard the Hitchcock Railroad.
(Stage whisper: If I have to explain it,
You’re outside my demographic age cohort,
And a member of a pointless throng of green,
Still-wet-behind-the-ears,
Presumptuous whippersnappers.)

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And now that I have your attention:
Consider the current national stage:
A media circus, a minstrel & medicine show,
H.L. Mencken’s last *******,
Give us our daily bread.
It’s August 27th, 2016.
We’ve survived back-to-back
Republican-Democrat Political Party
U.S. Presidential nominating conventions.
I’ve caught you smack yabba-doo-dabba
In the middle of this Trump-Clinton
Full-press, traveling Reality Show Cavalcade.
In short, I’ve caught you at a good time,
Perhaps receptive, somewhat, for a:
Nixon Retrospective.*

I submit that without doubt,
The most stunningly democratic gesture
Of our generation to wit: replacing the
College deferment loophole with a
Blind, dumb-luck Vietnam Draft Lottery.
You can thank Richard Nixon,
Milhous of that name,
Our much maligned 37th President.
The only RESIGNEE in history,
Run outta town on a rail,
Convicted without bail.
Set adrift without sail.
(How you wish I’d **** this
Wretched rhyme scheme.)

Yes, you can thank Tricky **** for
Sticking it to the Bush Family
And their inherited-wealth neighbors--
Riparian souls one & all--along the quaint
Long Island Sound, New England seashore.
Surely my Brooklyn working class roots,
Demand I salute and snap to, attention.
Hail to the Chief, Babaloo!
Mr. Nixon still has my vote.
He tackled big problems: nuclear arms,
Diplomacy with China, Vietnam,
The Economy (can you frickin’ believe a
Republican got away with
Wage Freeze & Price Controls?)
Not to mention The Environment:
Slap! BAM! Soupy Sales:
“I told you not to mention *THAT!
But you knee-jerking libs out there,
Must remind yourselves that
President Nixon created the EPA &
Signed the Clean Air Act.
Think about it next time your
Nixon-Watergate gag reflex kicks in.

Sitting here with my head lowered I feel the depths of sleep tire me at the very core
My hand reaches through my hair,fingertips stretching searching seen trying to wake this sorry soul
grasping at the short strands that used to be a dark mass yet now resemble some lost scared ghost of Christmas past
I sit here trying to write my future
trying to forget some past
The screen looks blurry as my glasses no longer do their job, yet another sign this body and soul is in decline.Glasses off and all comes clear again .Dam these eyes as i rub and rub the sore red stinging that comes with age and sleep deprivation.
My mind is full of fireworks whilst my body is made of wax thats been sat to near the glowing embers of a log fire set there for the night.Oh to have a normal mind ,a mind that forgets ambition ,forgets his dream, forgets reality ,maybe its time to join big brother and become a prole
Would life be so different,would I learn to sleep any better ,would my life become more wholesome
do I need another life ...
na my fireworks are my life
my madness is my way and my writing keeps me sane...the alcohol consume me, hides me, deserts me yet my family love me ...god knows why I think they must be drugged ,maybe its hypnosis maybe just maybe its me ...as for my friends bless em they really must be desperate ...well a proles live for me or back to my quazi quazi life, back to the fireworks in my mind, back into the openness of the sea

Gone are the days
full of
Song and Sun Rays;

Crimes of the Times
outshine
Minds full of Rhymes;

Greed and Decay
make me
Bleed Disarray
while i
Feed from the Tray
where they
Peed - It's Okay,
but take
Heed what I Say...

Stripped are the Proles
while the
Stripped swing on Poles;

The Irresponsible Parent
spells doom
For the rest...

It's apparent,
abhorrent
although,
What a ******* beautiful mess...

Today I thought “*******.”
You’re rude to those I love
through ignorance,
yours of course, as mine is finer tuned
though I abhor you
for your corporate judgment
in kind I’m classifying you
to post in **** encrusted pigeonholes
so future proles
will know to write you off
and your specious waffle
will forever be followed
by polite cough,
Yours Faithfully

Deep in my darkness
I feel within
The blackness creeping
a godly grin
Fire raging
Madness call
Ready for the raging roar

Yet calm is on the outside
Tranquil to the mass
Hidden from the proles
Go pass
This smile a gripping leer

If only
They could see within
If only
They would fear  
The madness set inside my head
A chill
The welcome clear

These blackened eyes
Do tell a sign
A way to stay away
Be wary of the softest grin
Inside
I have my rage

A goddess wrought in platinum aura sublime
Aloft, triumphant at starts and ends of times
All is created and all is destroyed there
Perpetual motion; thermodynamics flare
Men they try to copy her might, futile mime
For they can't emulate her deep disarming stare
Which transcends reason, inspires bards to rhyme
For the good and godliness in there
Outranks Medusa in enchanted hair
For I floated enchanted rapt in thrall
Enchanted by her bonny beauty rare
And her suppression through aeons the mind appals
But when henchmen of demonic devil's snare
**** her in the western warring call
Arrogant to think they'd suppress lady Kali's magic might
They will fail and they will surely fall
Irisidescent was her gestating glow
Glittering atman guarding all of space
Angels take us to see her to and fro
Show us in her the light of love apace
To deny her truth is a dank disgrace
We should regret that, repent and woe
That cultists **** her, proudly, in her prime
And make of diva's death a glutton's show
We are her children, but some of us do not know
She is able, what's hers is ours
A knowledge that begs to be devoured
In celestial, rare, immortal hour
Time not decreed from tyrant's tower
From her blessings wonderfully shower
Thankyou John for showing me
Temptress Kali, sweet, supreme
To her we went through eternity
Saw the celestial democracy
Of Christian and Hindu angels alike
Don't carry each other's heads on spikes
For knowing Allah's heart has light
Like all prophets peace their fight
Direction's guardians, Blake, Buddha, Ganesha
With love's light and earth enmeshed
Blake lamented spiritual decline
That children by Satan's plans in brine
But his flaming vision sees through times
And will path the way to freedom's climes
Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree
Knowing peace to set minds free
Hearts in confraternity
No you, no I, only one heart, WE
John the angel of the north
He told me John, didn't say which
I cried with pride when his enchanted drawl
Revealed a songstress from people's Liverpool
His message spoke to the one and all
Imagine the people, Imagine them all
Out with all that hates and that is cruel
Hate has made of each of us a fool
Ganesha, last but surely not the least
Has hankering heart of bright benevolent beast
The angel of the earthen east
Love gestate in him that never ceased
I saw him before, it was a while ago
But dressed in woman's form, with woman's glow
Vinayak the learned scribes would say
But all can know her either way
I saw her as one called Lexi that fine day
And it put an end to my dismay
To see us indivisible, goddess, same
When foolish man played dividing game
Gave "better" and "worse" to us as contending names
While he go questing for recognition, fame
But I do not resent that one for flaws
For all are irresistible to adore
Just want him to end this goddess war
That all men educated for
I digress, back to the flight
Where John took me on an epic sight
Next was angel of the earth
Diana of the heart and hearth
Lightworker born in tyrants sect
Learned how to love not genuflect
To hearts purity we would sure neglect
If we didn't long reflect
On fact that was surely killed
By one to who the devil shilled
What their fancy name: who cares?
To scare us with it: who dares?
She got our hearts on television
Appealing with her sweet precision
To love and brother her decision
Sought to heal the earth's contusion
Like Michael Jackson, arch angel too
Deranged as me, but sweet and true
To hurt children he didn't want to do
But give them nurture, play, they grew
The ones who really hurt the child
Are the ones who he reviled
Who sought to bring him down with lies
Again their victim empowered in the skies!
So many angels I could not count
Shakespeare whimsical on his pipe
Silent thinking thoughts so ripe
To think Lords slandered him as tripe!

Percey Shelley too was there
Chose to rebel shed claim to heir
Scaled the oxford ivory tower
and pamphleteered for freedoms power
Got kicked out in gray dull hour
But through time his insights rain and shower
As audience for devil are fewer and fewer
And peaces hope is ripe, empowered
Beyond angels, Shiva, meditator sublime
Is it audacity to ask what he sees in font of time?
Lids half open, rapt supreme
Painted with a pallet got from dream
Looked akin to Taylor, dancing wild
With heart and happiness of chiding child
That he akin to god reluctant to accept
But aren't we all Gods in retrospect?
That we are animals belong to tyrant taught
And in accepting that, our souls meet la mort
(If you read Plato backwards he fought
To encrypt truth of soul's genesis, answer sought: Really, it's stunning.)
Beyond shiva cosmic churning true
Said the blessed fires run through you
And I heard clear and remembering applaud
THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR WE ARE ALL ONE GOD
There is nothing on earth as exquisite as you
It spoke turning my heart from red to blue
Said all the world is lordly love and light
A truth in which all nascent souls take flight
Musicians there, their sweetest songs unfurled
Their festival with all the time in the world!
Even ones in youthful splendour culled
By ones who will to hate heart's song and world
It was then that Lennon zoomed me to Kali
Swimming in that churning seismic sea
Sure as heaven a vision of eternity
And in a circle she danced fluid free
The circle was a wave and particle
Light, a string in theory, gave me fright!
For Kali I had been so rapt in thrall
I had not noticed THE GOD PARTICLE
Sounds crazy but experiments of thought
Are scientific method Einstein taught
For only in deepest dreams is it possible
To see what life could truly be
Thanks John for letting me climb your wings
And flying that particle over me

When we descend back to sprightly earth
The angels all changed place, assumed new roles
Diana cede to Jo, of equal warmth
Fought for lass and mass and for the proles
And Buddha went from northern angel sweet
To defender of the faith with God's trust replete
A role assumed by Jesus once before
As he ascend to god, irresistable to adore
The bit that got me most is this
And it gave me joyful bliss
I ascend to Buddha's southern role
See sunshine as a kiss, it made me whole.

Five hundred years ago, I'd be burned for knowing this and saying so.
I know now, the bell must toll, and
what they say when they ring the bell.

--- that was after math, come and see...

What will be done?  Jesus's father's will, our father's will if you will,
be inclusive a bit
and lieve mine be done in harmony

include me in your cult of gnostication professionals, see

I been gambling all my life, sin
ce early on.

I aimed to have won souls in games, not of chance, but truth.
Will you, wont you, as you were wont to do, do now

lift up your voice and shout, I am a ******

Welcome to my inner burning man, in my desert, ashes blow away, yond

the edge of Kumeyaay to Yuma and Blythe, where
Quechan and Mohave wise ones say they heard,

when there were old ones, who never went to jail
for drunk and disorderly being,
after their hopes went on to being happy as could be,

-- some day Sammy, the Apache, and his brother Jonah, link

- my grandpa never been in jail, that little Hualapai kid said
- and I said my grand kids can't say that,
- though I had none, at the time.
- The grand, the better version of me, children, better adapted
- to now, by nature...

do not call the bhorn worth of a child common, we took great pains
to remain random,
you will notice, if you look real close, atom boundary field close,

order exists only in bubble-ish force fields with

geistlich actions enfolding north to south and uptodown
round and
round on an all be, wall, all be dammed, the flow is
in the foam the bubbles
are on and we can see that

as once, long ago, the winds they call Santana, no relation,

saw the making of the intaglios in Blythe.

The great rain of fire, some say eight thousand years ago,
left a layer of frothy lava rock and obsidian tears,
scattered, one layer thick,

at least as far as El Paso, I witness,
I have walked this land.

I grew to manhood. Lost my first ****** fluids in this land,

once when I was preverbal, I fell into the effluent overflow,
from the sewer system that mustabin
more primitive in 1951, or so,

say, I was three, age of my youngest grandson, Everest Pax:

my sire was attending me while gathering worms, to go fishing,
at the river, fifty hard miles away,
back in them days.

The muck was as thick as oat meal and smelled like what it was,
and I was dunked,
baptized in the dung that came from the town where I was born,
by some concurence of events I can only imagine being intentional,

but I was rescued and rushed to the home of some people
so old they had a wood burning kitchen stove,
like the one Ben Franklin sent his wife from London,
not the one he invented in Ben and Me Disneyfied American History,
common to us all.
And that is all I recall, per haps, my older sister remembers,

nope,
I called, no hassle, from my AI converged phone via Bluetooth
and Google Assist Generic Asexual Tobor Robot voice

this is the future, when the 31 flavor stories are sprouting
like horse leeches crying more, more, more

sip slowly still waters where horse leeches are proverbial bywords.
learn reasons for mysteries,

or be sorted out of the few who went with Gideon. Eh,

the actual 300, not those *** Spartans.
Gideon's 300, they were the ones, who knew the danger of drinking
still waters in a land where horse leech lips lessons were hard bought.

Got an idea what a spiritual horse leech may be,
a private interp, or two, meaninggul to you, but you must be the

teller, for your copyright invoked, ala right of first reason,

survive by making a way for your self among the heathen hordes,
of untutored proles and peons and sturdy peasant stock
of the baser sort,

slave material, minimum wage, deltas. You can despise the
egregious among them.

Scorn the ones who look up and say,
there is no peace.

Eh? Scorn me, you depressed button of cascading woke jokes, I'll
be dammed by no mud nor ice,
watch

let there be words... now, any thing can happen.
Learn your lessons as needed,
not as anticipated and waited for the chance, to know it all at once,

and become Herr Doktor Professor of Hidden Knowledge,
you must pay, not your life, oh no,

not your heart, but I bet you will give it frreely once,
you know
all we know, behind the curtain, where

well
yes, that curtain was never rewoven or sewn, we never asked why not.

the veil was interrnal, oh, I see, men as tree entries in the idea of all that
can be done, once we master the potters art,

on the scale of mitochondrial batteries cocked with one ATP shot,

that, a billion billion times is this act of me touching you with words, never spoken. And now, you discover the geogrraphy

containing me is warrring with the geogaphy containing you,

psshaw. I like you. The universe is friendly and telling you is the good I do.

Peace, out.

When the proles see in reds,
the rich lose their heads.
Bathed in the blood of villains,
workers dance and laugh,
they **** and love.
****** are redeemed.
Books are embraced.
Drink is consumed.
The blue-green Earth,
after such a long abuse,
is finally reclaimed.

Its stuck in their heads like a finger in a ****-hole
pull it out and a torrent of water jets with stunning force
a wasteful cascade of the natural gift that feeds world-wide whole
water brains is fitting here for what is stuck in liquid brains is farce
its a 'silver-spoon' image created by knaves, spivs and errant proles
alas, its stuck in watered brains brewing stormy gales in places sparse
fantasized 'silver spoon' has driven dammed water-brains to sad tolls
no reasoning or logic assailed vituperate mob voicing fully till hoarse

War, war the tin coat armies rise in Tolpuddle marches
a 'silver spoon' resides in our dusty midst in shinning splendor
heads heaving with dank waters, muddy slosh they riled in batches
lords of Denim and dukes of tattered canvases go knocking at doors
join the revolt and do your bit for a silver spoon is to be put in latches
no rhyme nor reason to watered-senses as simple minds settle scores
in frenzied pain and fevered angst's they tarry, scurry and scratches
hate has been legitimized and freedom for racists to all roast and sour
pandemic madness in full throes, a made-up 'silver spoon' to dispatch

The mouths are closed
       Obedient proles
Destitute trials reap the fear we always know
    Treasure troves, a place for morals to hide
Willful to shift to an honorable life on this side
To a judge who cannot be faithful
To promise justice
For our lives
To kink the top brass
Shoveling food out of the mouths of peasants
And coal into the hearth for fire
Fire forging hate and manufacturing consent in the form of arms
But no alarms for my friends in high spaces
You have the aces
We only have our spades
We will grind ourselves away
Just a little a time, we die so disgracefully
In the garden of  disdain
Where the little people were too quiet

To rise above their pain

Half a bottle of something easy to drink too much

any story wishes telling, not all find tellers
with time to think a story through,
from when to now then makes no
difference, if I think
or if I say, or if I write,

fold the swan and call it a crane, none shall
find the time to learn we
folded the old and put it away, in time
to think
ever
a fine place made ready for me, with
endless ink and endless paper, and air
to breathe,

- trigger guard, woven structure in
- not out, knot, one, none, zero
- from now to when

---

It must be the message I am, go, or stop,
I know not,
I wait, in time, a mind, as yours, am I, I think

in time and sequence one thing then another,

wishing and hoping and praying, eh
that
won't get him into your heart, you've gotta, I
for get what ,
I never wanted him into my heart, I got a key

idea, locked in here, in my horde of true
as ever, til I die, I won't lie,
I believe life is for a reason,
go

guess you know better, but I could care less,
really, a little less,
if you believe believe is a verb, an act you make,
an action you take,
to wonder if

yes or no, I do be
lief as not say, I'd lieve well enough alone,

Yes my advice, I advize we listen,
is this an infinity, as a story, that's all I wish to know,
does this idea live on,
as I wonder
if it did?

Richer than I, in some holy story too, tooo much too
perfectly accurate, as to details, how we all came to be,
as we be,
babbling fools, each speaking his own evil, curses,
foiled, or fooled, a thousand
times a child may try,
but once one listens,
this long, we have that child mind,
ours, to imagine with, and who think ye

calls halt to all we have begun to have as if we saw it,
coming to pass, ha, ha, teleos- if I may

this is the day of wonder, wonder, any if or how or why,
will you, willn't you, think
and join the dance, we are thinking time is fine enough,

now we add the eggs. Ha ha, we have cake in no time,
watch.

---

Yes, yes, happy with that, did I hear war,
Athenam Gabe ubforms me,
is goddess of strategy in war, and of wisdom.
Artemis is goddess of the hunt,
I stand corrected, adding that
I did know Athena had a city dedicated to her,
where Dionysian exostosis occurred, if we
have that strain isolated, those first *****
viral ideas, when boys sprouted horns
and girls were given eyes to see with,
see through this story.
Ted Talks
a familiar voice,
Live by learning all that happens
could have happened
another way, think
what happens when this works, Trinity,
did I give Feynman a ride, from Alamogordo,
did we leave his Plymouth, by the side of the road?

O, it seems
so, it seems, somethings are worth the time
to think
some things  have been thought since
Aphrodite was a figure in a drama, audio
listened to by my grand sons, imagine that

Zeus, I have  your wish, I laugh, I did,
I thought I'd died.

Did you ever imagine a thing like that?

----

Moirai, ai of my vision, my mission made plain,

I can complain, aye, I, may press the one point
I am
possibly past history or any point in time this
could exist,
I am the Grandfather calling war to task, asking who
authorized you, as an author from the last
generation of unaugmented parentage,

listen, life has never been so good, for so many,
ever in records, chronicles and stele in stone,
never have so many had it so good,

that's the truth, but
something seems,
off, a bit, stinky, maybe, cheese, at first, seemed
so, wait, abit.
think on this that has wafted to our senses,
as the prayers of saints,
and
that is an old rub, what are saints, and angels,
among men of my kind,
seeded kinds, my kind.
Mind your manners, be as we
dance the doe see doe, see the people,
we are those,
okeh,
I remember, I was a child and now I am old,
and ever is after ever began, and some
children lack access to Percy Jackson's spoils
of war,

who knew what when,
the romans, then, that sort of men, who fits,
the mold, the mindless peasant stock,
we are not those
proles, the breeders,
are we only breeders, we who read all the
**** and Jane,

and some of Huckleberry Hound.
?
Hounds, reminds me, this guy,
his name was maybe, Christelli, but
I would not swear,

he said that when I wed, he would give me
a blue-tick hound, from his champion *****,

so I wed, that blonde from Cuyguna,
But Tony Christelli, he re
nigged on me, left me,
waiting for the dog, that I would have loved,
like a boy loves a dog,
I would have, no doubt,

ah, we see the crowd of mortal witnesses,

did we listen this long, and leave, walk away,
thinking
what will happen with those twelve baskets,
left overs, what
happens with those?

Hear this, old me, now me, listen,
in the air,
the story telling itself to our grands, our next,

next to wonder,
next to never know, as mortals never do, but
we tell of whens when reason was
a think we did,
together,
we reasoned, as you play, we
reasoned, bet this was worth that
if you could see it my way,
and I saw I was seeing
from where I was
con form in form
ing
thing
ing think ink ink in mind
and time
a word, approved,attested to, you

think we should keep kicking?
this from just past the lizard level, flee, or
wait
Pituitary instant, pow, that fast,
stop,
at this point, stops
abrupt
calm, no clench, wondering what cost,
do you have
to pay.
Horrible cost, un mentioned, gore, or
was it only

I don't know, shunning, or out casting, ghosting;

that. that  idea, we never had that, but in hell,
so this is that hell,
ha, work it out.
\
Besides, what if wonder if are not the same act,
in a play for the laurels?

I lived as 68 different employees,
in fifty years.

Patience is something you must own,
somehow, you can expand its sphere,

that is peace making. Not love, peace.

Wake me if you wish to hear how now
worked out,
with me, sittin' in the shade, thinking
we have a functioning planet,
partly due to you in it, being,
a payer of attention,
that the core cause
of mankind is mental, and that
knowing is good, what kinda crazy cult
raises proles to populate a future
on a  malfunctioning planet?,
are you listening,
earth,
replies, sarcastic as hell itself.

I'm so ******
I can hear the voices
\but maybe/  \This is what I was told I'm used to/
   \cause I /
     \know/
       \Oh /
         \I / know I don't derserve to have a choice
                 and my epistemology
                       to other proles
                                    inspired, and they listened
                                          When they felt like
They never had control
But it's all refuse of the mind
   You I never proclaimed the truth
      But I'm so ******* hateful
           (The voices came back and....)
         ******* IT, THERES NOTHING ELSE THAT I CAN DO

Things are looking up
according to Becket

How our perceptions
have been changed

Stargazing is a thing of
the past since Sputnik

But Orwell had a dream
on the island of Jura

Circa 1948 when the
aurora borealis of his

Vision shone daylight on
pyramid's of the Proles

Where Annuit Coeptis at
the apex, was a Drone.

The fabric of our society is slipping.
It’s so transparent you CAN see right through.
We’ve got a posh yob thinking he can do the leader’s job.
He knows he’s *****, that his detractors are right,
and he should throw the towel in right now.

The algorithm’s not the only thing that’s ******.
our future’s definitely been well & truly chucked.
the wrong people are being knighted
the proles are being slighted and
we’re being seen as a laughing stock round the world

it’s the blind leading the partially sighted,
where the grass roots need just  to be united
and who is it who can handle that job?
Not anyone from this current motley mob?
It’s not pretty… It’s downright ugly!

∆

Things are looking up
according to Beckett.

How his perceptions
were deceived.

Stargazing is a thing of
the past since Sputnik.

But Orwell had a dream
on the island of Jura,

Circa 1948 when the
aurora borealis of his

Vision shone daylight on
pyramid's of the Proles,

With Annuit Coeptis at
its apex, looking down,

Where the peace of Yeats
"Came dropping slow".

"If you want a picture of the future/
Imagine a boot stamping on a human face, forever..."/

theyll shoot me i dont care/
theyll shoot me in the back of the neck/
i dont care down with big brother/
they always shoot you in the back of the neck/
i dont care down with big brother/
dont hug me im scared/

Two years old, held/
By the Ministry of Love/
Against his will; FREEDOM IS/
SLAVERY drilled into his skull; WAR IS/
PEACE - yeah, tell that to his scars; IGNORANCE IS/
STRENGTH? You couldn't feed that to the proles! BIG BROTHER IS/
WATCHING YOU ******* in your cell again, twisting his black moustachio/
The Man is not a man, but a figment: an imaginary friend to Party animals/
Enemy of the State; workeatsleep, but don't you dare wake up/
Eyes wide shut: life is blackwhite bootface crimestop/
Telescreen watchmen twentyfour/se7en for/
Signs of broken down mindcon-ditioning/
We all non-live in a Miniluv pyramid/
Scheming our escapes: daydreamin'/
Of meeting in the place where there ain't no darkness/
Sitting, weeping in the harsh white light.../

Crying hysterically/
A bundle of bones in filthy underclothes/
Grey all over with an ancient, ingrained dirt/
These starving brutes will shootout of the cage like bullets/
They can get inside you; leap on your face, & bore straight into it/
But who cares? Down with Big Brother! They'll shoot you eitherway/
Even if you betrayed the whole universe, including Julia/
The worst thing in the world is in Room one-oh-one, but/
What happens when they finally pull the trigger?!!/

BANG!/

Forget the spirit of man; I believe in God/
True Power isn't merely mentaltorture or physicalforce/
You can't make me perfect - two plus two makes four/
Thoughtcrime on my mind, & it can't be controlled/

Thirtythree years old, held/
By the Ministry of Love against his will/
Brain still not washed enough to blow out of his skull/
Stuck in purgatory, rodents gnawing at his soul... just waiting for the Day./