Victuals for intellectuals:
be quasi and prototypical,
not pseudo or ritual.
Feel shame and wonder.
Don’t blunder in the shallow muck,
shovel to your knees and look under.

Do not track linear paths:
Think sideways, backwards,
upside down, exist laterally.
Accept contradictory truths:
they are not just possible
they are inevitable.

If you haven’t found one
in your search, keep your
head down and eyes open.
Be new to avoid ennui, and
let no truth chip your tooth.

Be quiet, not stupid,
be rarely edible and
hoarse from spirit.
Be invisible, not loud,
be a hoax until
you are undeniable.

I'm not interested in separating
Fiction from reality.
I'm into wanting what others have,
Living in excess,
Walking under water.

I'm purely aesthetic.

“Little Lover”* by AC/DC blasts over crackling speakers.
Cracks in the road assist my flat tire
in softly, yet steadily
pulling me off course to the left.

Rocks roll down dirt banks into clean spring rivers,
motorhomes full of smiling faces go the opposite direction
in no rush
until they slingshot past as we pass.

I nod at humble well-kept country abodes as my prototypical
small-town family dream fades with the sun behind the Kootaney mountains - I bid Farewell.

I bid farewell,
to my home & motorhomes
to similes & metaphors
to rocks that roll
and to the little love
I’ve shared with only
who I want when I want to.

“She shook me all night long” begins to play as my nighttime drive finishes.

One day baby, my life will play out intense as any AC/DC ****** innuendo…

*but it’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock n’ roll.

Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical

But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear

Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds

But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint

An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care

But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail

An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.

Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am

Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical

But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear

Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds

But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint

An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care

But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail

An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.

Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am

With great power comes the shirking of great responsibilities
I am the super zero
so **** justice and right and wrong
the track is stuck on a loop
and it sounds like insanity feels on fingertips
in our hedonistic heathenism we tore the palace walls down
only to make room for something far more beautiful
she taught me that
behind closed eyelids we all look the same
and the floor rising up to meet us
feels more like flying than a crippling fall
our time here is flying out the window by the second
like paper debris in a car going sixty with the windows down in the summer
my source of most frustration stemming from my own warped principles
let them all go
because we’ve all got life left to live and as nice as dreams are
the concrete of the pavement outside is always real
always there
consistently mundane
so make an adventure out of macaroni paintings
and smash all of the clocks and wristwatches
let’s act as stupid as we did in middle school
lets burn our caution at the stake
and say ***** to your paranoid thoughts
the paint has to dry before it can chip away
charity the most prototypical example of how self-serving
and alms aren’t always mutually exclusive
so keep on driving outraged fist into the metaphoric faces of all of your excuses
and keep on burning at your own fiery temperature
you owe us to try and shape this world into a painting of pure beauty
and **** all of the other irrelevances
she taught me that

he arrives around 10:30am,
after the morning rushers
and multiple malingerers
have surrendered to the orange clocker's
rocket red glare stare,
that little dictator of time that
rules lands far and wide,
well before the hoped for lunch crush,
every restauranteur's faraway *******

most days, to the last counter stool,
he beelines,
the least desirable seat in all of diner-land,
adjacent to the noise of kitchen,
and its higher risk perilous,
two way swinging door "entera-ance,"
a residence to be avoided most studiously
though hardly a corner to go unnoticed,
by virtue of its iffy existence,
unless one likes the increased chance of
being a victim of a crashing accident

Mr. Condiment Man
goes in and out,
silently unremarked
in our land of spacious skies
and amber waves of plastic

customarily any "regular" is
happily accorded a
rousing Sousa welcome,
but that mistake now twice made,
a historical hurry up-to-be-please-be-forgotten incident,
the Condiment Man's invisibility
second only to the
Famous Cinema Actors
seeking breakfast
amidst the common people

no words are passed,
no pleasantries are planted,
the rule of incommunicado silence,
for both sides now,
most happily observed,
like a UN peacekeeping boundary

quick appears Cream of Tomato soup
accompanied by  ever multiplying handfuls
of packages of Nabisco crackered packets,
with a ketchup Heinz handy

a soupçon of five iodized salt shakes
into the soup interred,
released from the prototypical
stainless topped, glass shaker
whose universality of usage seems to be
a Federal law o' the land

the meal in silence arrived,
silently but oh-so-slowly-consumed,
it's extenuating circumstances
lengthily enhanced by intermittent deliveries
of additional cracking crackers,
and an unrequited, unacknowledged,
"topping off" soup refillament

this one act play presented daily,
with a free tall glass of water in red plastic
also refillable,
as needed
a play with no official ending,
no white topped, green lined,
ripped from the ubiquitous diner pad,
scribbled, billing ever presented

but the loose change precisely,
scrupulously counted then
upon the counter left,
materializes by the hands
of the Condiment Man,
which is sourced from pockets various,
in places where no pocket belongs

you can set you watch by his timed departure
at five minutes of Twelve,
he is no longer,
the play thus ended,
the audience to feet leaps
relieved and appreciative
of the quiet man's drama
and his most excellent
silent soliloquy

some strange human need satisfied,
sated, and pleased
for all parties concerned,
when the New York Times
revealed that this condo man
left a 50 million dollar estate
to Meals-on-Wheels,
here was no shocked groaning,
only some perfunctory observing
that frugality had a place,
and that this fantastick show,
now closed, would be
sorely missed,
for it had become a condiment itself
in the lives of so many

It was not smoke getting in my eyes;
More likely the third shot of Wild Turkey
In relatively short order
Which made my eyes a bit misty.
I had come up North to that cold cow country north of the Thruway,
Ostensibly to reconnect with the prospective love of my life
To start anew, to set things aright
(She was a grad student, Electrical Engineering
But not precise at all--she was mercurial, Plath-esque,
Prone to both epochs of silent introspection
And inexplicable spontaneous combustions of rage.
I heard later she’d dropped out of the program
Without a word to advisors or anyone else.)
It had not ended up hearts and flowers,
The breakup, which left feelings bruised and china broken,
Was both unpleasant and irrevocable,
So with an evening to **** before the next day’s flight
(Out of Ottawa, **** near a two hour drive)
I was haunting a bar stool
At the prototypical North Country townie bar:
An endless series of the owner’s cousins jamming on stage,
Several dogs wandering the premises
A veritable kaleidoscope of buffalo plaid
In shades of red, green, and gray.
In such places on such occasions, somebody ends up as your buddy,
Which is how I came to be doing shots with one of the regulars
Who listened intently, sympathetically to my particular tale of woe
Until such point he blurted out (if one can blurt something sotto voce)
I used to bone a girl in the nuthouse up in Ogdensburg.

The particulars of the liaison came gushing out like whitewater;
He’d been laid off from the Alcoa plant up in Massena,
And landed a temp job at the state mental hospital.
There had been, so he said, no shy romancing, no overt flirtation
(And as my drinking buddy pro tem put it,
It’s not like we could do dinner and a movie)
She’d simply followed him out to the trash compactor
And, the whining of cardboard
Going to meet its maker serving as cover,
They had simply let Nature take its course.

The girl was not like the other denizens
Of that particular soft-walled motel,
A broken factory-second of a human being;
Christ, she was beautiful, he lamented,
Red hair, skin like half-and-half,
Green eyes that ate you up and spit you back out again.
He’d never been able to figure out the attraction--
I was just a schlub guy who’d never had anything but schlub girls
But he said that she’d told him she loved him--no more than that,
He was her very salvation, the feeling mutual enough that he said
If I’d been there any longer,
I probably would have tried to bust her out myself.

He found out later that she’d been put inside for killing her old man,
Hacking him into dog-food sized bits,
Then walling up the pieces in her dining room,
But he insisted, slapping his palm on the bar,
Swear to God, even if I knew that
I would have risked sneaking her over the border anyway.  
I asked why he’d never tried to hook up with her on the outside.
He stared straight ahead for a few moments.  
I dunno.  I heard she hung herself, but I dunno.
We drank more or less in silence after that,
As there wasn’t a hell of lot more either of us could say,
And as I drove the sparseness of southern Ontario the next morning,
I said a silent thanks to whom or whatever kept me
From giving voice to the urge to express my respect and admiration
For any woman with the ability to hang drywall.

If you want others to be loyal
Do you become steadfast?

If you want others to be good
Do you become virtuous?

If you want others to be change
Do you live exemplar?

If you want others to be model
Do you become prototypical?

If you want others to be righteous
Do you become upright?

If you want others to believe
Do you have more doubts?

If you want others not to fear
Do you always worry?

If you want others to give
Do you bequeath thy neighbor?

If you want others to love
Do you have fondness inside?

If you want others to be enthusiastic
Do you have the zeal?

If you want others to be generous
Do you are munificent?

If you want others to be respectful
Do you are courteous?

If you want others to be faithful
Do you have unswerving attitude?

If you wanted them to be-
BE FIRST! –
TO ACT AND EXPLOIT



** note..... these was penned also for me.....

Another battle awaits as I slay the last trial and wipe off my blade. So much wasted and lost as the ground burns and we fight off another raid. How many have to fall in the war we call life? Death hounds us from birth, following as a menacing shadow just waiting to strike. I've never been a stranger to these drawn out conflicts. Yet this fight for our sake will take more than cunning and wits. More oft than not its underhandedness that wins the day. Not virtue or valor, no prototypical heroes under a sky so grey. For the soldier such as I, trying to keep his honor clean and his blade true. These cold hard facts cast bitterness and leave us jaded, a fate so cruel. In the face of such odds, most would back away and bow. Yet with this heart of passion I stand my ground. The fight can't be won alone, give me your hand and throw me your arms now. For all the fires I'm willing to run through and every opponent I slay to show you. The fight will only be won if you scratch, tear and claw such as I do...

Wonthelimar brought Spinalonga up to the regency of Kalydon, with whom Theus was waiting for him, it was easy to spot Wonthelimar when he emerged, crossing from Lasithi near the town of Psicro. In the Dikti mountains, constituting the cordilleran fringe, he had to cross extended by the east of the island of Crete in the peripheral unit, and by the west by the peripheral unit of Heraklion. They continued on through the broken inner cavern outlets of Wonthelimar, and his entourage until they were on the west straight and across the surface that would join Plaka and Kalydon. The tornadoes were felt as they collided in the thousand isobars, here voices of an infant who was protected by some ibexes on Mount Dicte could be heard, the goddess Rea could be seen as she looked at them calmly when she had her son in Amalthea's nursery, near another complex on Mount Ida, at elevation 1500. They headed by land through Heraklion, before definitively setting off along the dictates of the Dicte, crossing the low peaks of Ida, being able to notice that Infante Zeus had already cracked one of the antlers of some Amalthea ibex, crashing into the Cornucopia with its rays. Further away, towards the mid-***** of the Ida, quarzian lightning bolts are seen that were deployed with explosive devices, with apparent paradoxes that were looming anthropomorphic linked to the logic of self-contradiction. Wonthelimar notices and was warned by Vlad who pointed out with his hand that he was a special being who knew how to disguise himself with the magins of lightning, leaving only his premise hidden in the corner of innocence, for those who do not warn multinational or being from the mountains that he would go out alone to walk away from his lair blessed by the ferocity of the fulminations. Being only appearances until the esoteric image of a sleepy being that walked sleepwalking materialized, with books that burned around him, reading all the languages ​​of the world when uttering them. Without a doubt it was Epimenides, managing to be distinguished by the Kyrios, who were the wise masters!

Here he announced the way to spot and distinguish himself with the Kyrios, who denied him when he was hiding behind the rays, but it was undoubtedly because it was stipulated that he lived in the cavern of the Ida and the Dicte, when he had to go with sandboxes. towards lower Crete, where he sometimes had to descend, only if authorized by Zeus. The Kyrios distinguished him because Paul of Tarsus had mentioned to them about his abilities and behaviors of some Cretans. Wonthelimar ran up to him defying some lightning that protected him, and hugged him, he resisted but Epimenides finally told him some phrases of his epistles in his immediate ears of Ibex, making it clear that the false statements ended up sunk in the Aegean by ingesting lightning that they took all the fictions towards the deep sea, where all logic does not knowingly false. The plot would become an essay on the democracy of knowing and witnessing, with the logic that got out of phase with politics with this stratagem, which converged on the true appearance of politics without democracy, as good of satisfaction of the humanity that emerged in the *****. of this same. This the succulent Athenian affirmation was based on Aristotle and Plato, this interweaving will lie in the administration of Spinalonga when it was ceased from the regency of the Ottomans and the religious orthodox who lived there, only leaving the Manes Apsidas with the open cells of Eden of darkness, pointing at influential reflections. Wonthelimar asserted that the Pergamon frieze was in contention with the democracy of Pericles, to rebuild an Athens overwhelmed by the Persians. From this boundary and political device arises the analogy or parody of a sunken homeland, to re-emerge as a globalized metropolis, as a social phenomenon that had to administer what its fellow man should do ethically if not made by the ghostly waste of abandonment; in this case, the Manes Apsidas incubated. Thus, for centuries and centuries, the good was represented more distant from the autarkic bureaucratic center, creating the distant spaces until the jurisdiction of Syracuse, Megara, and finally, the most emblematic one that is Spinalonga, characterized by prototypical oligarchic and democratic regimes, crowded with military ordinances that are divided into a total imperative and individualized democratic need of progeniture, on a dark and abandoned military island, inhabited by a grotesque theater of tragedy, then at the expense of a fortuitous anti-democratic ***** colony in the labor of the Manes Apsidas, who remained as the only promoters of a microcontinent to liberate.