“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
(www.prematureejaculatorsanonymous.com)
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2019225/Kelly-Thomas-Poli­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | (www.mervlazarus.com) Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpcEietIoxk) Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ... www.seinfeld.com

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,
Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ji0B98IMo).
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.

I.
The people look like flowers at last - sick thoughts of dead men strike the clock winding backwards and ignite to illuminate my approach,
The people look like,
Cigarette burns,
Bullet wounds,
Casualties of Rollins' war with himself,
Of Ellis' numb utopia,
Of the Bukowski cynic suicide,
Of the thoughtless progeny of deadbeat generations desperate to push back,
Every street corner is holy, baptized in the blood of those who died believing,
A thousand fists moved to release a thousand frustrations, and a celebrity endorsement for each overdose death,
Angel mine, abate your gutter wars and mob mentalities,
The tattoo ink has dried and the clubs are closed for the night,
Where are the revolutionaries to go now?

II.
The revenge of the skinhead minority,
The born again soul of a fallen brother,
The madman defiant in publicized rage, the faces of the enemy painted with crosshairs on TV screens,
And the damaged finally able to stand on their own,
Damaged and unrepentant,
Damaged and brilliant,
Damaged with criminal record eyes,
with paranoia brain, with X's tattooed into calloused knuckles,
with track marked arms,
Damaged, the unstoppable tide of the righteous youth - caricatured in the spray painted stencils of their testaments

III.
The spoiled children of an undefinable zeitgeist with nothing to lose,
In ecstasy binges these angels hallucinated manifest destiny through non prescription lenses,
Studying traffic patterns I remember how people are afraid to merge and everybody is looking for just the right amount of trouble,
A fire dies and another is born almost immediately,
Careless ramblings in careless county - a land I'm sure was promised to someone, somewhere, sometime
But after the gold rush nobody could cash out fast enough,
I can't cash out fast enough -
Every girl has got the guilty smile of a teenage runaway living out a Janis Joplin fantasy, and all the boys line up like addicts itching to cop,
The air is so heavy nobody can hold a thought - and when I speak, It's the accent, they say, they can always tell,

IV.
Taxi rides in laser show utopia,
Sicilian saint newly minted tells me about the ******* machine and it's ravenous posturing -
be present & be seen,
Fake it till you make it,
Cop killers singing confessions for beer on the street corner,
While the socialist manifests itself in mispronounced beverages and faux-marked Russian volumes,
avant-garde hyperrealism & ritualistic sacrifice,
There was something about *** and dying on the radio I couldn't be bothered to hear,
A drunken brawl over a bad bet made, disappointing street race, police sirens distant growing moreso,
In ****** bars where ladies always drink free, I rewatch the fall of a ***** old man from the penthouse to the street all over again,
If you haven't figured it out by now,
Don't try

V.
In dreams I walk the Pacific Coast Highway dead of night, barefooted soul alive and naked in the Western night like a Jim Morrison poem, the traveler that never arrives, watching the sunrise form halos over the Sierra Nevada, like a girl I know back East who talks a great deal about plans, the best of which never even have an aftertaste of freedom
There is the same sublime anthems playing on every radio and palm trees forming crosses for any messiah who is willing to claim them,
Last train out of Anaheim as the tessellating California skies swell and give, catch and release,
I see the roofs of tenements lit up by Disneyland,
ocean reflecting the glare from Heaven,
faces of the impoverished reflecting the glare from Heaven,
everybody getting sunburned from the glare from Heaven,
I watch the lovers depart for Santa Ana,
Elderly Asian tourists for Irvine,
Hipsters for San Juan,
and the rest of the destitute ******* for Oceanside en route to San Diego,
There but by the grace of God go the drunk kids spilling out of greyhound buses, sitting till dawn contemplating skylines reflected on the bay, finding romance in every moan of living Earth,
wide eyed at possibility of removing themselves from the equation and finding the answer,
Neil Young harmonicas drift listless above Spanish villas,
Everybody talking like something bad was gonna happen but I couldn't see much thru the windows past the tourist burly shouldered slumbering beast,
I think it was somewhere between Yuma and Dallas, with Mexico stretched out like an invitation to an anarchist rally where I was haunted first,
I'm haunted by El Campo Santo, paved over restless Indian graves in the shadow of the hanging tree,
By La Calavera Catrina blessing the sinners as they pass, hollow faced and sunken on the ***** Spanish streets of their ancestral Apartheid home,
I'm haunted by Calvary, 3000 spirits hanging around unsure of what comes next,
I'm haunted by the faces of the beggars I couldn't spare a cigarette for,
In dreams the Western night releases me and I leave California a shade lighter,
And the handful of stars that manage to burn through the haze seem to promise me:
"You may be gone, but your shadow lives on without you"

she was a dancer , her name never known ,
even to her lovers she was a mystery to societies curiosity
her actions were known throughout the world
her escapades publicized in the most provocative ways
her passions flowing , no one could fill her...no one could reach beyond the surface
No one knew her outrageous thoughts, no one seeked out her pain
her words failing to the comparisons of her skin
her opinions drowned out by her flowing hair and glistening eyes
her love unsuspected due to her ***
she was a woman of no woman
the way she spoke shot shivers down one's spine
her walk was one that could stop disasters
she was free , but oh so captured,
all they could see was someone they could use
her frail thoughts
her discontent life , her restrictions
restrictions no man could see
she gave herself to all
but no one
she was an angry one not knowing why she was born herself
why she was alone , and why she couldn't help it with all
the physical , skin on skin , caressing
her soul was empty
her mind was full
no one would fill her , no one would reach beyond the surface
reach through her chest...
of her blood
the pumping vessels
no one could see the little sad girl
all they could see is the carnal urge
exploit  it for their own pleasure
someone that would unimaginably cater to their every need
she was a woman , of no woman
she was a misty memory of their days
not a lasting impression ,
just undeniably beautiful
she constantly wondered if she could live through the day
if anyone would see..
if anyone could be the one to save her ,
if anyone could just reach through her chest and rip out her beating heart
just to prove it had been there in the first place.
quite often she would lie in bed ,
dreaming of her prince
he had been a dark man ,
always in her thoughts,
he had brought her more insecurities then she could ever dream of
but for one reason or another she had wanted him
she had wanted his thoughts,
his breath ,
his words ,
his tone ,
she'd dream of it all down to the freckle,
she had imagined a man so unbelievably unrealistic...the one for her,
the only one she could think that could save her
she needed to be saved ,
she'd been overpowered by her imagination and fluid thoughts her entire life,
they had never come true, and this , this man , she knew wouldn't be any different .
she'd often think of herself , her big light brown eyes , her flowing long hair, her unchanged smile , her brilliant skin tone ,
and slit her self through and through ,
she would open her flesh and think ,
there had to be something more to her than just skin and bones.
but no matter how far she'd look
she could never find
what she was looking for ,
could not be found by her painful injections
her constant smoking ,
her bathing in pure water , she couldn't seem to find anything at all ,
and that's when she decided to stop
to end it all
with one fair day
one sunny day
she knew the day and looked for it in everyday there was
but it hadn't come yet.
but she was waiting.. patience my darling she kept saying
it will be over soon .
He was a man of no man
he was the one everyone looked to for anything at all
he was spiraling out of control
in his own excuses for his ceasing life
his own tormenting thoughts
he was a lonely boy since childhood
he was surrounded by people with their doubts and angst
teaching others to live ,
but had never lived a day in his life
he had sandy brown hair that any woman sweetly touched with ease,
he had light green eyes that any woman would be bewildered by ,
dark flawless skin that any woman would be glad to touch
the only thing a woman lacked for him ,
the one thing that he had longed for his entire life was forgiveness ,
forgiveness for his actions ,
forgiveness for his thoughts ,
forgiveness for his grief
understanding of that would make any woman the one for him ,
except that this quality was lost on the world
hard to find ,
he knew
he searched for years
and one day he gave up
gave up to find forgiveness
gave up looking for one that would grant him his everlasting wish
he had given up his life in all
there were no more excuses
he had decided
a gloomy day he thought to fit the occasion
shot gun to the head seemed plausible
and defiantly permanent.
he searched for that day in everyday he lived.
both crossed paths ,
she never knew this but he had seen her from long away
she was beautiful
she had the quality he knew it
sitting in the coffee shop he approached her
she smiled just like with any man
but he saw right through that smile of hers
he sat her with her speaking , laughing , drinking and he knew ,
she was the one to forgive him and he knew she needed this too
this exact connection they had
she saw him as just any other man ,
playing the field trying to taste her sweetness
but she also saw something odd about the way her looked at her
almost as if he was actually looking inside of her
trying to get to know her insides.
this was impossible she thought..
he took her contact,
told her he would call
she thought he was just trying to be polite
he went home with a big smile on his face .
the world was singing to him
the divine was giving him another chance at life
she was a gift, a gift that would fill his emptiness
he came home and called her straight away.
she answered and they planned another gathering.
he was on cloud nine , shooting for the moon
he set off the next morning to meet her ,
he had imagined the way she spoke the whole way
the way she looked ,
although he couldn't quite remember ,
but her essence stayed with him , her smell her softness,
he felt at bliss , utter happiness
when she woke up that morning , she saw an oddly sunny day
she knew this was the day , taking her own life wasn't hard ,
she threaded the noose around the shower rod ,
fit her head perfectly through the hole
stood on her tippy toes on the edge of the bath
let loose
her neck snapped instantly
she did not shed a tear ,
one thought hung in her mind right before she let go ..
what if he had been her prince...the one she was waiting for.
he sat in the coffee shop for hours waiting for her ,
minute by minute he saw people walking in and out of the building
excitement struck at almost every sighting ,
then followed by shear disappointment .
the afternoon turned dark ,
clouds hung around the city
rain poured down
the gloomy day he's been expecting had come ,
he had felt emptier than he'd ever felt before.
he walked home in the violent rain
stepped in the door of his home for the last time soaking wet
took the gun from his bedside table ,
placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger
within the second
his last flailing thought was ..
why hadn't she saved me. ..
two lovers that would have been
died within their emptiness and doubt that day ,
never knowing why,
one hadn't saved the other
true love.
A fairy tale.

In the frame time with mimes
Circling around in rhyme
Where the whispers are shouted
And the misery is publicized
In colorful banners all emphasized
Take thy front foot to the left
And they back foot gone to theft
All here on the bitter mans salute
All here on the fitter mans salute
All here on the winning mans salute

And in sticking finicky horse flies
War torn and wishing they were never born
Telling tales that now are screened as myths
Where love is prophesized in the shape of gifts
No man may enter and no woman may squeal
We are all habits in finely packed eight dollar meals
Shipped off and clipped off
Like coupons were are richly scuffed
So here lie the bitter mans salute
So here lie the fitter mans salute
So here lie the winning mans salute

With the bid that went through by the government official
Stating that all tax will be in the form of red wax
Each child must pray to someone else so to obey
Kidnapped minds that grind their kinds as thin as lines
Non-sensical quotes that drift in the minds like long lost boats
Skimming the surface of a service of true freedom
Reaching millions with a smile with crossed fingers as long as miles
And here lie the bitter mans salute
And here lie the fitter mans salute
And here lie the winning mans salute

Our timing in the black market square
Makes all who enter shiver and dare
Know not who you hate only who you love
Take a start toward the finishing line above
Inside all of this lies no secret and no lie
Your heart will be broken but do not cry
Bright in the day but dark all around me now
The farmers in the field work with no plow
She's memorized by pity pain capturing her life
Sharpening the ****** weapon a heart shaped knife
Make your way down and
See the bitter mans salute
See the fitter mans salute
See the winning mans salute

Dear Gwen Stefani Circa 2006,
The first music I chose to like that wasn’t
just my mom’s tuning of the radio was

Your solo CD, the first and best of two, which
I made sure to get on my twelfth birthday, after
I made sure to get my first kiss.

We were not rookie sixth graders anymore,
In soggy bathing suits teeming with pubescence,
So I publicized my plans to plant one on

Yeorgios Mavromatis, the new seventh grade boyfriend,
The first boy to buy me jewelry I would not like,
The first boy I used to make myself infamous.

Our hallway bottlenecked with twelve year olds,
Alone we sat on the bed, legs dangling above
The stained beige carpet. The kiss was damp and boring.

But the crowd that pressed at the door was an ******,
Surged voices told me my dad was walking up the stairs,
I arched around to throw the boyfriend in the closet,

My father caught me, and I wore the walk through them
Like your scarlet lipstick. The album of
My first kiss was not passion, but gossip.

I’ve seen you in red lipstick, bindis, and blue hair,
A pink wedding dress, and a Platinum Blonde Life.
I knew you were making art meant to publicize.

The songs and the clothes and the Harajuku Girls,
The boys and the clothes and the Children’s Theatre,
The day I made a scene was the day I knew.

Catholic guilt and couture gilt and creative goals
Took two West Coast girls, only twenty three years apart
And turned them into people you paid attention to.

Here's one for all the suicidally depressed people.
First of all, if you're thinking about ending it,
Please know that I love you, and I really hope you don't
I've been there too, and sometimes all it takes is
One more day to think before you decide that it
Really isn't worth it... BUT: if you've thought long and hard
About it, and you decide to follow through: be creative.

Don't just say "goodbye cruel world" and swallow a
Bottle of sleeping pills, or slit your wrists in
The bathtub, so that your landlord finds you
A week later after wondering about the smell.
Instead, rent an exhibition space in a trendy art district,
Hire a PR team, and pour your investments into,
A highly publicized event, that will be billed as
"The Performance Art Piece of the Century".

Don't worry about how you'll afford it, either.
You can easily take out several loans from
Various banks and payday lenders,
Max out your credit card, bounce cheques etc. etc.
It's not like you'll ever have to repay them.
Once you follow through, you'll default by default!
Then, well, that's their problem, huh?
Meh, serves those greedy ****** right for
Crashing the whole **** global economy
every few years, like they seem to like to do.

Instead of a suicide note, write a manifesto,
Complete with a detailed statement of purpose,
Instructions for preserving your work, and
An incisive aesthetic critique which decries  
"The subversion of artistic autonomy by
The market society", and the uninspired
Throwaway commodity form
That art has become as a result.
Blame Andy Warhol, people will get it.

Then, when the big day comes, and
You're surrounded by those pretentious
Clove smoking, soy latte sipping, Prius driving,
Tofu eating, turtleneck wearing, Soho art district types,
Get a gun and put a canvas behind your head, so
That when you pull the trigger, it splatters an
Aleatoric masterpiece that even ******* would fawn over.
Now, for maximal effect, you're gonna wanna use
Hollow tips, dum-dums, or buckshot in a sawed-off.
If you really wanted to play on the chance operations thing,
You could line the cylinder of a revolver with both
Full metal slugs and hollow tips, so that there's an
Equal chance of the shot creating
a controlled burst or wide array splatter, but
These are just suggestions, It's your art, you decide

This spectacle would make headlines, for sure.
Then, instead of being just another statistic,
To be neatly lumped into a sheet of numbers,  
Stuffed into a folder, and quickly forgotten,
You'll be remembered for generations to come
As that tragic visionary, whose passion was so
Uncompromising, and whose artistic integrity,
Was so utterly unyielding, that you were
Even willing to give your life for it.

Now, one last point of contention, to
Add a bit of weight to the argument:
You remember Thich Quan Duc?
He was the monk who set himself
Ablaze, during the Vietnam War,
In an act of protest. Of course you do.

Nobody knew him the day before,
Except maybe his fellow monks, but
Now his image is immortalized, and
Immediately recognizable decades later, as
The picture that defined a generation.

...but,

Do you remember the man, who was
Fed up with his dead end job, and one
Day finally decided to end it all?
Which one? Who's that? Exactly.
Now, perhaps I've made my point.

Just a thought...

in your white city
wrapped in pavement
nestled between the hills
where nothing flourishes
the tree tops close to you
eager to tear apart from the ground
your tainted water
is poison
to all who wish to seek its purity

a smothered innocence
born into a soulless city
and the metal-clad titans
that threaten my wooden structure
break through my barrier, into my arms
my weaponry is pillaged
and i again remain reckless to you
your striking force
blunt across my chest
breathless, i remain in your agony

and as messages from you come up silent
i feel my heart floating
in your ominous sea
tying joyous knots
between frequent skipping beats
creating drops of your voice
that are echoed in the wells of my chest
for your sweet words blossomed twice
like clear stained letters
written near dawn

i fear
that the collapse of your growth is nearing
and the words that once laid before you
are voices in the distance
and the landscape of  your thoughts
buried shame
is brought upon still hearts
publicized
and all we wished to stay hidden
is torn across the horizon
and stretched across the bridges
with sorrow tipped urgency

and you lament to me
for i dreamt of your sorrow
going to the branches
when you should have sought the core
for now, all that is hopeless in your misery
is set free upon the village
set loose upon a whim
in your undying destruction

descend upon me in your radiance
for i was conceived in your fire
and now i stand, chest heaving
burnt in your tragedy
awaiting your return to my ruins
but your smile plays to your demise
and you instead cover me in your distance
a walking dream of your terror
the putrid evidence of your existence
leaves a stain upon my flesh
for i believed in your like a religion
for you were the disciple of my heart
but that legacy has been destroyed
for you have never carried your sins

like my wish upon a fallen star
burnt out upon the night
prepare yourself for slaughter
for when the evening breaks
the sun will be red with tears
and i will be born again in your remains

March, 1934, Fort Worth, Texas.

Late, nighttime, when dad pulled into the gas station shortly before it closed. Another car was there as well. A nice looking young man with dark suit and tie, was standing at another pump. In the passenger side, sat a pretty young lady, both he and she appeared to be in their mid-twenties. They exchanged greetings as folks usually do, then dad proceeded to reset his pump( had a crank to turn to reset those pumps to zero, and a metered glass bulb filled with gasoline sat atop the pump. The level, of course, would decrease to show how much fuel was being purchased.)
The young gent completed his task, hooked the pump nozzle back to its base and walked into the office to pay for his purchase. Dad, standing at his car smiled at the young lady, who patiently waited for her boyfriend, or husband, to return. They made small conversation, "nice night isn't it", she said, "yes maam, it is", dad replied. About that time the young man and the station manager came out of the store and walked together, to their car. As the young man opened the door to take his place behind the wheel, he turned to the station manager, "Everett, give us about twenty minutes then call the police and tell'em I was here, I don't want you getting into any trouble." "Will do, Clyde" the old man replied. As they slowly pulled away, the pair gave dad a short smile and a wave. It wasn't until they drove out of the station and disappeared when dad realized with whom he had just spoken, "face to face."
On May 23, 1934, Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker were ambushed and slain near the Texas-Louisiana state line by a posse of law enforcement officers, ending one of the most publicized crime sprees in U S history.

As my father said, "You never know who you're talking to! Just another 'guy', filling up his car."

(No, dad didn't wait around for the arrival of the police)

r riddle: March 26,2016

Persistent fever
And a hole in my pallette
God save me from this awful habit

Shy away
The beast will come another day
Maybe you won't believe the lie
It's not even a high

But in my warped mind
A lens of vision only on me
I've always been intrigued
With publicized insanity

I want to be the shooting star
Red carpet
Robert Downey Jr eyes
On a ****** not even fit for
Heath Ledger

I want to disengrate in the sky
A slow public suicide
Blame it on gravity
It's homocide

It seems some can escape mortality
And become grand deities
In the mind of humble losers

But I know its not my life
No spectacle too see
The only one who watches
Is me

And out of the blue drops an awkward moment
The kind of awkward moment where nothing in itself is awkward.
Just a moment that passes in complete silence where nothing is actually wasted
nor publicized.
No focal point, nothing to rebuttal.
The kind of moment that is considered awkward, usually right before revealing the same exact thought.
The same exact expression.
Just a matter of opinion. Expressing the simplistic.

How awkward would it be if I were to think of you in a moment where there was nothing else to do.
A moment of vulnerability In an affair of stating the obvious, there is no way I'd consider this out of the blue though.
Really and truly there isn't anything of importance that can be found here,

Except the color blue but then again that should be obvious. Like how unimportant was that really?

You could have went the whole day without nothing being said. Just based off the thought alone.

I suppose the only thing that makes it somewhat awkward is that I didn't.

And really I just used a lot of unnecessarily long but short words to tell you that you were on my mind.

I know right, the perfect *******. And to think you were probably doing something important.

But since I now have your attention and we're just throwing things up out of the blue.

What color ******* Are you wearing? Are they the see through purple ones or the red see through ones

All you know is relationship,
you are a demi god fairytale narrator,
a love doctor, a friend story teller
You know nothing but boys,
conclusion on acts are fixed.
get a task, come on get busy.
Think before you click!
you know it is not easy.
got a new friend within same shoes?
It was a penny-sake cheap shot.
but you broadcasted the news.
It was ill-advised, and everything's publicized.
anyway, it's your own image-glitch,
maturity's essential,  *****.

Outside the white walls, symmetrical pillars, and broken windows do I find solemn within these saints and sinners and colorful people trudging down the hallways of unwashed history and flaunting peso bills all over the skies of painted jazz

The one that is running to the bottom of the staircase holding a box of cigarettes and a mouth full of curses- striding all over the barlights of blissful BGC and numbing taste of bitter alcohol in Taft- wandering on the streets of neon traffic lights and a plentiful of terrible people.

The one that is contemplating heavy metal (!) and bring suitcase for a living-walking faster than a madman of a classic 1980’s horror flick but talking like a dead man, grudging and grumbling his collar, mentally inspecting his fat books and depressing academic memories, calling on the birds of personified freedom weeping beyond his words and scratching his head with that awful haircut looking for a blessed be redemption.

The one that is like Sheila, hands on the wheels with glass-plated stilettos and terrible taste in music, bruise and battered chin, wounded shin and complete with broken dreams –flattered her way up to the pool of stingy bureaucrats and hateful hateful daughters of sacredly publicized personalities continuously eating her tossed salad and puffing marijuana to suffice her thoughts off dull memories and empty void of a brain’s one’s gaped hole.
She can’t be bothered to find peace in her ******* because one must work hard to the top of the social strata!

The one that is gifted with prophesy and hypocrisy of pretentious façade writing broken poetry- creating **** films for a living while dressed in his chelsea boots and pain-bearing insecurities of beautiful nightmares and leather bags of no significant purpose but to seem delight on all these saints and sinners and colorful people

Spilled out of my random thoughts and shapeless blossoming rainbows of emotions and grievances in all things I find goodness on the beautiful surface of that white wall and stubborn-looking beardless hip-hop heads with overpriced headphones and greasy Drake shirts and magnificent bomber jackets from angelheaded fuccbois with mom-washed jeans skinny trousers left them much to be desired and compounded inside the school of design and arts.

In realms of cyberspace, I fly
searching out treasures in disguise
skirting advertised merchandise
the ordinary, the overemphasized
to anatomize the marginalized
values overlooked otherwise
on the dusty, neglected, virtual aisles
of small sites not over-commercialized
or google ranked and over-publicized
some unexpected payoffs materialize
glittering swag, patiences prize
“Oh, my God - Look!” I vocalize
My girlfriends can’t believe their eyes
“You can find anything,” they surmise.

those forgotten names whispered on occasion
the knee length charcoal black skirts
and the fabricated smiles exchanged by the hour
are all illusions
sewn together, instilled in our brain
they assure us of our dismal fate...
the publicized perception of "the great beyond"

lives that only exist in numbers...
blooming, thousands of white roses in heaven
our innocence and humility erupting
or summons to hell, all seven billion of us
as nothing more than a wilted dream.

our dystopian environment is fixated on what comes "after"
or the hue you want your casket to be
rather than the euphoria that is brought to us
only from the "now" we're submersed in
no one sees how much more we would prosper
if living was the single introspection for our soul

I buy my paintings supplies from the only store in town
————————————————————————-


<>

I buy my paintings supplies from the only store in town, Jack’s on Bridge Street, the hardware *** toy *** anything-you-need store.

I buy my painting supplies by special order, delivered by ferry,where they get crazed at the colors I select, Vermillion, Drunk-tank pink, and the marvelous, quite scandalous, ***** Gallant.

My easel resides on my front porch, never moved, only when a wipe down is necessitated, or rain storm torrential makes it essential,
to avoid  warping wood.

From the porch, I paint the view, from my house on the hill, overlooking the channel separating our tiny isle from the mainland is deemed magical amazing, for this same scene painted repeatedly, but  differently,
a thousand times, a thousand changing ways.

Almost every home, only for the year rounders, has its own version, so my obituary, will be both in the town newspaper and forever before their eyes.

I do not sell my paintings, the ones supplied, gifted by my island.
Unasked, I notice that someone walks past my porch, my existence thus a daily-verification, in every season, but for the winter, but then, my presence is marked, publicized, nonetheless, duly reported,
by Jack’s delivery boys.

What A Life

I do the things I shouldn't do

to say I did and have "gained a lesson" from it

when in reality I'm just trying to prove

that what's usually the "right way" is not always for everybody

foolish child you look for a glimpse of chance

where countless fools before you had as well

I just thought that maybe I,

with all that I've said and proclaimed about love,

with my ideals and my upbringing to the melodies of R&B;

that helped ease me into sleep

and induce dreams in which I would finally find the courage to have my voice heard,

serenading to lost queens about their substantial worth and beauty...

man I just thought that I could've had it different

but don't we all...

well if anything its a constant reminder that the world can be cruel

but theres a lot you'll see thats breathtakingly beautiful

like hearing another brother of ours has been slain by none other than his own kin

funny isn't it?

that as the most advanced lifeforms (that we know of anyway)

that we hinder ourselves more than anything

with all the potential dangers that could arise from day to day

we on top of that are a danger to ourselves and others

not all of us of course

but enough that its publicized and causes riots in the streets

and with good reason too.

I'm more impressed by the passion presented by the ones on their feet

fighting and making a stand about something they know is wrong

exactly the kind of action we need more of

it simply saddens me because I believed we were past all the racism

and just when you start to question the direction of the path we all seem to be taking

you are blessed with a moment of pure gratitude

and someone who works at Starbucks is willing to pay for your drink,

even when you have the money to pay

she simply said, “you’re a nice guy and I probably wasn’t going to use this free drink anyway”

hugs and a tip for the girl who only wanted to make my day a little better

and it’s something we don’t have enough of

people who are genuinely nice

like honestly what does it cost you?

I like to look at myself from afar in this grand scheme called life

and sometimes lose the importance of my existence

making too much of a big deal of what’s to come

wanting not to miss out on it all…

Just tell me I can win this thing

and leave my loved ones with memories of my laugh,

my smile and words

because they are what I am made of


product of my environment,
I am clearly blessed.

Hello.
So it seems I have more victims
Who must hear my wailing cries.
Most people call me a murderer, the king of genocide
Yet I just see myself as a normal guy
Charismatic, charming
I make new friends every day
And yet they all never seem to learn that I am explosive
A bomb just waiting to be set off
I am destructive.

Most people know me by the time they're little kids
They know me by my worldwide popularity
Yet they believe they are immune to my insanity, my appearance
I come off as a joker
One who can't be taken seriously
Until I decapitate the ones you love
I am a monster

I take your children's lives from right underneath you
Yet I am not technically a murderer
When they cause the final blow
I cause millions of suicides a year
Because people think they are strong enough to do what I do
Follow in my footsteps
Deal with what I constantly live with
The irritable monotone life I live can drive even me crazy
Yet I am stronger, seeing that I've dealt with myself for eternity

But I seem to be dying
Very, very slowly
There are new ways to get away from me

Even when I'm publicized in the media
I am portrayed as evil, manipulative
But I am just being my own individual
So how can that be wrong?

After being the cause of millions of kid and adult deaths
I've realized that I must be stopped
So I ask you all here
Am I a murderer?
Am I the cause of mass genocide?
Or am I just a manipulative demon praying on the souls of children?

I am not a murderer
I am not the king of genocide
And I do not enjoy praying upon kids and teenagers
Yet it is in my nature to be a vulture

But most importantly,
My name is Depression.

I don't know when It happened but It did

"What?"

When Kindness became a publicized thing.

When a small act of graciousness had to be filmed and shared.

When a person helping another had to boasted about

Why can't we help each other without a reward

When did people become to selfish to the point where you only do things for others In order to gain or receive

I don't know when It happened but It did

Sunny day,  
Crowded street,  
Distributing dates,  
Pictures taken,  
Published on social media.  

I urge you to stop this,  
Charity is great  
When done from the heart,  
Not publicized,  
But quietly felt.  

Let the act itself  
Be the light,  
Not the shadow  
Of recognition.  
True kindness needs no stage,  
Only the sincerity  
Of a giving hand.

Filmmaking should be an art form, not merely a business.

The creative process should be personal, not impersonal.

Filmmaking should be sentimental, not political.

Performances should be natural, not robotic. They should be authentic, not artificial.

Writing should be truthful, not bogus.

Cinematography should be ambitious, not pretentious.

Premieres should be on a big screen, not a flat screen.

The audience should open up their preferences, not solidify them. They should respect traditions, not belittle them.

Profit should be a reward for hard work, not a motive for it.

Filmmaking should be intoxicating, not grueling.

Credit should be a right, not a luxury.

Ownership should be divided, not bombarded.

Final cuts should be final, not temporary.

The industry should be welcoming, not selective. It should be open, not gated.

Investors should require trust, not demand control.

We should treasure movies, not forget them over time.

Artists should be publicized, not exploited. They should be grateful, not prissy.

Celluloid should be valued, not endangered.

Equipment should last, not outdate within a year.

In a country full of opportunities, why is it so difficult to achieve what you want? Better yet, if you work hard enough, why could you still fail?

I wanted to hurt her
Well, I wanted to make her feel what she had done to me
****** something precious of hers, as she had done me
Something small and insignificant
So that when she publicized her pain, no one would care
They’d say, it was just a trinket, not like it was valuable
But, oh, something worth so much to her and only her
Something that would make her understand just what she had stolen from me
Something that would give me a petty sense of victory, of evenness
I wanted what had gone around to come around,
So as she had sent pain to me, I thus sent pain to her.

I wanted to study her
See what was it about her that he desired
If not for brains, beauty, or heart
Then why did he hurt me for the sake of her?
I wanted to figure out why she was better than me in the eyes of so many
So I fixated on it without even trying and I learned more about her
And I think I understand now why he wanted to hurt me, for her sake;
I now know why I wasn’t good enough, why she was better than I was.

So many people are filled with anger, and quickly ready to fight.  Even if they break the Law, they still believe they are right.
So many people are filled with anger, don't dare look them in the face.  They will be ready to fight, especially, if you're of another race.
So many people are filled with anger, they are very bold.  When they get an urge to fight, they have no self control.
So many people are filled with anger, they believe that's the way they are.  Once your reputation for fighting is publicized, you are not going to go far.
Before you get a desire to fight, you really need to think twice.  If you find it in your heart to stop, this would be good advice.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing

Stuck in a community
Stay an outcast or pay for immunity
Jelousy, greed, selfishness, slander gover ns the majority's behaviour
Masquerading as saints that worship christ the saviour
Men intended to play the role of the head
Exchanged roles with eve so he could disguise himself to gossip instead
Left the women wandering with an identity crisis
Seeking the mens attention charging different prices
Unveiling a community built on its vices
Brotherhood and acceptance publicized to distract you from the hateful plotting practised in closed doors forwarded through their devices
Running their mouths so that they can gloat
Exaggerating events to undermine you
Walking on water like Jesus forgetting to mention the boat
Fabricating a life of stability when most of them clearly stuck the picture with glue
Achievements and awards are hanged on the wall
They despise your discretion, if you display you become a fool
Premeditating your demise, they watch you intently anticipating your downfall
Why are we so determined to destroy each other?
Inferiority complex imherited from our forefather?
Have we redefined the meaning of brotherhood?
Is this the reason behind the new breed of men afraid of fatherhood?
Why the women feel it is alright to be misunderstood?
Hegemonic masculanity taking over after Eve took a bite of the fruit knowing everything except sisterhood?
Why we love what is bad and doubt what is good?
Obsessed with fattening the body with junk no longer enjoying the taste of spiritual food?
Gotta stay alert in such a neighbourhood!
It takes a certain man to teach how to be far from the hood,
But to understand the street.

Done by Gabriella Kundiona
(Afrikka)

by Fiaura

My ex-husband, his name is Gary
I still have his last name; never say it publicly
I’m publicized in the furry community yearly
Now working side by side with talented murk suited dancers
Because I’m honestly addicted to their hip huggers

Their suit-stuffs stays
The people leave them as strays
I’ve been given too much to even array!

Gary lived in the same house I had to leave
One day, I followed a dancer to the place my heart grieves
The outside the same, the inside a total change
The question is do I stay and heal or do I leave and deal.

With all due respect I'm not racist. I'm just dealing with and reflecting on what I'm faced with. Ignorance stands tall amongst all the publicized stations. People claiming hatred for what they've been given or had taken... in pigments. We should be past the point in time where it's an epidemic But everybody's creating reprimands like this **** could be different. Wishing they could make a decision or live by the revision of their manifested vision... Well I guess you can't stop fear. People disrespect what they reject then project their veneer. Maybe if you took a minute to consider why we're all here you'd find ways to pay reparations replacing base words with fear. And no I do not disrespect the effects of history. We should all carry moments of silence in reflection of our mystery. But propagating and protecting an eternal war that **** gets to me when our primary focus should be moving forward progressively. Yet you choose to react. Elevating racist statements from both sides of the track. Attacking anyone for the color on their skin sets us back. It's past time to celebrate whether you're white or you're black. Some will tell me I don't understand. They look at me and just instantly read my hand. But that's exactly the reason to initiate a different plan judging any book by its cover like that makes you a bigger man. It's time for us to stand and forget about sympathy. That word is useless when held in comparison with empathy. If you could try to harmonize then eventually potentially we could end reducing systematic projections protecting entropy. But you won't. Not for all your pride. One eye for another for what you've suffered and you feel inside. Leading towards a devastating path to divide when I've been making Revelations in my attempt to justify. Blame the present pretenses. Blame it on their wealth. Blame it on account of everyone's single mindedness except yourself! I'm not racist. And I don't have any defensive excuses. I only speak the truth so my intention is ruthless. I'm not trying to replace or defame Joyner Lucas when his claim to fame explained in the original just where the shoe fits. I'm only trying to say one thing here that is this: Your power to separate is ******* stupid and reopens the suture. Only through coming together can we pave a better way for our future.