America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.

But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.

First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.

Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.

Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.

But is there
no end
to your treasure?

In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.

Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.

Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.

Lucid, abusive
Tongue in cheek divine
Stupid, elusive
Lost soul of mine

A snap of orchestral fingers to summon the suave illustrator
Mohawk punks and minions to smash the limp masturbator

Loveless, acquiesce
Arpeggio flutter ripples
Convalesce, Fancy dress
******* with perky *******

One or two drinks, make it three then five
Keeping the blood warm and love alive

Visceral, peripheral
Dark raven hair
Liberal, scriptural
I couldn’t even care.

I adored her all, her everything, her gleaming demeanor
The subtle wink of her eyes, the glow; even greener

Exotica, ex machina
Street amazon of desert glass sand
No drama, rural karma
Flesh sweating like the heat of Sudan

Dead singers like Cole and Morrison sing of paper moons and Crystal Ships
The mixed CD segues to U2, Pulp, and then a full disk of The Flaming Lips.

"Nightingale", minor scale
The saxophonist played under the street lamp outside
Folktale female
“Another drink?” she abides, two glasses and wine supplied

On her balcony we watched and listened, to the call of urban passion
The wordless music we adored, a testament to our mutual attraction.

My girlfriend
Recently
Moved in with me
So she decided
To call her friend,
Who was also
A close friend of mine,
For a couple of beers
In the now 'our' house.
Carmel Scotts
Arrived, knocked,
At around 9,
And girlfriend let him in
And his motorcycle
Sat outside near my
****** old car.
He was a skinny
Ill skin tone guy
Due to his being a
Poppy aficionado,
And he dressed
Like he belonged at
A London punk rock
Concert in the early 80s.
He came in
With his huge mohawk
Flipping God and the system off
And his boots
Knock knock knocking
On Satan's roof.
'Sup' 'Sup' 'Beer?'
'Yeah man, of course'
And we drank and drank
And the now 'our' clock's hands
Moved and struck
12.
We were quite drunk.
I put on
That record
By The Stooges
That we loved
And went to take a ****.
When I came back
Iggy was moaning about
Some Deathe Car
While on the now 'our' floor
Carmel crouched
Like a tiger
Above girlfriend's opened legs
As she too moaned
Being eaten alive by
the now 'our' friend.
They were really going at it
And didn't notice I was back.
I was mad,
Really ****** mad.
I was about
To slam him
Off girlfriend and beat him
To a pulp
When suddenly, I woke up.
I remembered
That I don't have a girlfriend,
(I never have had one)
And I don't have a punk friend
(Or any friend really).
So from mad
I turned sad
And got drunk without both of em.

It feeds and grows within the host;
It stretches the skin and swells the belly;
It dwells as warm as buttered toast,—
This toothless pulp of genes and jelly.
It soils the lair in which it lives
And wallows there within the waste;
And not a single **** it gives
That *** is an ever-present taste.
It sickens her and spends her strength
And causes her, the host, dismay,
Till it outgrows its den at length
And exits in a dreadful way.
And where the creature takes its leave
Is almost too terrible to believe.

O.O

i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist ****-**** fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!

first it was avocado on toast...
          who the **** puts avocado on bread?
i can imagine putting it in pasta...
but on bread?
                hey, what the **** does
the acronym f.a.d. mean?
             i don't know, and i won't google it...
o.k. avocado on toast...
              nothing near guacamole,
  but fair enough...
           but what i discovered... pushes
the button where i turn into a fox laughter
(fuchslachen) -
           i couldn't stop...
                      you can find it in the *weekend
section of the saturday times newspaper...
written by nicola m.
          cauliflower and mozzarella pizza...
you have to be ******* me...
                cauliflower? on pizza?
one of my housemates at university told
me an anecdote:
    i was in a restaurant once,
          and asked for a pizza with no cheese...
he continued:
      and then the head chef came out and
asked me... are you, insane?!
       a bit like: bread...    but no butter?
and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon
today, whole,
the red pulp, and the outer layers including
the skin included, allowing myself
a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...
      but i thought i was mad...
but there's avocado on toast...
   and now... cauliflower on pizza...
                              it's a ******* side-dish!
wait, don't tell me... you're going to put
some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz
comes along... right?
                      how about beetroot?
                         thankfully, if i have some
wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades,
they happen, drunk, after 12a.m.,
and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit
2-in-1...
                     a newspaper column?
apparently, you get one, putting avocado
on toast...
                 or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah...
to be honest, even though i haven't tried it,
grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...
   the toast?               marmite and cheddar...
english people should stop glorifying holidays
in italy... they're ****** cooks...
                   an italian would just look at
a pizza with cauliflower and say:          cosa?
i'd suggest heading to scotland first,
and picking up the vibes from some haggis.
**** me...
   avocado on toast...
                caulifower on a pizza?!
                           now i can die happy, 'appy,
clapping: encore!

China charges 1 million annually
For each panda in our zoos
If we won't pay in full
Then the pandas we will lose
Nasty Panda's the exception
No one wants him here or there
He was paid 1 million dollars
To abscond and disappear!

Here comes the Nasty Panda
     ~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
     ~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
     ~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
     ~He eats shoots and leaves

I smelled him 'fore I seen 'em
That black and white pariah
Slippin' slidin' in my kitchen
On smooshy mushy pulp papaya
I yelled for him to stop
And I told him where to go
Wink and laugh was all he did
With a Homer Simpson "D'oh!"

Here comes the Nasty Panda
     ~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
     ~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
     ~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
     ~He eats shoots and leaves

He hasn't bathed in ages
Masked by quarts of cheap cologne
His furry skin sweat-sticky
From the surface to the bone
Smelly cigar and ***** breath
Plus an air of upper-crust
Please keep your kids away
Cuz that nasty bear can cuss!

Here comes the Nasty Panda
     ~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
     ~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
     ~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
     ~He eats shoots and leaves

If you meet up with Nasty Panda
Better turn around and run
You're bound to lose your money
And your wits before he's done
Don't shed tears for Nasty Panda
Cuz he likes the way things are
Don't forget to hide your keys
Else he'll drive off in your car!

Here comes the Nasty Panda
     ~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
     ~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
     ~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
     ~He eats shoots and leaves

Here comes the Nasty Panda
     ~He's a scoundrel and a ***
He's such a nasty panda
     ~He's as nasty as they come
Beware of Nasty Panda
     ~He's gonna raise a stink
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
     ~He's much nastier than you think

Said the aloe to the agave
Neighbour
here in a foreign soil
the old world meets the new

Said the agave to the aloe
they forget
once we were related
can hardly tell the difference still
the human eye is quite deceptive
and what to say about the human heart . . .

Said the aloe to the agave
my blood turns to heal the ill
my fibres pulp to an ageless skin . . .

Said the agave to the aloe
my blood turns to a song and dance
my fibres pulp to a rope and cloth . . .
but what do the humans offer us

Said the aloe to the agave
not much

Heavy head.
Heavy hands.
Heavy heart.

Through my worries it slinks in.
My hopes are beaten
To a thick dry pulp in my heart.
Dully, I sit heavy heavy.

Movement is all impossible.
I am a marionette with cut strings.
Rough and tattered curls.
Ripped and torn dress.

Stoic, so so stoic, yet searching.
Where is the light that once was?
Alone in this mire, I shed my tears.
Secluded and rotting in self pity.

There are no maps, no decisions.
I am lost without guidance
In this game of life limbo.
I don't know when I'll leave.

This is my own prison.

.#metoboot.

X   O   X
O   X   O
X   X   O

           who the ****
was i supposed
to be calling?
#: but there's no
phone-number
and there's no
             telephone...

let me just call up
a trend...
   a meme...

           funny funny...
not so funny...

it's still amazing
how existence drags
essence along with itself...
and that

essence is neither
a priori, nor a posteriori,

to compensate
existence,
being neither of the two.

since why should
   existence be a priori
to essence,
   or why essence
should be a posteriori
to existence...

oh... wait...
why essence should be
a posteriori to existence?
that part...

so why does the notion
of knowledge exist,
or the fact that some
100 year old old ****,
gives life advice
about how he has
a 20 year old lover,
and he shoots a down trip
of ***** of 1cl
each day?

it's still a drag experience,
no, not Brighton drag queens...
existence drags essence
into its ontological conclusion...
    mors mater...
muttertod...
   matka śmierć...
                     mother death;
and? last time i heard?
she's the ultimus virgo,
she's the (do you couple
adverbs with verbs,
or verbs with nouns
in german? can you couple
adverbs with verbs?
ah... ad- Latin prefix:
  toward... sure... an adverb
+ a verb sounds better than
an adverb + noun) hence?
letzemaljungfrau,
   ostatnia niewiasta,
the last (or the lasting) ******...
she can't exactly fake
******* over someone
to a dead pulp of prior to
tadpole whipped / egg white
cream.
                  

He struts down the sidewalk
With a hint of a frown
His spoon swings beside him
Jaunty hat as his crown.

Childers peep with a gasp
As they watch him strut down
The musk that follows him
The stains on his gown.

There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef, they say,
Of this Badass Town.

He pounds dough to a pulp
Whisking eggs beyond shape
Beets up on the salad
Stomping vatfulls of grape.

Skewers meat without thought
Chops neat through a bone
Flays sharks without care
Needs no sous, works alone

The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.

He hangs up his cleaver
At the end of the day
Dripping droplets of what
None have courage to say

He blows out his flambe
Spoon back at his side
Turns back to his war zone
Fists clenched with quiet pride

There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.

How the silence greeted her never be?
Never see the clock to fool you
Always react quickly the change
will get you
About  her time never to be wasted
And never the right time to be free
Please she is the lady never
defeated like General Lee
The revelation to be loved
he had this clock-wise
reaction

Charlotte curved her position
like a pendulum going back and forth.

It was all she could say
she looked up at him
dancing with the golden flames
piercing her eyes. nineteen roaring
just about twenty dames
The clocks how she envisioned the
quarterback the hands like wands
had different names of foreign lands
Please, not my clock hand my hand
I am running out of time
The love doesn't last even the
first time or your
Last race against time
I assure you the competition never the
right words
But I am feeling all the wrong
signals so indecisive
Clocks somehow can be relative

Her heels not so concrete when
we are talking
and especially walking running late
its always like  her and his debate
So conclusive men campfire no clocks
But the hot fire bacon
Her clock is near the mason jar
Hollywood star is way out of line
Throw her overboard
The babe is so pompous
ladies taking trips beyond the clock
Graveyard shift please assure me
I can use a facelift
Feeling the dead of night waitress shifts
looking at the clock nothing to rave about

The quiet ones so sensitive giving
them a lift be positive to be saved
and please clock them into the tick.
There shining with there own click
computer ((Apple)) bite with Gents
of martini ladies turn the clock
like Houdini.

We need to be more responsive
to the thing that ticks back at us
So like we are living together so costly
Being passive at the time but expensive every-time
that elapsed like the war of the flow of clocks world.

She hopes so strongly she didn’t jump into his frying pan of words like trying to read the top of the hour newspaper trying to tell the time it’s like a second-hand clock.

But first, most importantly we cannot turn the clock
back to undo the harm it caused.
But we certainly have the power to go with the flow to make things better instant pudding have a way of coming unstuck.

To ensure ourselves what happened in our past never again will we let it flow into our future. Let our minds flow with more positive energy.

Day in and Day out:
Please assure me the right day you come on in
The day that you want to leave but please
don't stay out more time that's what life is about

All you do is dig dig dig… how we conserve energy per unit time. How we put all our energies into works.
Or also our nervous energy fighting trying so hard to focus to find the time to balance our energy our mass movement.

Like the sacred going deep well dig your way to a spiritual time and knowing the truth of things will set us free.

Your the one going solo feel a pounding in your heart needing so much to tell someone how you care about them what happens to you when your day begins.
Do we have a second to think about can we undo something or will it remain deep in our hearts?
Something touched you like explosive words at war with one another how they develop.

How does this entire world deal with such terrorism?
But not having the time
What! I see the clocks and the
Watchtower every soap opera hour to tell someone you love them how you need them because your days come to close to the end.

You feel like a thousand drums
hit you like a bomb going off ticking clocks.

We visualize more what love really is and the day in and day out like the song continues on your digging way down to finding something its huge so major to bring it way up to the surface.

Telling one another the game isn’t over until the clock says zero.
We are going to below trying to dig deeper.
Like time management oxymoron time beyond like anger management, we cannot control it will keep ticking regardless of our lives any flow or form.

He changed to be pleased or she retreated one arm against the mantelpiece his eyes surprised
The engagement turned like a clockwork orange so irritated beyond a different time.
To refresh the orange pulp going to the Gulf of Mexico
She felt stopped for a moment in time how she couldn’t gasp for air.
The sensation got stronger how she was being watched making the right or wrong moves her steps going back and forth.

With an effort,
Please assure me
I know it not easy to please me or how you know me
Like a six sense our eyes went the same direction
Like the romance endless kisses of France
She forced herself to straighten her body
to behave but her mind really needed to function.
He sensed the last word
The next word I assure you it's like a love bomb
For quite some time  I felt in a coffin
like tic rock boom of logs
Emboldened she allowed herself
to see the contour of destined time.
Please assure me all contours shaped his face.
Please assure me I still have a brain but a
different environment place
My clock stopped just when I felt my writer's block
Somewhere over Finnegan's rainbow, his colors
changed my clock.

Like the 'French Emperor Napoleon"
Too many derogatory stereotypes.
The morning mist
The ending  list was lifted by the time
like our world became
so responsible for the past
and future how different the time became.
Like the Rehma time

The flow of electric mechanical
The clock number remarkable, please dig into the deeper movement, beautiful Girl flow’s inside.
Like Yoga life of the party, Gala adulterated minds drift oceans wave brains of Psychology.
Love and hope but our souls the core of our brain.
That cozy warm inviting library with the creative cafe of old grandfather clocks Ingram 1828 Ansonia 1850
His name Gilbert rocking pendulum newton equation
Please assure me we will meet again there is so much space

How someone is born with the proverbial silver spoon those compounding assets please assure me I will look up your face in my clock became all in one heirloom faces.

*******

My ******* was thought through,
dominate me, dominate you.
Can't stop, what you can't see,
open mouth and drink my ***.
Beat you to a ****** pulp,
as I drink it, my throat goes gulp.
I'll stomp a mud hole, til it's dry,
it's fun to do when you're high.
This world, I will destroy,
no longer am I a whipping boy.
I **** your father and your mother,
even your sister and your brother.
**** your uncle and your aunt,
killed every tree, killed every plant.
Killed your niece and your nephew,
just part of the ******* schedule.
Killed your cousins and next of kin,
call me evil, but I love sin.
No more sun rising in the east,
666, I'm the number of the beast.
No more sun setting in the west,
just doing the devil's request.

your home filled with vines does not know
it is alone — it seeks to become a diaphanous fold of trees, a violent vermilion of skies crushed to clay.

its arms hold refuge, a delicate heart.
the formless shadow there and the unguessed sensorium of furniture —
they do not know the touch of ruin.

underneath you, i am.
soil crumbled by the hundredfold of your
weight. in the air singes the burning of days, punching a hole onto me like
a globule of diminutive fire rife to
cull the vineyard of my body.

your home does not know
the dream of its weight. the anchor of its pillars gnash the acidulous trifle of hours.
doors, windows, cupboards still — every aperture gorges itself with the water
of your footsteps.

your home does not know
that it stomps stonily against an earthen fruitage: my body beaten to a pulp.

Bird against the night,
White fingertip against
A negative held up to light.

Whisper, soft by definition,
Work your maledictions
So I have something to react to.
The way you talk it would seem
Those words have been
Asleep for years. I’d
Hardly want you to
Strain- sprain anything.
Spring it on me,
Show the Bruce Lee
Of your larynx. Strike
Me or smite me, bury
Your fist and pronounce
That solar syllable before-
Before the storm cedes.

We’ve all been waiting for
The blue flick, the
Clear blur, the handle
Toward your hand. Spit
It into the light. I don’t
Really care, I just need it out.
Cut around it anymore
And you might inadvertently
Break the clouds. It’s a cheap
Trick but it’s all I ever had
Over you.

Night bloodies the beach.
A moral goes unheard  like
An ignored spectator.

I read an old pulp fiction, 'Live fast, die young, and have a good looking corpse' sounded like good advise, when I was young.

and in my "hiatus" period of absence, circa 15th of April and 15th of December (minutes from a yesterday)... i've come to regret the Russians not having any... no... rather the bare minimum of orthography... surprise surprise! there's plenty to choose from! i had to return to a time when i was drilling greek into my head... naturally: a time for cyrillic was on the horizon... but... i couldn't do it with english alone... i need my mother tongue, a tongue that employs diacritical markers... again and again: english can do away with its j... it goes missing when raised to stand from a sitting position ȷ(J)... and it can cut the head off its I(standing)... ı(sitting)... to make an emphasis... i have been busy... drinking aside, have a look where i have been for the past... april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december:

ź = зь and ż = зъ

i'm drinking - and i am my most content - the world burns and goes about its usual wordly theatre... i'm huddling with a cameo role in the background... i am drinking content... my 3rd or 4th rejection letter! this time from : austin macauley publishers (london, cambridge, new york - sharjah - where the **** is sharjah?!) - i remember sending them a "manuscript" and a book already printed, bound... they said it would take them 6 weeks to reply... i didn't enclose an email address... i had to wait for the snailmail... my my... what lovely handwritting of my name and address... in the letter i did state: it's e(sch)lert... she omitted the (sch)... a rebecca crib admin assistant, of the editorial... 6 weeks though... hmm... i posted the letter and manuscript and the book way back prior to visiting my grandparents... circa 8th of september... it's a rejection letter... that much is true... but i'm drinking in celebration! i was making dinner in the afternoon and was asked: why are you so angry? i wasn't... i tried to figure out what i'd feel when enough of ms. amber was in me... i replied: i'm being apathetic... but now it's clear: i'm jovial! there's even a signature! an authentic signature... in all honesty... a rejection letter means something... if it is physically mailed... of course i'm celebrating! i exist! i exist outside the realm of getting spam snail-mail! of course i will reply... i'll tell them: destroy and recycle the manuscript - it really wasn't a manuscript to begin with... i pour my "efforts" on the manuscript canvas that's the html... but the already printed book? can you please not burn in... rather... keep it? i'd appreciate no 1933 Säuberung... and you know (kind reader) - i'll send this introspection to the same publisher... like it is... pop / pulp or whatever mongerel of style this has had to be... but a reply! i want to see how one might escape formal language, formal affairs, social affairs, esp. in letters - a dear ms. X / to whomever it might concern Y... kind regards / yours faithfuly Mr. Z... this has to be celebrated... given what's on the horizon... the norwegian novel viking a'comin'! the buldozer autobiography... the demand for a "death" of fiction... otherwise i'm still "here"... a "here" that truly is so distant that its distance allows my petty leeching and the world's grand fiasco theater of fire and smoke and mirrors! - after all... i'm not mad enough to be welcome to a cage if i'm a sparrow... a cage of rhyme, form and all those shackle devices / identifiers of "poetry"... the future is narrative... and the current narrative says? if you asked me to dress proper, for an opera... to don the shirt the tux and the bow (tie)... the well ironed trousers... perhaps... beside the point: air's in the head and i just wish i could heat it up... for a baloon of quasi-egoism effect... otherwise what is there... a former journalist becomes an isolationist essay-scribbler? all the best journalists retire from the profession and become essayists... polemicists... whatever... this "poet" says: no poet ever writes a novel... the real life is too fictive already... and most certain this "poet" adds: begone! lyricism and rhyme! i'll sing like the humming drone cleric of the hive of ambient refrigerator sounds at 2am when everything is sleeping...

capital: oh... so that's what it was... back circa 1990 - when inflation of currency was rife all over Poland? that's when foreign capital was flowing in: foreign money... the economy was flooded with pounds and dollars... and given the exchange rate: i remember a time when you could get circa 7zł for every 1 £ sterling... so why would a nation start to print its own money? well... because more foreign money is coming in - at the given exchange rate: apologies: i was born yesterday - i need to explain certain things, from scratch... as was once stated - there's only a finite amount of money in circulation... physical money... "apparently"... and no... if you were to materialise all the wealth in this world into either fiat or gold: there wouldn't be enough of it... but how else would inflation happen in a country like Poland circa 1992? foreign investement: the wild west of eastern europe when the soviet barricade fell... i do remember being asked a question as a child: which is more... these copper coins... or this piece of paper? on the piece of paper was written 5, 000, 000zł - i said the copper coins... i wasn't either right or wrong - the person asking the question laughed... i don't think it was a question of: there are more copper coins in the hand... than a single piece of paper... after all... perhaps i acted all trans-****-sapiens and became chimp and saw less zeros on the copper coins than on the piece of paper? how else does does a currency inflate - when foreign currency is poured into it... it's the opposite of foreign aid... you put £1 into an economy - with an exchange rate: currently you'd get circa 4, 50zł out of... so where is all this "excess" money to come from? the moment when foreign money is invested... is the moment you have to start printing your own money... imagine... if the word BLACK was worth more than CZERŃ (чернь): oh, we'd readily translate BLACK = CZERŃ... but we also need a sentence for that "to make sense"... and there i was... thinking that russian doesn't apply diacritical markers... oh... right... they're not as discrete with accents like some of us... notably? нь = ń... and so and likewise... wait wait... źródło (source)... in russian it would look, look: oh so ugly... зьрoьд-ł-ł-o... (wh)en (wh(en) but now i know this (w)oe: the soft sign (acute)... and the hard sign for... e.g. życzenia (wishes)... зъыченя (perhaps зъычениa) - point being: ź = зь and ż = зъ... now does language come to me...it never left me... but now ai appreciate the minor details... i see the english and their language and how they speak it... how they churn out metaphysics and how they call forthe help of **** similis to give history the rusty coating of: nothing between a today and tomorrow: there's only the hanging off a tree from a a tail that the chimpanze doesn't thave... everything is so very metaphysical: it's never orthographic! тe два: tak - тe: оба (there's a wikipedia mistake... U+0411 / U+0431... not o'bah... oo'b'ah...): щекaць: szczekać! to bark... eh... greek became too rigid... i could remember all the letters... always buckling on ζ (zETA) and ξ (11), upsilon (υ) and nu-nu-nu (ν)... and this is, practically nonsense to anyone with a base literacy knowledge... to exagerrate... who does mind such pedantic pleasures... when they could be somewhere else: skiing! but it's worthwhile to know how a nation's currency can be inflated... foreign money flows into the country - and whatever the exchange rate is... there is no such thing as a "grafitti compensation": then again, there is... perhaps literacy has been inflated... inflated for a second literacy of coding to be assured? otherwise? bypassing the orthodox print... bypassing orthodox editorial scrutiny... was... "nice"... until the moment when the mediator sought to see fit that the reader had more authority over the written word: having re(a)d it - over the person who had / has: written it! we do part our ways with the russians on the "debate" concerning the "cedilla" involving A(ą) and E(ę)... cedilla: yes yes... akin to garçon - waiter! waiter! please - that greek sigma at the end of a word: and all its ασπεκτς... aσpectς - that really is an orthographic statement... only Ssssssss'igma is a letter with "three dimensions" suited for it... a handwritten element... otherwise in the news this week? the apostrophe society is no more... like when you don't put a possessive article if the thing in "question" ends with an S, in english? e.g.? the colours' (sez sirs - alt. colours's sez sirs... ses-esses) imbued harmony... and that is a possesive article, isn't it? with an apostrophe: 's? it's not a plural identification - there would be no need for the apostrophe to begin with! pounds' worth: no... not a pound's worth - the worth of a pound... pounds' worth: the worth of pounds! - what's that german word... glücke! nein nein... etymological root: glück 'luck' (etymology is the new history... it bypasses journalism and serves some journalistic cousin that's powdered in dust of cremated bookworms) - and yes, a hypen can come to the fore: after a full-stop and the opening of a new sentence with a conjugation: - with disbelief / - and!

i'm not buying how the media narrative will turn Cymru into a "K-affair"... sim sim: similie or else... but these have been my greek buckles: ξ (oh... that's why i wrote 11... XI - ksi...) - it's rare to see ξ sometimes: esp. in philosophy books... rubric!

- ζ
- ν
- υ (i can be forgiven, these two letters
are not suited for print... unless working
with a microscope) - unlike a roman Vv...
- ξ

but this is just the greek... if you ever read some modern... you'd think: and i just don't know, where they get their ideas from - with all those diacritical excesses that heidegger notes...

but now... for my cyrillic mini-adventure:

from Miньsk (Mazowieцki): with love

it might be said, that if i just the bare minimum -
if i even do not write anything at all -
but i have too many petty griefs during the day
to much else than the odd, occasional chore;
at the same time i do not want to sound
amused, bewildered, bored or un-used...
it's just that i find writing and drinking before
falling to my 343rd death -
my 343rd labour for mask and then exfoliated
in a dream: that might come...
or might not come...
unless a known audience... a wake sized nieche
privy... i find either unconscious or subconscious
struggles to warm up to an anonymous crowrd...
unless it was me being propped up on stage...
flooded by light... and the audience in the din:
with barely a shadow to scratch...
perhaps: then and only then...
but i've found that: it would be best that i sentence
the 2hs spare i have for merely drinking
and loitering from one video to another:
perchance something new in music is to emerge...
"coquettish" with a "something" that will never
have any realism-focus for me to undertake
a second's day carnality of the banal...
perhaps all this: "going out of my own way"
has been too much - or just enough...
to make me drink more and take more pharma
knock-out enzymes...
a naproxen and an amitriptyline...
perhaps the focus was elsewhere...
to stand frozen in awe...
when someone might "add": from one big void:
ex nihil a priori to... nihil a posteriori...
and all this cameo theatre in between!
mein gott... i can also convene to praise those
brutal breeders of sorts...
enough time to occupy two decades...
perhaps even three...
and then the grim reality of: should my child
die... or... some other worse:
the mortal should not be inflicted by...
"not reading into the genetic clues": properly:
"all at once"...
oh i would be so much happier to take this mind to sleep:
to not make some idle focus -
to entertain some eyes while i turn aside all things
hyper-inflated in purpose...
to die of a heart-attack in one's sleep...
but otherwise to simply focus on a welcome tomorrow...
that would be...
a gracious beginning to posit the day's slouching
zenith... or... i'm not sure whether this be a coming
zenith or a nadir...
but there's still that clear-cutting focus
regarding russian orthography...
cutting it with two tongues... slit at the tip...
with english the "placebo": no diacritical markers evident...
well: a TILDE over a ȷ is no more necessary...
than a "tittle" (not thai-tle... ty'ttle) over an ı...
to borrow the greek phrase: cut one head of hydra -
two emerge... cut the two heads...
i come toward the russian mish-mash of diacritical
application...
it's not be-au-ti-ful... it's messy... it's what it is...
but already i can see what this: cutting off the heads
of the english j-i hydra looks like...
it's not enough to simply enlarge them to state: CAP(I)TAL-(J)...
the knitty-gritty... why then the tilde atop of 'em?
prior "corrections": łen and when...
is not akin to... wrak or wreck... although these two words
have the same meaning...
unless: "partisan" V comes in...
very - weary... Cracow or Krakov?
a W = a Ł = a W = a V ≠ a Ł...
Ęwa and Ądam (e nosinė) are not covered by
Russian orthography...
the list is as follows:
ż (зъ) and... ć (ць), ń (нь), ó (oь), ś (сь), ź (зь)...
the graphemes? i'll call them graphemes for simplicity...
even though: they're not the smallests units...
as are vowels... or the syllables of consonants
in the latin choir of B'ee, C'ee... e'M... etc.
ж alternatively RZ (Ż) or Ž... otherwise the fwench:
je (suis)... this is nothing more than...
an encyclopedic evaluation...
a trainwreck proposal of: should i ever be stuck in
in russia... and i would have to: read... (ee'd - r'ah)...
chop off a TILDE off the torso of the english:  ȷ...
a crescent moon lying back emerges in the russian... й...
but it's not the english: jeep! it's an english: yeep!
or a  ȷeep! alternatively: yawn could be:  ȷawn...
but not if: it's jaws... coming into play: to chatter from
the siberian cold... how else to explain?
if not by... example?
then there's the "exploration" of the greek F...
as much as in english...
фoughts on θilosoφy...
good to know the russians only "borrowed"
one of the greek Fs... "culturally appropriated" or...
wasn't St. Cyrill born a greek?!
and away from greek we move...
since χ (chi): yep: perpleX... a Ks to a Ts
(note, revision found below)...
otherwise hidden... in non-vowel binding consonants...
like... ч- and -х (although... that's not quiet a Ch-ur-hC -
but sure... some altar for siц and... no... no siPS)...
cholera! which is not: SHow me the CHow mein...
for that we need CARONs...
that's when ч becomes CZ (in polish) or otherwise:
Č... long have i wanted the polish to adopt this version...
to hide the SZ and the CZ (es'zed, х'zed) respectively...
how else to write: szczekam?
a russian would write... щекaм...
out of a "simple" ш out pops out a щ (this letter...
is probably the only "etymological" route to bind russian
to the oddities of Ęva and Ądam (e nosinė)...
ш (š) becomes щ (šč) -
whoever was to undermine the old rules
of engagement when the ruling parties gave up
a monolopy of literacy? you can literally hide an entire
letter / meaning by using a hachek...
hook...
as i begin to wonder:
how much did the slavic tribes "appropriate" greek...
and how much did the two greek saints...
try to make sense of the slavic glagolitic script?
em... Ⱋ looks pretty intact if you cut off the body... E:
reclining...
but i do come from the western lands of the eastern
lands... hence? hardly any cyrilic influence...
but i too: with my own oddities... already mentioned...
come to think of it? the bulgars joined
the "party"?
beside that? what other, russian"oddities"?
orthographic - i.e. aesthetic dictations / rubrics...
ю really is a я... the russians have this english tendency
to stress their pronouns...
i this... i that! i walked up a street! and kicked a black
cat 13 times down the street to ease my luck!
you can talk in polish for days... and never stress the I / я
pronoun... really...
and ю is just a variation of я...
throw in the remaining vowels and you'd probably
come up with some "new" russian letters...
like ye... good point... i did make a "mistake"...
щэкaм! i'm barking!
unless... that's only an orthographic question...
notably? if you're going to: zerkać...
peer in / at "on and off"... casually...
зэркaць... em... it must be an orthographic question...
ergo? i wasn't exactly "wrong"...
just bad taste... зeркaць...
i've already shown the difference between (ъ) and (ь)
in a latin script: that uses more diacritical markers
than english "supposedly" escapes with focusing
on the rather pointless TILDE over the J and I...
this "oddity": ы... ɨ  clearly it's not exactly a ł...
minor details... like a mona lisa smiling...
best example of close proximity?
take a... no... that's a hollowed out "why"...
i know how it sounds... and there are no diacritical marks
needed for it... since there's a clear distinction
that i know of, between: I J Y...
tY... this little sucker is born from the fact that...
western slavs have a name for this letter...
iGREK... funny... the russians borrow more greek lettes...
and have to have...
ё (yo), e (ye), у (which they treat like a greek would U -
never mind the greeks themselves
making the following ref. Υγ / Γυ) -
and of course the я (ya)... so no wonder i see this
"letter" (ы) as an absolutely oddity...
i could stomach: ż (зъ) and ź (зь) differences...
well that's as far as i would come in learning russian...
spot the odd ones out... proper...
й (j) and ё... which is some german loan vowel with
that ******* umlaut... otherwise...
this poo'em was born from trying to **** the english
hydra of "orthography", with its mighty bounty
of the ȷ-ı TILDE! my my... what a ride!
come to think of it... now i think i can sleep.
- it hasn't been such a waste of an hour... drilling this in:
into my head...
after all... what did the professional clarinet player
say then asked about playing professionally
in a travelling orchestra? after 30 ******* years of
blowing hard into this thing...
guess what i still end up doing?
it's not so much learning... i'm still practising!

because this will not end like some sort of "summary"...
i will remember each letter if i weave it into
this latin letter by letter...

the refleξive (x)
in that one might have χeated (ch) -
again!
what it is about an ξ-ray that is also an
"χ"-ray? the "ex" k'ss k'ss cuss...
is this what james joyce's finnegans wake
should have looked like?
again!
the cruξ of the matter...
whenever a question was to be raised about:
any χoice to be had...

i have come to grips with russian orthography...
i'll repeat... the crescent moon over и ("e")
to state: this must be elongated: й ("y") stands outs...

best examples are given by sports commentators,
notably in ski jumping...
suffiξes of surnames...
akin to -cki endings...
yes... you're seeing what i'm seeing...
we'll need some russians to work this one
out... how a C is not an S...
and how it's not KK either...
-цки... hello wet drum-kit snare!

of course not: you're not seeing N:И...
let alone: нaйт (night...
evidently -igh- is a bit complicated...
with ref. to the surd in knight - kappa and
the gamma and the ha ha ha ha tetragrammaton
left arm... vowel catcher i'd be most inclined
to borrow from the hebrews...
whenever they're not busy actually using it...
and not being a bunch of 'ebrews -
electronic brewing of tea?)
сo дaрк (so dark)...

which is the equivalent of writting english
grafitti "backward"... how it sounds...
and not for: what's the formality?
i figured: take the small steps, the trickle...
burn the eyes out with incremental poppy-seed
acts of progress... like the grand Pilgrim Emeryk
from the Świętokrzyski region of Poland
(holy cross)...
each year the pilgrim shuffles to the top of
the mountain with a speed of:
a poppy-seed's worth of distance each year...
by the time he reaches the top of the mountain:
the end of the world will arrive...

am i the next Delmore Schwatrz?
no... i don't have a Lou Reed to contend with...
am i obsessed with Finnegans Wake?
well i didn't spot any "additions" to the letters...
i didn't see any diacritical markers...
a book that shouldn't be translated since...
it ignores... a worthwhile mention
of the concept of orthography -
which is my escape from any western vogue
of metaphysics... i hide behind the omniscient
niqab of orthography... my face can be forever
hidden... but my eyes need to be on... fire!
fire! i want you to burn!

so i went to see the russians having
left the greeks... about any "nuance" bound
to the... ****-naked english language
with its magic act of the disappearing heads
off of J and I...
as you do... you "forget them" and also have to:
somehow "remember" them to be used...

do i still enjoy drinking and listening to
teutonic chants in german?
god almighty! when wouldn't i not listen to german
medieval music... when drinking?!
is that such a terrible sin?

also? i finished the trilogy of H. Sienkiewicz...
and i read some Boris Pasternak...
there was Nietzsche in polish - paul's leash said:
he's more bearable in this language,
than in english...
and how could i forget! there was...
Knausgård... Karl, Ove... volumes 1 and 2
of mein kampf...

now a "summary": hmm... ż (зъ) and... ć (ць)...
could... now... hard sign (ъ) is not exactly worth
ascription if... or rarther: because...
you don't treat a caron over an S or a C...
to "hide the english H" or the Aesti Z when coupled...
there's no need to write чъ... since?
that's pretty much in-itself given č of the nature
of чeap...
ć / ць is different in that... you'd have to hear
it first...
however... the one exception of this "rule" is already
self-enclosed in ж... which is зъ... somehow...
but not зь... examples?

жart / зъart... żart (joke)...
зьrebi... well there's no 'ę' in russian
to name: źrebię - mustang colt...
is there?
so... i was "wrong"...
in that ź = зь and ż = зъ is true...
but? ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж...
so from a "quiet unique" perspective...
and: mein gott! who's to see, travel,
and subsequently marvel at the pyramids of giza...
i'm a different version of what's
considered to be "tourism"...

give me this sole equation:
ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж
and i'll be happy for a month.
as i have been...

oh i'm back... and things have taken
SPEC-TAC-U-LAR turns and twists!
****-naked english over 'ere is gonna make
a chariots of fire runner...
i bet it will... when it comes against a juggernaut
like me.

Black
Empty cans
No liquid evaporated
In the air full of pride
Polluted grains of soul
Lost their consistency
Pure fluids of light
Erupts as marshmallow bombs
Death squad penetrates deeply
Aiming to meet Anubis
A Tsunami whirled its wish
Passion and glutton declared independence
The dream of becoming a parallel nation
To co-habit with leukemia of creativity
A *** drive 4×4 retired
A crippled veteran of passion
Bags for the mercy of soulless utilitarian army of human entity
Better said plankton a ****-plankton of miserable creatures
Even worms and larva are disgusted by our hatred
*****, a skunk of fear
An eclipse of love that spans for ages
From birth to death
A spectrum displays its ripeness
******* liberty as blast
A dazzling dance of shaped and amoeboid forms of manifestation
Truth
Bitter the honey with suffer
Powder a chamomile with royal jelly and ginseng
All of sudden a wind blows
Spores of the old pines
White
The soul of parallel nation of Angeloid
Is striving pleasure of life?
Lives now
Perpetually woofs a rainbow muslin with
the divine light
Inter-woofed dress
Newborn immaculate fellows
Perfuming
Oh those smell of paradise
Mint, Neroli, Oakmoss, Amber
A bouquet of divine pleasure
And Acacia kissed by a queen bee
Yes the queen of Enneagram
Of course
The work produces sweet essences
Oh Sarmouni of our Millennia
Melt the cataract-ic lance so they may see the beauty
Heal the flu so they may smell fresh ozone
A charged circle of light and love
Overwhelm
Remove the pulp from the reed
So may divine tune perform light?
Tao
May be your torchbearer
In the dark valley and by then you may
see a spectrum
That encircles an infant fear
For an eternal life
Yet I kiss that that time sequence
Where Jin and Jang harmoniously co-habit
I a Feng Shui of Love
Defragmenter of hate’s files
Zipper of dark matrixes
Arranger
So you may know they do exists
So you try them in order to enjoy the sweetness
of life’s honey
In this porcelain valley
Where goodness and mischief
Hand in hand are gliding furiously
Alas pure the morning with dew of love
Oxidize hate with apple vinegar
Sing to celebrate both solstices and have a cup of vine
That swoon you
That filters all starry
Cells of brain and ganglia
Perfume her navel with rosewater and kiss, kiss, kiss
Do a divine Tantra
With all visible and invisible and semi-visible spirits
Kiss topaz of her eyes
Kiss ruby of her heart
Kiss diamond of her nail
Kiss cooper of her feet ankle
Kiss jade of her bones
Kiss sapphire of her cells
And a flame-y waterfall of hair
And a silky *****…
Oh…kiss and kiss and kiss whatever belongs to her
Make her a necklace
With your purest and noblest spermatozoids
Then call her as you wish
Wisdom, Hikkmah, Sophia
Or simply Goddess that makes you Angeloid.
—-
Arabic for wisdom, we disregard language we are concentrated
on substance on quint essence
Greek for wisdom

We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,

Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.

They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.

Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter

Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,

Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,

Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.

He was the meanest kid on the playground
If the kid he picked on was half of his size.
He abused his playmates if they were weak
Had freckles or wore glasses on their eyes.
He was not a handsome lad in any way.
It was almost like he took it out on the world
That none of the guys wanted to play with him
And he seldom got lucky with the girls.

There was the slightest hint of intelligence
But it was always of the devious kind.
Nobody ever thought this kid would turn out
To be the type to make fortunes with his mind.
Taking little kids lunch money from them
Was why he even went to school each day.
If he looked a bit older and wasn’t lazy
He might just have hid out and run away.

He didn’t play ball or do any kind of work
And his mom waited on him hand and foot.
You could tell when he reached legal age
He’d find a woman who would follow suit
And treat him like a six foot baby brat
As if he was a gift to the whole world.
Of course he was in luck there because
It’s easy to hook up with  that kind of girl.

At work he will call all the women sweetie
And soundly slap his cohorts on their backs.
He’ll always remember his boss’s birthday
It pays to keep the important things on track.
If he can block a promotions of co-workers
Who are not Caucasian and Christian,
He will stick to his hidebound beliefs
And stick to ideas of The Dominion.

And if this reprobate ever has children
They will grow up to be just like him;
They’ll subject siblings and playmates
To their own temperament and whim.
Because bullying is passed by parents
From their parents to their own children.
And bullying adheres to no rules about
Morality, propriety, intelligence or wisdom.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new

-Tennyson, Idylls of the King

Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp
In spasms of existential death; they pass
At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver
Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there

If you vote they give you a sticker

The ephemeral Constitution changed
Like sweaty skivvies by each president
Law libraries catalogued for pulp
By obedient functionaries in tees

If you vote they give you a sticker

The faithful escorted out of the cathedral
By a bored security guard on overtime
The altar linens for sale at Goodwill
And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V.

If you vote they give you a sticker

Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds
And the others cheer only for the Blues
As the reincarnation of Jack Chick
Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps

If you vote they give you a sticker

Election placards on abandoned buildings
Promise again prosperity for all
The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz
Private Academy of the Dance and Math

If you vote they give you a sticker

An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will
Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ
Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather

If you vote they give you a sticker

And blessed be the Holy AR-15
God gave to His People to defend themselves
Here in the freest country in the world
Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence

If you vote they give you a sticker

While fleets of luxury presidential jets
Arc high over our public housing projects
Reminding us of our prosperity
Here in the richest country in the world

If you vote they give you a sticker

And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right
But them other Jews they just ain’t no good
Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither
And don’t you get me started on them Baptists

(We seem to have been otherwise engaged)

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new” –
(But neither cares at all for me or you)

But if you vote they give you a sticker

Poem 4
I'm going to give this context by starting off reading my old match and pof profile. This is genuinely real.

It's always hard to know what to say on these things so I'm just going to fill my profile with exaggeration and nonsense.
I would describe myself as a cross between Brad Pitts character in fight club and a sensitive fireman who likes kittens. Overall I'm pretty awesome. Kind, intelligent, hilariously funny, better in bed than a mug of cocoa. I'm a bit of a geek really. As a kid I just used to love drawing and watching cartoons. I have a ten year old golem figure which is still in its box. It's ok though. It's multiposable. I grew up on a farm. If you go back far enough there are signs of inbreeding. Which is cool because I've got extra fingers to tease you with.
I had two lizards when I was little. Their names were e's and whizz after the pulp song e's and whizz which was apparently about drugs. Lizards aren't like drugs. They're just different. You can't take a lizard to get high. You could possibly try it with the right kind of frog but licking a lizard just makes you look weird. Plus if you tried to swallow one I suspect it would get stuck in your throat. The lizard wouldn't like that. Plus you'd probably get done for animal cruelty but it's ok because you'd have the excuse that you were just smacked off your t**s on Lizard. Anyway, these lizards kind of melted. This was real, not because I was on drugs. I didn't really know about drugs back then. I hadn't licked a lizard. Lizards aren't like drugs anyway, but we've already covered that, it's a bad analogy. Anyway, it was kind of sad watching them, I think I over heated the tank or something. But they had a happy life before that, I looked after them.
I think it's kind of an analogy for life though. You can spend your life worrying about your lizard. Buying it all the right food and keeping the temperature just right. But then you never really enjoy your lizard because you're too busy thinking about its food and it's heat. So, the alternative is that you just get on with things. Enjoy your lizards, crank up the heat and see what happens. I think life is better like that. Not for lizards though. Mine melted. You've got to keep their temperature right. It was a bad analogy.  

Yes, I'm still single... But on to the poem

An ode to online dating - AKA online dating is a lizard in a tank

When you go online, you're  a lizard in a tank
On your own in empty online spaces
Your pea sized brain has drawn a blank
From all the empty, passing faces
As this one passes she gives a grin
She taps your buttons, turns up your heat
Your eyes rotate, step foot to foot
You hope that she'll dip her hand in
Frill your neck and show you want to meet
But she swipes to the rabbit coz he's got a cute ****.

Some "customers" just go to look
Some are scared that lizards bite
Some of them, their nerves are shook
By a previous lizard fight
Some wonder whether they should buy
But think they might get something better
Some buy, then put you on the shelf
Some people think you're worth a try
But switch for something to make them wetter
Makes me reflect upon myself

People are creatures led my habit
Distracted by your Lizard brain
Looking for someone to share your maggot
To change your colours, You try in vain

My frustration is 2 things
1. People expect everyone to be the same
2. You get dragged into meeting an expected role

Muscles, protection, hair, humour, genuine, confidence, normal, drive, good job, nice clothes, nice house, nice car, nice things

Beauty, slim, eyes, *******, legs, ****, no baggage, easy going, don't argue, work hard, play hard, independence, no shame

What if everyone doesn't have to be the same and going for what you always go for gets you what you always got? I've got no answers to it all.

I'm going to buy a lizard instead.

The pulp
Sinks to the bottom
The memories
Float to the top
And the growth
Of the regret
Fills the pile
Of the pulp
The pulp of times forgotten.

Finally it is done.

For months I have been
collecting ingredients
for the magical elixir -
home grown ginger and rosemary,
fresh organic garlic, onions and lemon,
finely chopped jalapeno pepper,
powdered turmeric,
Ceylon cinnamon,
tulsi, kelp and black pepper.

What eluded me was the
pungent, fresh horseradish,
unexpectedly absent in our stores
and farmers markets,
until a birthday trip to New York,
when we found the massive roots
in a Russian market.

And, once properly chopped
and shredded and zested,
all is covered and bathed
in organic apple cider vinegar,
a superfood in itself,
where it will draw out the
healing constituents
of each vital ingredient,
creating a powerhouse of wellness.

And now we wait.

Four to eight weeks
of shaking the jars every day
before we drain the lot,
run the pulp through a juice extractor
and add the final touch ...
local honey, raw and unfiltered,
adding sweetness and
its own preserving power,
along with a strong boost to health.

A long time to wait
for this Nectar of the Gods,
but so very worth it:
a shot of this each day
and colds and flu stand no chance -
bacteria and virus alike
overwhelmed -
say goodbye to illness.

Let us now give thanks
to our grandmothers
and all the lay herbalists
of generations long past,
for through their efforts,
our own knowledge
is greatly enriched.

We stand on the shoulders of giants.

5July2015

With the house they are selling their childhood and adolescence, five funny brothers and grandmother's sweets, late night dramas and the unattractive maids they inherited, cigarettes they puffed secretly and lessons they learned with jackfruit pulp. Now the roots are being pulled and I wonder what'll be left. I wish people live there, generations come and play on its front yard and I hope my ancestors understand new generation urbanism and modernity.

And there it was
The most beautiful Persian pomegranate
With a skin so flawless
It would be a sin to cut it open

The pomegranate was calling out
Begging her to take a bite
But she knew it was not hers to taste

She resisted the temptation for so long
Eyeing the pomegranate every day
As she strolled by the fruit bowl

One day, when she walked by
She noticed the pomegranate had been cut open
It’s juicy plump seeds alluring her to just take one bite
What would be the harm in just one taste?

She put a seed in her mouth
It’s water-laden pulp seed burst
Exposing her tongue to something
She had never tasted before

Every day
She would walk by
And the Persian pomegranate
Would demand her to take more
So she would slip a few more seeds onto her innocent tongue

And as time went on
The seeds tasted better, sweeter
And more seductively succulent

One day
She placed the seeds into her mouth
But to her surprise
Her mouth began to burn
Her gums began to blister
Her lips began to bleed

She was perplexed
Because the pomegranate was
A poison disguised
As a beautiful, sweet fruit

The pomegranates poison
Consumed her body slowly
Ripping her insides to shreds
As the days she spent enjoying its sweet offerings
Flashed before her eyes

The Persian pomegranate
Painfully and poignantly killed her

We are groups of people
made to hate
because of who we love
not what we stand for.
Did no one listen to
your parents?
You treat others how you want to be treated
not
throwing beer bottles
and whining when it misses their head
not
coming at them with a knife
because a man is holding a man's hand.
We are taught as kids
being gay isn't okay.
You could be a murderer
but you can't love another man.
Why?
Why
can't I love who I love.
People would rather
have a man dying alone
in the hospital
because his boyfriend of 35 years
isn't his husband
than letting love flourish.
People would rather **** us off
than understand.
People would have broken homes
where kids come home to beatings
their head shoved in an oven
*****
molested
beaten to a pulp
cigars burned out on their arms
and hit with beer bottles to
the point of being broken
than to let a happily loving couple of two men
to have that child.
They would rather see
a red sea of bodies
than to allow us
to live.
People would rather say
"******"
"fruitcake"
"***"
"fairy"
and watch their child slit his wrist
for every time he looks at a man
and feels a twinge of love
than to let him be happy.
They would rather torcher and torment children to the point
of mental breakdowns
rushing blood
soar throats
living alone
on the streets
no love
pretending.
Than to let them be them.
People love purple
that it means freedom
but I like the rainbow.
Rainbows have a million colours
and not one colour is quite the same hue.
No one hates rainbows
or the gorgeous colours it has.
Not many notice the differences
of them so,
why can't everyone
treat other people
like we're rainbows?

i take my first bite,
smile because
i am about to
mar something whole.
it sits against my tongue,
hard palate freezing,
ice cream melting,
strawberry crushed to pulp.
cream goes down my throat.

i take a second bite,
wait like the first time,
get impatient, chew—
seeds get stuck in my teeth.
a third bite, a fourth,
fifth, pause—
hover and hesitate.
the air is cold
against my lips.

i bite—strawberry,
cream, seeds, ice, oh—
i hit wood.

Here's a poem that I wrote the other night at late o'clock while working my usual midnight shift. Personally I think this is one of my best pieces because I usually don't write stuff like this, I call it "sappy" haha but thats just because I'm such a boy sometimes. Anyway, I like this because I'm a little less inhibited in this piece and you guys get to catch me being girlie. Hope ya like it.

I WANT LOVE. I want late o'clock conversing that leads into morning. I want your aspirations to become ours. I want to lay in the security of strong arms and broad shoulders.
I want good days and bad days and great days and drama and I want love.Love thats deep and blue with strings and knots and ropes and braids and faith and trust, you know?
I want my own key for cloud nine.
I want love recursive because it's too close to perfect not to do it again.skin meeting skin.
hands meeting hips
Lips meeting lips feet in the air and locs in the wind.
Love that embraces what I embrace and you embrace and the differences between them.
I want to study the map in the palm of your hands and follow it and create new destinations. I want the painting we'll create when our complexions are twisted together, then another and another.
I want altruism, recklessness, spontaneity, pure concentrated freshly squeezed love with extra pulp.
And I think 'pulp' is an ugly word but I want love so good that I just might wake up one morning and write a song for pulp because all o'sudden everything's beautiful.
I WANT prayed-up non-perverted divine order love.
Love that ascends and evolves; that challenges scientists, intrigues mathematicians, and inspires artists. I want love, and as far as I'm concerned that is the only way it comes.
Sharde' Fultz 3:56 am Aug.31 @wk

Oo, have I got a song for you. While you whittle away time learning to play instruments I've run the gun and figured how to inject my spirit in it. Has it been for you as easy to forget as it has been for me to leave the love where it belongs and move on with healthy hope, pelvis at the rope, grinding life into a pulp with each push and pull. The cold in memory for you serves as my instigation to remember you for warmth.

Life is just kitchen like it was before
Conversation runneth over,
Our glasses overfull with celebration
Why don't you come to my door?

These are couplets written by Donald Trump and limericks and other Donald Trump poems "care of" Michael R. Burch (please note that these are parodies) ...

Not-So-Heroic Couplets
by Donald Trump
care of Michael R. Burch

To outfox the pox:
off yourself first, with Clorox!

And since death is the goal,
mainline Lysol!

No vaccine?
Just chug Mr. Clean!

Is a cure out of reach?
Fumigate your lungs, with bleach!

To immunize your thorax,
destroy it with Borax!

To immunize your bride,
drown her in Opti-cide!

To end all future gridlocks,
gargle with Vaprox!

Now, quick, down the Drain-o
with old Insane-o NoBrain-o!

Keywords/Tags: Donald Trump, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, humor, Clorox, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, mrbtrump, mrbcouplets



What REALLY Happened
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump lied and lied and lied.
Americans died and died and died.



Grime Wave
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump is ******* crime ...
unless it's his own grime.



Trump Love
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump "love" is truly a curious thing ...
does he care for our kids half as much as his bling?



Tangled Webs
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Oh, what tangled webs they weave
when Trump and his toupée seek to deceive!



No Star
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.

Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll all be wearing lederhosen.



Raw Spewage (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a political sump pump!



Green Eggs and Spam
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I do not like your racist ways!
I do not like your hate for gays!

I do not like your gaseous ****!
I do not like you, Crotch-Grabber Trump!

I do not like you here or there!
I do not like you anywhere!

Your brain's been trapped in a lifelong slump
And I do not like you, Hate-Baiter Trump!



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.



The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!



Roses are red,
Daffodils are yellow,
But not half as daffy
As that taffy-colored fellow!
―Michael R. Burch



Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



The Ex-Prez Sez

The prez should be above the law, he sez,
even though he’s no longer prez.
—Michael R. Burch



Quite Con-trary
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trumpy, Trumpy,
fat, balding and lumpy,
how does your Rose Garden grow?
“With venom and spleen
and everything mean,
and my gasket about to blow!”

Trumpy, Trumpy,
obese and dumpy,
why are your polls so low?
“I claimed I was Cyrus
at war with a virus
but lost every time to the minuscule foe!”



Piecemeal, a Coronavirus poem
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

And so it begins—the ending.
The narrowing veins, the soft tissues rending.
Your final solution is pending.
(Soon a portly & pale Piggy-Wiggy
will discount your death as "no biggie.")



Viral Donald (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.



Viral Donald (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Why didn't Herr Trump, the POTUS,
protect us from the Coronavirus?
That weird orange corona of hair's an alarm:
Trump is the Virus in Human Form!



Red State Reject
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I once was a pessimist
but now I’m more optimistic,
ever since I discovered my fears
were unsupported by any statistic.



The Red State Reaction
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Where the hell are they hidin’
Sleepy Joe Biden?

And how the hell can the bleep
Do so much, IN HIS SLEEP?



The Final Episode of Celebrity Apprentice President
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Ronald McDonald
said to The Donald,
"Just between us clowns, your polls are too low!"
So The Donald thought hard
then said to his pard,
"It's because I'm a martyr. The world must know!"
Thus Eric Trump jumped
from his obese Trump ****
to declare the virus a "hoax." (End of show.)



modern Midas
by michael r. burch

they say nothing human's alive
yet the Hermit survived:

the last of His kind,
clean out of His mind.

they say He relentlessly washes His fingers,
as dainty as ever, yet the smell of death lingers.

they say it sets off His corona of hair
when He blanches with fear in his Mansion Faire.

they say He still spritzes each strand into place
though there’s no one to see in that hellish place.

they say there’s a moral in what He’s become
as He fondles gold trinkets and cradles His john.



Mother of Cowards
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
"Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
Allegiance to her ****'s repulsive game.

"Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she
With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!"




Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?



Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”



Raw Spewage (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a garbage dump
in need of a sump pump!



we did not Dye in vain!
by Michael R. Burch

from “songs of the sea snails”

though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.

i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!

Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!



Twinkle Wrinkles
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Twinkle, twinkle, little "star" ...
Trump, how we wished you blazed                 afar!

Twinkle, twinkle, Groper-Cupid ...
How we've wished you weren't so stupid!

Twinkle, twinkle, Man-Baby "president" ...
In truth you're just the White House resident.



Americans have the opportunity
to greatly improve their community
with votes a-plenty
in 2020.
Dump
Trump!
—Michael R. Burch



Joe Biden, Joe Biden,
our future is ridin’
on you defeatin’
and hidin’
that cancerous lump
called Trump.
—Michael R. Burch



The Perfect Storm
by Michael R. Burch

Stormy Daniels
is Trump's worst nightmare—
a truthteller,
a woman without fear,
full of *****,
unimpressed by his junk,
that he can't debunk.



Aftermath
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Carmen Yulín Cruz is a hero.
Donald Trump is a zero.



15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!



March for Our Lives
by Michael R. Burch

It's not a moment,
it's a MOVEMENT
created to save
innocents from the grave.



Tweety and Pootie
sittin' in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
First comes love,
second comes marriage,
third barechested weasels in a White House carriage!
—Michael R. Burch



Three Trump Valentine's Day Poems

1.

If you're tall, blonde and pretty,
I'll grab your kitty.
If you're dark-skinned and short,
It's time to deport!

2.

I'll secure your southern border tonight,
as long as you're wearing white!

3.

If you're not
as hot
as my daughter,
beware;
prepare
for the slaughter!



Why did Trump endorse Roy "Score" Moore when Nostradumbass claimed he "knew" the Sludge Judge couldn't win? ...

Predators of a feather
flock together.
—Michael R. Burch



Kneeling Verboten
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Colin Kaepernick took a stand by kneeling;
now Donald Trump is reeling
as the NFL owners he implored
lock hands with the players he deplored.



How the Fourth ***** Ramped Up
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump prepped his pale Deplorables:
"You're easy marks and scorables!
Now when I bray
click your heels, obey,
and I'll soon promote you to Horribles!"



Trump Trumps "We The People"
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump fired Comey
to appoint a *****:
some pawn in his Kamp
with a big rubber stamp.

Out the window flew freedom!
Rights? You don't need 'em!
Like Attilâ the ***,
Trump answers to no one!

Do you think you have worth?
Trump makes you his serf.
He's your Lord and your Master:
you elected DISASTER.



Pass the Hat for the Fat Cat
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

If you're a Fat Cat,
vote for an Autocrat;
otherwise, stick with a Democrat ...
or get ready to pass the hat
for yourself,
doomed by that strange little pixie-fingered orange elf.



****** Assaulter-in-Chief
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Ronald McDonald Trump Bozo
bopped Bill Clinton Clown on the nose: “Oh,
I’ll trump your cigar
with my groping, by far,
when I bounce interns on my Big Pogo!”



Trump's Donor Song
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

(lines written after it became apparent that Trump is not
"draining the swamp" but stocking it with his crocodilian
donors and political piranha)

christmas is coming, the Trumpster's purse is flat:
please put a Billion in the Fat Cat's hat!
if you haven't got a Billion, a Hundred Mil will do.
if you haven't got a Hundred Mil, the yoke's on you!



Alt-Right White Christmas
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump's dreaming of a White Christmas,
just like the ones he used to know
when black renters groveled
or lived in hovels
while he laughed and shouted **-**-**!



*******
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
Is a chump,
He’s an
Orange Heffalump.
His hair?
Made of batter.
His brain?
***** matter.
His “plans”?
A disaster.
His “position”?
Your Master!



Fool's Gold
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

THE DONALD has won (so we're told).
If it's true, worthless swampland's been sold!
But who were the buyers?
Poor folks who trust liars
and pay through the nose for fool's gold.



Bunko
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Agent Orange is full of bunk:
Tiny-fingered, he claims a big "trunk."
And his "platform"? Oh my,
I think we'd all die!
And he can't even claim he was drunk!

NOTE: Donald Trump claims that he doesn't drink alcohol, except when he partakes of Holy Communion. However, Trump insulted the body and blood of Jesus Christ when he spoke dismissively of his "little *******" and "little wine." He claims to be a Christian, but also said that he never asks God for forgiveness! Is he punch drunk or just pulling our legs about being a Christian?



De-Bunko
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

There's something I'd like to debunk:
the GOP's not in a "funk."
The Donald, by choice,
is its unfiltered voice.
Vote for someone who's sane, or we're sunk!



Fooling Around
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Ronald McDonald Trump-Bozo
cried, “Clinton Clown cheats with his yo-yo!
He plays fast and loose!
It’s clearly abuse!
Whereas broads love to bounce on my pogo!”

BTW, it's amusing that Rudy Giuliani is now Trump's surrogate, defending him from accusations of ****** assault and other improprieties by scores of women, when in a 2000 "Mayor's Inner Circle" video, Giuliani in drag had his "*******" schmoozed by The Donald, after which Giuliani slapped his face and called him a "***** boy." Obviously, Giuliani was well aware of Trump's reputation for grabbing and groping women without bothering to ask for their permission! Trump's outrageous behavior was a running joke among alpha males in his circle. In 1993, fellow bad boy Howard Stern asked Trump directly: “So you treat women with respect?” Trump answered honestly: “No, I can’t say that either.” And hundreds of chauvinistic public statements and tweets by Trump confirm that he doesn't treat women with respect, or minorities, or anyone that he considers "weak" or "overweight" or "unattractive."



Trumping Tots
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Things that go bump in the night
fill Herr Trump with irrational fright;
his brain hits the skids;
he shrieks, "Ban dark kids!"
Where's his self-lauded "courage" and "might"?
Is cowardice Trump's kryptonite?



Trump Explains Why His Hair Looks Like ****: It's Been Bleached By Drool
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

"Although my hands are quite tiny,
I have an enormous hiney;
so I stick my head in,
predicting I’ll win,
while everyone kisses it shiny!"



The Name and Blame Game
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

If you have a slightly offbeat name,
you'll be de-planed, detained, restrained, defamed.
Supremacists know pure white names are best,
so be prepared to prove you're among the Blessed.
(Woe unto those who fail Trump's Litmus Test!)



Trump the Game Plan
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

There once was a huckster named Trump
who liked to be kissed on the ****.
He promised awed voters
if they'd be his promoters,
he'd magically fix up their dump.

Now the voters were dreaming of Ronald
and hoping they'd found him in Donald.
And so, lightly "thinking"
after much heavy drinking,
they put out, as if they'd been fondled.

But once he'd secured the election
Trump found his fans cause for dejection.
"I only love tens!"
he complained to his "friends,"
then deported them: black, white and Mexican.

Thus Donald fulfilled his sworn duties
by ridding the land of non-cuties.
Once the plain Janes were gone
he could smile on his throne
surrounded by imported beauties!



Egad,
what a cad;
the Orange Heffalump
scowls when he sees
a baby bump!
Like the Grinch who stole Christmas
(but every day of the year),
The Donald eyes happy
mothers with a leer!
―Michael R. Burch

NOTE: Donald Trump actually body-shamed Kim Kardashian for having a baby bump, saying that she was "large" and ought to watch the kind of clothes she wears in public!



Donald Trump Campaign Songs

Christmas is coming!
Tycoons are getting fat!
TRUMP says, "Take a ****
in some beggar's hat!
Beat him to a pulp
then run him out of town
if he dares object to
the MAN with the GOLDEN CROWN.
And if you're not a Christian,
nothing else will do!
But if you're just like TRUMP,
then may TRUMP bless you!
―Michael R. Burch



SANTA CLAWS is coming to town!
He sees Spics when they're sleeping
and Blacks when they're awake!
He knows that Whites are always good,
but dark skin is God's mistake.
So if you're some poor orphan
with slightly darker skin,
BIG BROTHER will be WATCHING
all blacks and Mexicans!
―Michael R. Burch



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Dark Shroud, Silver Lining
by Michael R. Burch

Trump cares so little for the silly pests
who rise to swarm his rallies that he jests:
“The silver lining of this dark corona
is that I’m not obliged to touch the fauna!”



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a cute stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



Mini-Ode to a Quickly Shrinking American Icon
by Michael R. Burch

Rudy, Rudy,
strange and colludy,
how does your pardon grow?
“With demons like hell’s
and progress like snails’
and criminals all in a row!”



Christmas is Coming
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!

Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!

Keywords/Tags: Trump, Donald Trump, poems, epigrams, quotes, quotations, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Cancun, Christmas, evil, democracy, coup, treason, treasonous, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, couplet, humor, humorous, Clorox, Lysol, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, America



In My House
by Michael R. Burch

I was once the only caucasian in the software company I founded and managed. I had two fine young black programmers working for me, and they both had keys to my house. This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.

When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.

"Manifest Destiny?"

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.

This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.

I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.

We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina

Keywords/Tags: Race, Racism, Black Lives Matter, Equality, Brotherhood, Fraternity, Sisterhood, Tolerance, Acceptance, Civil Rights



Instruction
by Michael R. Burch

Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
of sunset.

Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset

of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs

and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.

The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,

are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.

Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly


Published as the collection "Not-So-Heroic Couplets"