eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey

an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation

temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder

mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise

near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end

with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning

©2016janetaylor

I would like to tell you a story about a soul. A soul that was as clean, pure and gentle as soul can be. Rarely in live do we meet someone or some animal who never wanted anything but to give love. This story can’t be told without talking about her caretaker and my wife.

About 12 years ago an injured kitten was released to Everett Animal Shelter. The kitten had no use of it’s hind legs and was incontinent. In those day it was almost 100% chance that this kitten was going to be put down. Don’t feel sad/mad about this, nature’s way can be very cruel. The her fate sealed, this was much more humane ending.

My wife took it home to see if the kitten could be rehabilitated. We had been fostering kittens for a while and had a safe room for her. After getting her settled in we look at each other saying without words “Now what”?

Well the first thing that needed to be done was give her a name. We talked for a bit and I explained to my wife “She needs a strong name. She needs a strong black female name. She going need it to help her through life”. The strongest black female name I knew was Rosa Parks. That became her name.

Rosa being incontinent was, well to be honest, was a stinky kitten. Stinky kitten became one of her many nicknames, HA. Rosa needed to learn how to take a bath. If you ever tried to give a kitten/cat a bath you know it’s not really a good idea. So my wife dives right in, picks her up and takes her to bathroom for her first bath. Rosa being the soul she was just sat in the sink and took her bath. She didn’t fight it, she never hissed or got angry. She just took her bath. This attitude towards water lead us to try water therapy.

Water therapy was a home job for us. We would fill a storage tote with warm water and put this rear palatalized kitten in it up to her neck. Now for first time in a few weeks this kitten Rosa could stand up with the water supporting her weight. This went on for the first year of her life. This was the start of many treatments such as acupuncture, a sling in her room and massage. She did all of it never complained about anything.

It didn’t take to long and soon Rosa was strong enough to stand and wobble out a step or two. After a few months of no more improvement it became clear that a decision needed to be made about what to do with her. Is her quality of life such that gets returned for euthanasia or is she happy and do we commit to her care. We knew that she could never live the life of a normal cat. She would never be able to go outside unsupervised, she could never be inside unsupervised except in her safe room. She was healthy and always happy so the commitment was made.

Rosa had her safe room but what to do with her when we can supervise her. Rosa needed a wheelchair. After doing some research we found a local company that makes wheelchairs for pets. After getting her sized up the day came she had her chair. We put Rosa in her chair and in no time she was zooming around the room. Rosa is mobile!!!

My wife and I would take Rosa and Cocoa (look for the story ‘Cocoa’s Ghost’) for walks around the block. Animal Rescue Foundation who had paid for Cocoa issues and Rosa’s early expenses told the Everett Herald newspaper about this and Rosa went mainstream. Look up the news article ‘Pets get a second chance’ if your interested reading it. Needless to say walking a cat in a tiny wheelchair got attention.

One of the things that was very special about Rosa was she loved being a foster mom. My wife would often bring home sick kittens, tiny kittens and just overflow from the Everett Shelter and put them in Rosa’s safe room. Rosa always excepted those kittens as her own within a day or two. I often thought it would have been funny to learn about the birds and the bees from her perspective.

Me “Rosa, where do kittens come from”.

Rosa “Well first you eat some food, then you ****, then you go to sleep and BAM kittens”.

There were many, many times a sick kitten would just curl up in her belly and sleep with it’s now mother Rosa. She was so good with the kittens. She would cuddle, discipline, clean and try to feed when needed. The kittens in her care got a family with a loving mother and bothers and sisters, often unrelated. She truly seemed to enjoy motherhood.

This was Rosa’s and my wife’s life for 12 years. Feed Rosa, squeeze Rosa, clean Rosa and love Rosa. Last night that most of that ended. A few weeks ago Rosa stopped eating and drinking. After $1000 of tests, weeks of fluids, syringe feedings and with no answers we made the choice and gave the gift. Rosa died the same way she came into our lives, in my wife’s arms.

I wrote this not to make you sad. I wrote this to share a clean, pure and gentle soul with you. Some of you reading this may have one of her kittens living with you now: a small piece of her soul living with you now.  Enjoy her gift to you.

Saturday is back

for you and Jack

So hurry and pack

Nothing to lack

Or forget something on a rack

Or in a sack

Eat Big Mac

Get some nicknack

Sleep in a shack

When it is black


Sam





Today is Saturday, Oct. 4,the 276th day of 2014 with 89 to follow.

The moon is waning. Morning stars are Jupiter, Mars and Uranus. Evening starsare Mercury, Neptune, Saturn and Venus.



In 1922, Rebecca Felton, a Georgia Democrat, became thefirst woman to serve in the U.S. Senate.





A thought for the day:



It's hard to beat a person who never gives up. -- Babe Ruth



QUOTES FOR THE DAY:



Avarice is the vice of declining years.

------------------------

Beauty is but the sensible image of the Infinite. Like truth and justice it liveswithin us; like virtue and the moral law it is a companion of the soul.

------------------------

By common consent gray hairs are a crown of glory; the only object of respectthat can never excite envy.



George Bancroft





Fortunately,psychoanalysis is not the only way to resolve inner conflicts. Life itselfremains a very effective therapist.



Karen Horney



"If you always do what interestsyou, at least one person is pleased."



Katharine Hepburn



"Keep love in yourheart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.The consciousness of loving and being loved brings a warmth and richness tolife that nothing else can bring."



Oscar Wilde



POETRY



Last Night



Michael Broder





Idreamt of making sense,
parts of speech caught up in sheets
and blankets, long strips of fabric
wrapped loosely around shoulders,
goblets, urns, cups with unmatched saucers.

You were there, and the past seemed important,
what was said, what was done,
feelings felt but maybe not expressed,
signs randomly connected
yet vital to what comes next,
to a coming season,
next year's trip to Nauset Beach.

I woke up wanting to read a poem by that name,
and I found one with a lifeguard's chair,
a broken shell, gulls watching egrets,
home an ocean away.


About this poem


"I wanted the poem to enact the dream it purports to recount. If dreamsare wish fulfillment, then this dreamer yearns for some kind of cognitivecoherence. The s ense the dreamer seeks turns out to be nonsense, and yetpoetry finds a way of making it s ensible after all."
-Michael Broder

About Michael Broder


Michael Broder is the author of "This Life Now" (A Midsummer Night'sPress, 2014). He is a freelance writer and lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization,whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience.


(c) 2014 Michael Broder.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate





HEALTH and BEAUTY TIP



Applying Moisturizer

When applying moisturizer as part of your daily routine,make sure not to use it directly around your eyes -- this skin is more likelyto retain fluid, and moisturizer will make the under-eye area appear puffier.But do remember to use some on your neck and throat; skin can become dry there,too.



JOKES



Lawyer Joke



An American attorney had just finished a guest lecture at a lawschool in Italy when an Italian lawyer approached him and asked, "Is ittrue that a person can fall down on a sidewalk in your county and then sue thelandowners for lots of money?"

Told that it was true, the lawyer turned to his partner and started speakingrapidly in Italian. When they stopped, the American attorney asked if theywanted to go to America to practice law.

"No, no," one replied. "We want to go to America and fall downon sidewalks."



Pregnant



Seven months pregnant, my hand on my aching back, I stood inline at the post office for what seemed an eternity.

"Honey," said a woman behind me, "I had back pain during mypregnancy. I was bedridden for four months because my baby was sitting on anerve."

Then the man in front of me piped up....

"You'd better get used to it now. Once those kids get on your nerves, theycan stay there till they're 18."





Parole Board

The Bureau of prisons just announced the release of a serialbank robber who had looted over 30 banks before his capture.

The parole board says he is completely rehabilitated and has found employmentat his home in Prague.

Yes, that is correct...

They were able to right a bad czech.



Quick Funny or not so funny



I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but Icouldn't find any.



Bad Timing



A parish priest, Father O'Brien, was being honored at adinner on the 25th anniversary of his arrival in that parish.

A leading local politician, who was a member of the congregation, was chosen tomake the presentation and give a little speech at the dinner, but he wasdelayed in traffic.

Sooo.....Father O'Briend decides to say his own few words while they await thepolitician's arrival......

"You will understand," he said, "the seal of the confessional,can never be broken. What is confessed in there to me, is never repeated on theoutside. However, I got my first impressions of this parish from the firstconfession I ever heard here.

Realize, please, that I can only hint vaguely about this, but when I came here25 years ago, I thought I had been assigned to a terrible place.

The very first chap who entered my confessional told me how he had stolen atelevision set and, when stopped by the police, had almost murdered theofficer. Further, he told me he had embezzled money from his place of businessand had an affair with his boss's wife. I was appalled. But as the days went onI knew that my people at this congregation were not all like that, and I had,indeed come to, a fine parish full of understanding and loving people."

Just as the priest finished his talk, the politician arrived, apologized forhis tardiness and then started in on his speech.

"I want to thank you all for letting me say a few words this evening inhonor of Father O'Brien. 25 Years is a long time. In fact, when he arrivedhere, I had the honor of being the first confession he heard at thiscongregation."

Now that is bad timing.



Have a very niceSaturday!

*******

Wouldn't change a thing, even if I could,
when I see her, I always sport a wood.
She is so very fine,
seeing her puts me on cloud nine.
Best *** I have ever seen,
hard to believe she is still a teen.
Between he thighs is the Bermuda triangle,
I get lost, but its something I can handle.
Smoothest skin you'll ever feel,
got turned down, but I applied for an appeal.
Hair is down to her ankles,
have to be careful when I light candles.
Our relationship is one of love and hate,
every topic is a heated debate.
She only likes me for my third leg,
to get her, I must always beg.
Our age difference doesn't matter,
I'm always on deck, to be the next batter.
She is not even old enough to drink,
but on the inside, its always pink.
She calls me her sugar daddy,
I always end up being her caddy.
She cheats on me every chance she gets,
but I still have no bitter regrets.
She moved in and steals all my money,
but she is more sweet than any kind of honey.
She is the most sexiest stripper,
I will always be the biggest tipper.
Then one day she was gone,
she used me just like a pawn.
She took my money and stole my new car,
she is now the biggest **** star.
The ***** never did pay me back,
now she is addicted to ****** and crack.
Tracked her down and got her rehabilitated,
she is now truly vindicated.
She lost the devil and found god,
well that's what she calls me, when riding my rod.
It truly is good to be the king,
she's now my queen, not just an expensive fling.

My sweet, Forever-Beautiful..

I am flying out to Port Angeles Washington  in a few weeks
to see my Mother  who is 92 years old and dying.
My middle sister and her husband live there.
My Mother is in Sequim, which is the next town over.
She has her own apartment but will be moving in with Elaine
by the time I get there.
She has been fighting cancer for almost 20 years now.

This is what I want to say to you, sweet-one..

My trip out there is where the rubber meets the road  within
all that I have been saying to you throughout the years..
and without what I know will happen there once I am with her..

       my love is not Awake and Alive,  
       but only the empty ramblings of a deranged man.

My father died suddenly in 2013 at 83,  but spoke to me  on the
phone for two hours just the day before he passed. It was one of
the most magical two hours I have ever experienced.
Most of his dying wishes were for myself and my sisters,
and all of his grandchildren.. that we all would be able
to carry on in peace..  free from the pain and chaos,  
which was all we knew when young. Momma needs to know
that not only is she forgiven,  
but that while she  remains here with us on Earth..
    she is the light and Joy of my life.
She is my Momma, sweet friend.  It hasn't been easy.
She (and my Father) no longer have a hold on me  
they once did years ago.  I am going to go out there
and kiss her  and my sisters  and thank them all for my life.
I am as a hero in the eyes of my three sisters, who have
not all been as fortunate in the overcoming process,
but have all done well in the process  of getting well
  and sometimes, in just trying to survive.

I love you, sweet Beautiful.  I always have.
You can do this, girl..  you can  feel and become  the freedom
of all of who you were placed here on Earth to be..
and you will become able to do it   fully and completely--
in full relationship with all of who it is that you are
within your own, beautiful self.
I came across you for a reason.  You were the most defiant
and mischievous of all, yet have turned out to be one
of the very best souls I have ever known.
I will never let you go from the place you hold in my heart
   and I will never stop believing in you.

       I'm gonna be with my Momma soon.  

I have never-ending  kisses for her.  She told me recently  
that I am the most special man she have ever known.
Those are much different words than the ones  I had hammered
into me when I was a little boy.. so many years ago.
You and I have much in common that way.

She's from Denmark. She would have truly loved you
within the magical aura that surrounds you wherever you go..
had you two ever met. She got into the 12-step process  after
her and my Dad split up when I was 13. By the time I was 25,
she was a completely rehabilitated person.  But even now
she carries that deep horrendous, soul-killing darkness in her.

                I have kisses for her.

I will gladly take that darkness on  so that she can feel..
even if for just one moment, what a world of peace
and freedom  truly  feels like.

   Darkness has no hold on me, beautiful girl.
   I am no longer that little boy.. who by her choice,  (to not)

         .. was made to wear it--  

         over.. and over.. and over again
         until I had become  completely broken..

                                                    -- Completely.

    When I was young, I unknowingly  carried  for her
                     what she, herself..  would not.
    Now that I am a grown man--  through volition alone,
               I will  gladly  for her, take that **** on
           so that she won't ever.. ever again,  have to.

                                     .. Gladly.


    I love you more than you may ever know. 🌾🌾xox

Undecided I am
As to whether or not obsessing over you is wrong
I may never know
If it must be wrong, then I only wrong myself
For I am addicted to you,
and it is not long before i feel the withdrawal
Of your poisonous beauty
Far more potent than any substance
Far more desirable than any liquor

Thirsty for you I am
As to whether or not the thirst is quenchable
I may never know
If it must go unquenched, I will surly die of thirst
For I have had a dose of you,
and so your poison will remain in my heart
Until it gives way
After my hit of you I desire no other
After my fix of you I need another

I can not be rehabilitated
Or cured thanks to you
So i must adjust,
and aspirations must be met
I'll start off small,
and see if you've noticed me yet

Conclusion or delusion
I wonder in my state of euphoria
I think obsessing over you is right for me
Having learnt to embrace this love sickness you have brought unto me
This feeling is human,
so I must be too
Well a man has needs,
and what I need is you

You found out I called you crazy,
but to be fair you were the same man who
stabbed himself on purpose and
picked at wounds just to see how well the scars held up
under your knife.

The same man who woke up with bruises for hands and
bourbon for breath.

You always slept with your eyes open,
glazed over like a snake ready to strike.
You said this was from spending 19 years locked in a cage
like a feral animal.
I see that didn't teach you anything.
Some beings can never be rehabilitated;
they should have never released you back into the wild.

You picked roses because they reminded you of your dead mother
and once you made me talk to her ashes
and afterwards you threw me on your pool table
and made a mess of me.

You said it was for your memory,
I used it for my art.

You would cut me up for fun and stalk me for pleasure.
You say bourbon and *** makes you feel real again.
You would always tell me I was too pretty for you and
we would laugh along to gory movies until our eyes half closed in drunken lust and all I wanted to do was drink from you.

You would lock your door and turn on the fairy lights
and touch me real slow and hard until I became cold from the
beating of your heart next to mine.

You always said you were going to leave,
I never thought you'd just disappear
and still be 5 minutes away from me.

You are a ghost that I wish would haunt me a little more often
because I am reduced to ashes now just like your cremated mother.

You turned me rabid and mean.

You never told me how to make this stop.
I just keep bleeding from the wounds you left.

You turned me into the same animal you are.

My brother, it's as if we're speaking of a ghost
when we speak of you.
Your name
constantly accompanied by
"remember when"s and "I miss"es.
But you're not gone,
you're just away
on a little trip that turned
into an extended stay.
But it's no vacation paradise.
It's like you took a one way flight
into a bird cage
and you watched the door slam shut
right behind you
with nothing you or I could do.
And it pains me to see
because you're such a free spirit
but they strapped a name tag to you
and made you their pet.
Threw you in with the convicted rest
until you rebelled
and they kept you by yourself.
Well over a year spent in solitude
and when they let you out
you weren't the same.
And mom, she wasn't either.
I swear I saw her flinch every time she heard your name.
Little brother, he's the spitting image of you.
Like he's trying to make up for your loss.
A stand in
a mini me
every time he laughs it's your face I see.
He wears your hat every single day
and it breaks my heart
he wants to be just like you
and I pray he doesn't take after your bad parts too.
You're coming home soon
and as happy as I am
I'm scared to death it won't be long
before you're back at it again.
Rehabilitated is an empty word
you know what it means but it's something you've never heard.
You are what you will always be.
Even if what you're not is free.


*s.mndi

this is what music foraging on youtube used to look like, you'd find gems, 6 years old, approx. 10K views akin to Undogmatic & Kernfeld: thought experiments... you know... you travel outside of the anglosphere of said language, what is the opinion of a Greek or a Pole about Fb? not much... it's only the english-speaking "cool" kids that are making all the fuss... i mentioned minds.com to a Greek guy i was giving directions to, once, in Warsaw... he looked at me as if i was the first person to show him a ******* elephant... 5 blind men followed and we know the story from there... catering to the natives: who will never be or ever have been satisfied... they just need their: banta... their ****-storming, their gravitational pull toward bloodsports: rather than dialectics... nothing is ever to be done... who can shout the loudest... who can rock the boat the most... who can translate past playground grievances into a web of anonymity and avatars... as far as i am concerned... these social media firms, these u.s. firms have long gone stopped catering to primarily english speaking people... all these anglophone calls: Fb will fail like myspace failed... blah blah... these firms are tired of brats... elsewhere these spaces are utilities... they're not an extension of either thought or life... collateral damage of those first exposed... the Greek will still use the platform... the Pole will also... i too remember my childhood: hide & seek... digging holes in the ground and throwing marbles into them from a distance of five metres... creating chalk labyrinths on the pavement and flicking beer bottle caps filled with plastecine through them... and no... styxhexenhammer666 is not banned in Poland... i never wanted youtube to become what it has become: 72 virgins? give me a library of music for all of eternity and i'll be an 'appy chappy... i don't need some count dankula regurgitate a wikipedia entry about tarrare - oddly enough: i too can read... see... i blame both sides for ******* up my foraging tool... the "legacy" media and the indie vlog "creators": creative really reative, spewing regurgitation after regurgitation... i'd hate to be drafted into this vulture journalism of video making... at least when you pay a *******: you pay an honest wage... and she subsequently spends the honest wage on **** i wouldn't even buy... so the funds are given to the person who otherwise keeps the economy running... a woman... oh yes, i've been watching closely these indie "creators"... lucky for me i watched enough of them to round them up and say: this much... there's a big difference between a "creator" and a commentator... if i'd want to listen to an audiobook containing the current journalistic spew: anyway... half of these stories in the "news" are tabloid ******* that gave rise to 24h news reel and the vacuous space feeding the tapeworm of insomnia... since when did news outlets think they could produce an amphetamine alt.? clearly they did... i can't keep up, i won't keep up, to hell with going against these giants... youtube was never about these indie "creators"... music and music was always the prime concern for me... lucky for me remnants of the old a.i. still give me chances to glimpse records like CLANN - Seelie... these indie "creators" become just as tiresome as the legacy medie snippets... you want a more ******* version of CLANN's Seelie? try Salem: king knight (2010).

.just some after-thoughts, when a post scriptum becomes, a pre scriptum... you know... i sometimes think this lingua franca, that's english, ergo: lingua inglese is bombarded, London is the microcosm of the world dislodged from the realities of other natives... there's a grand congregation happening, of hosts, and even here, on the outskirts of London, where all it takes is a 30 minute walk to go pet a horse or a tender young bull, "randomly", in a field, spot a fox, or chase a herd of deer who "wandered" into the middle of an X junction creating a traffic debacle... but the language itself this, lingua inglese needs updating, notably from the "real" grammar nazis... i'm not just going to give up my new earned rights of literacy, for all the years of being kept in the dark like some ******* mushroom, just because, someone feels it is necessary to feel lazy, about establishing rigour, discipline in using this former tool of power, like i'm going to bend over some lazy peasant... no... dis-ci-pline... you need it, i might drink, but i'll still return to this language with great respect, for the per se worth of adherence to it... it already is a metaphysical person / "person" to me, at least i can offer that much, as much as is necessary... one question though, echo-chamber... it's enough for dyslexia, it's enough for emoji, it's enough for: l8er... it's enough for "gender neutral" pronouns... see... that language i was born with... that **** won't stick... certain languages have pronoun-"augmentation" associated with verbs... e.g.?
                                            mogłem (past-participle masculine
                       of i could have)
                        mogłam (past-participle feminine
                    of i could have)
this, inherent bias, within the confines of the english language, well, i didn't expect it to be so rife, until i witnessed it being exploited! now at least i can pander / side with the natives: funny - coming to a "madman" for sanity quotes, for rigour... well... because there's no fun without someone not having the ***** to counter the libertarian farcical tragico-comic current circumstance of: "pushing the boundaries"... like i said: a lingua ingelese echo-chamber... no belly-button status of the world for you... this viper of an idea, this sordid wasp of a "conundrum" will not spread elsewhere, i feel inclined to contain it, with english regulations of grammar... just like i learned this language to begin with: first the language, then the grammar... physics first, metaphysics later... first the experience of communication, then the theory of communicating... thank god that some languages have an unshakeable foundation, e.g. western slavic: where the pronoun is integrated into verbs with a gender discrimination structure...
  further examples?
                miałem (i had - masculine)
                                                     miałam (i had - feminine)...
so the problem is contained... in this, sometimes erring into sharpnel of, what could have been: a bullet of a tongue; or, i dare say, will hopefully preserve itself, to be it.

i guess.... wait... are stars supposed to that?
i just witnessed two,
transverse the night sky:
    in that, more than the already
perplexing circumstance of a straight line...
to the naked eye:
   they're not supposed to move in
a parabola fashion, are they?
    yes, last time i checked, this was never
going to be a metaphor for
the current state of european politics,
   to the naked eye:
    i would be unable to witness a comet,
and, on the odd occassion,
   the blitzkrieg accent on the sky
by a meteor falling...
            i never had the tools to measure
the difference between a falling
meteor appearing in the sky,
                      to a lightning strike -
time wise...
            after all: is a lightning strike
confined to the same category as light,
yeah: light from the sun?
   i guess this is were awe comes...
          once again: if i somehow manage
to come across the facts -
   i'll give my narrative of a temple's
worth of structure to the blinded,
enraged skin-headed Samson to pull at
the pillars...
                now, with regards to:
a black girl in a supermarket...
   well... i've done it,
    i can clearly state i have become
fully integrated into the multiculutral
experiment that's England,
   it didn't take that long,
               ******* contra being attracked
are two dfifferent ball games...
the language is here,
                 working just fine,
   some native prejudices are somewhat
here,
            i have a harder time
"not understanding" the quickened
paddy taljk, to me the scots sing,
and they managed to preserve
                                     the trill on the R...
so, as they would say in
    a clockwork orange type of fashion,
fully rehabilitated, ****, sorry, integrated...
i can find myself being attracked
                           to an ivory beauty...
side-effect?
    whenever i visit my grandparents,
whenever i pass through
   the urban landscape of Warsaw...
   i feel...
        an extreme nausea,
paranoia,
                 sifting through my in-born
mirror of homogeneity...
the whole process takes, oh,
                     i'd say, roughly 20 years...
brain-washing?
      or a want for a sense of belonging?
my only sense of belonging in
Poland is only related to the use
of language, culturally?
      hybrid at best,
                    or not even hybrid,
mongrel...
                sure, the impeding disaster
of putting a physical hybrid
           with a metaphysical hybrid...
i don't even know how i'll feel
when the ****** tongue dies with
the people i could associate to by speaking
it...
maybe i'll be lucky,
having the luxury of not one death,
but two, in my life.

p.s.
   stating the ****** obvious,
surds...
   lingua ingles(e)
              and not lingua inglesé...
how can i not be stating the obvious,
that's how practiςing
    literacy works, doesn't it?
who has ever heard
a guitar player not say:
    i'm not playing,
  i'm simply practiçing                ?
i guess the origins of the french
         cedilla come from
                                     the greek sigma,
i.e. if it's so smart,
how come a drunk, like me,
                         has to "unearth" it?
always, it's always about
the fiddly bits of language,
english is peppered with
      rules, that are not dogma of
pedagogy...
         of the pedagogic experience...
"somehow" surds appear,
i.e. "silent" letters...
   e.g. there's no (g)nome
         but there's diagnostics...
this, this lingua inglese...
this supposedly "universal" language
for a global community,
and then all the particulars
associated with the native idiosyncracy...
mind you...

     i woke up with a dream,
righ rarity event...
   i was sitting,
then i started walking,
i looked behind me,
a ****** church procession was
walking with banners
and crosses, dressed in black,
i turned my head,
and there was a bunch of
schoolchildren walking toward me,
i was eating a raw chilli...
a boy from the throng coming
at me was eating a raw pepper,
'hey mister'
and pointed at a piece of
a raw papper lying in the grass,
insinuating i lost it...
i replied:
                                          'chilli'...
er­m...
        who the hell would ever need
to amplify dreaming
with a psychadelic experience,
esp. if that person is usually
sleeping for 10+ hours per day
and is dream-starved?

She was the ****, I was the crystal
addicted to each other the moment
                                              we meet.

But every high has a come down,
                I'm the ***** needle..

She was the spoon, warming up on
               another's sleeve.

Tided tightly ready to overdose on her.

                     She was the chemical bliss
that could  be taken anywhere,  



                                         I thought...
that we were something special.

But I was used,
                      discarded.

I was useless to her, as I was unable
         to pierce the vein..

Used to many times.

So she found another way to find
              a way to make her self higher

than she was with me.

Now I'm in a come down

rehabilitated
                   and I'm struggling.

The temptation of 'Adesso' requests at the tip of my tongue,
for use only when the gaps in-between seem too long.
Distracted again, by the halves at the top and the bottom.
You have questioned my preference more than once, but not often.
To confirm, alone now with thoughts of our conversations drawing me wandering back.
I'm intrigued by you, your mind...to me, the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Thoughts of you leave me lust inebriated,
over two-drink- tipsy and intoxicated.
Longing for my next fix as an addict with no desire to be rehabilitated.

Looking through these green eyes of mine.
You leave me nowhere inside to hide.
'Mischievous' I am told, is my soul, This is true but to love and be loved is my foundation goal.

A soul, honest and kind, a life of monotony is not that which I strive.
This spirit of mine on fire and alive.

Complicated is how you described your soul,
the layers of which I am intrigued to unfold.
Clear and somehow familiar to me.
Not complicated but simple, I love what I see.

A soul perhaps needing T.L.C.
A brain I am told which reduces to Brie.
Clear AND complicated...both are right it seems.

I shall not dwell that despite the cautious words when together I have spoken, 
with each written word now shared, so to increases my vulnerability of being broken.

Experiencing tenderness so sincere and real.
Unfamiliar to me, an exquisite ideal.

Whether each moment together is coincidental or predetermined,
Led by my heart, body and soul is the only way to be certain.

Adesso bello, now close your eyes.
Succumb to thoughts of my fingertips tracing your thighs.
Pull me in close again tight,
safe in your arms for the rest of the night.

The coincidence of bodies, rare like the coincidence of minds.
Love and lust...the purest natural desires of human kind.

Adesso, such a powerful word on the tip of my tongue,
for use only when the gaps in-between seem too long.

Every month I *** in a cup
to prove I am human.

I work for free to pay
off imaginary debts.

I get my paperwork stamped
so they know I participate.

It's all for my own good,
or so they tell me.

I can't be rehabilitated
until I am broken.

LIFE

I ask you as I begin, how would you describe LIFE?

For me the word "Euphoria" comes to mind in a weird sense.

Have we become our own narrators forbidden to live our own rehabilitated LIVES?

Does LIFE for some have no meaning, where laws have incarcerated in the hearts of people who declare our own existence?

We somehow fly a flag of nations, of countries what does it represent?

Peace new LIFE or a pushchair war?

Seems to me LIFE has become a class of its own distinction, never knowing its own ending.

Is money the ultimate ruler of our hormonal LIVES?

At the end do we desire what we fear the most?

                                                                                         LAZA 09

I've illustrated lyrical insulation and simulated spiritual stimulation from originating with out sophistication while perfoming discriminated manipulation and rehabilitated from being to opinionated  but never anticipated my own disintegration

“the beauty of life as seen and created by a person.”

we draw shapes in

steam on each other’s backs

worthwhile chatter and brave silences between us
our home is wood-paneled and

rehabilitated

tell me you love me in the kitchen
between hot breath and under salt water moons
pull exoskeleton from steamed baths and sunshine beds
sleep soundly on chests;

your moon and mine are the same, the same sky

I long to
crawl and lie in the hollow between
your shoulder and collar bones

sew roses on your jacket

I’d pluck out all my eyelashes so all my wishes
were yours

slide under my word covered sheets
hear my thoughts as you duck under them
of all the songs I’ve heard, yours is the most tantalising
even in a snow covered maze I’d find you

heaven is coming home to you at my table with a cup of coffee.

Within the cathedral I lament and loathe
I have but one good eye
I am deaf
My spine is as crooked as the people in the city streets I look upon everyday

I find solace here in this fortress of virtue
I hid away
I ring the bells
They speak for my muted soul

Hear me

You ridicule my existence
Poke and **** my appearance
You are the monsters
I spit at you from high above

You've made me your Baron of Buffoonery
The feast is massive
Street performers, vagabonds
And the dancing flame that has engulfed the hearts of men, I see her

My master
The man who has saved me
Raised me
Has ordered me to retrieve this glowing goddess

I must obey

I have her within my faulty sight
I can smell a sweet aroma of her scent
She cannot stand the sight of me
Her beauty screams is a repulsed terror of me

The captain and his guard come
I'm put in shackles
Sentenced for a lashing
And scheduled for a ride on the pillory

For my master
Where is he now? Hiding
Hiding his hideousness
His betrayal against his celibate vow

But what's this?

The dancing enchantress has come to me
Giving me water
At my hour of suffering and humiliation  
She has me now

I return to my stone hideaway
A day out side of these walls has now cemented me into them forevermore

Master?
I see you
Sneaking in the night with a knife
Where are you going?

The captain is on patrol
I can feel in his heart, the desire for the flame
The same desire I sense in yours
And mine

No!
Master!

The captain is dead
I recuse myself from this world farther

Today there is a hanging
The one who has killed the captain shall be put to death

I see the whip marks on their back
But the face is not the face of my master
It is the face of her who possess my soul
No

I cannot let this transpire
I reciprocate her kindness towards me
With a rope swing rescue
And bring her to sanctuary

But now I am under attack
By mislead beggars
They storm the church
With fire and weapons of pointed metal

She is now somewhere within the house of God
Lost
I must find her before they do
No

The king's men
They'll find her and keep her safe

There she is!
In the pew

Master?
Stay away
Ah, the king's men have come to take her from you
Wait, stop why?!

She is back facing the gallows
I hear the evil cackling of my master from the balcony
We look upon her final moments, he continues to laugh
No

He will not live if she cannot
He is evil
He is wicked
He will die

Within that moment I push him
The executioner pulls the lever
They both fall
To their untimely deaths

I now trudge to the place where they laid her body
Passed the lepers
Passed the rehabilitated prostitutes
To her

I lay next to her, hold her;  I am warm
I am safe, she is safe
I shall stay here
Until my flesh deteriorates and my bones disintegrate

Now my death toll rings, its thunderous vibrations carry me to exquisite eternity

Precipio


Beneath the cherubs of Basilica di

Santa Maria Maggiore, St. Frances of

Assisi inculcates the embroidered

    Il tuo sorriso è l’alba che ** perso questa mattina

word of God, threaded into centuries

of artwork extinction, rehabilitated

into the minds of a museum, where

we cannot touch, only to distinguish,

what is ours, what is there’s, why

we must perderò  understand the

implications of sunrises bringing

another day of God to teach.

Our loss of Nativity is

freestanding figures

brought on by time.

...

I was invited to read poems as a response to Ann Hamilton's exhibit at the Spencer Museum of Art. Read more about this event here: (This poem is actually shaped like a face, but I can't get the lines to stay, but you can see the actual shape at the link)

http://shannonathompson.com/2013/04/19/reading-event-ann-hamilton-at-the-spencer-museum-of-art/

I should, by all practical matters, quit looking through old photos of when my life was much "simpler." Childhood photos, to be exact. They serve only as a reminder of how old I am, and how much older I soon will be. (Yea, I know, ending a sentence with a prepostion is against  the rules of proper penning.)

Looking at these pics, I catch myself playing the game of "whatever became of who?" Those other kids on that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, "waaay, waaay" back in the mid to late forties. One, in particular, comes to mind.

His name was "Duke" Jones. Perhaps, the most popular "kid" on the block.He was our next-door neighbor. An excellent "fielder" when we played baseball, heck of a fast runner, not much of a hitter. But, he was a lot more than that. For, you see, Duke, was a dog. A Doberman Pinscher, a former guarddog at military installations during the war, and rehabilitated before re-entering civilian life. And, he loved children.

Duke knew everyone on the block, knew the postman, the milk deliveryman (yes,there was a time when dairies had milk delivered to your home, but that can be another story), knew which house we lived at, the vehicles our parents drove, he was our protector. If a stranger, such as a door to door salesman, entered his territory, he froze, staring, watching, positioning himself between us and the stranger. If that stranger stepped on to the walk leading to a front door, Duke would start moving, stealthily, instincts, training, taking control. If a strange vehicle entered,  he took notice, watched, intently. My mother and father often said, "We have the safest block in the city."
Our family had moved to another city in 1951, when we got a letter from Duke's "parents", telling us that Duke had passed away at age 16. Looking at that photo in my hand, Duke hasn't gone anywhere.

copyright: richard riddle: 11/02/15

Tears fell....
They say you sang Amazing Grace as you found eternity.
Goodbye.
Eyes open wide.
Rehabilitated sinners.
Sons and lovers.
Hoping you felt no pain.
Years of thinking time.
Repented at leisure.
Did the crime.
Did the time.
Staunchly viewed became abuse.
Free now.
Became legally supported ******.
Indonesian people, Indonesian President.
A plea to thee for clemency.
Unheard.
Too late.
Rest begrudgingly in peace.
(c) OLIVIA KENT MMCV
I disagree with drug smuggling, but,to keep these people incarcerated for so long before execution is barbaric.

My emotions are controlling,
But the saying I'm upholding,
"Life is less about consoling,
And more about prevention".
Giving a man a minor sentence,
For ****** with intention,
Is equivalent to a suspension,
Of a handicap veterans pension.
A complete chaotic corruption.

"Life is less about consoling,
And more about prevention",
For what good is encouraging,
A lady to have an abortion.
A victimless crime?
What about the soft spoken,
The fetus just waiting for its time.
Unable to speak like a mine,
The fetus awaits its inevitable end,
With nary support of a friend,
What good is consoling?

"Life is less about consoling,
And more about prevention",
What good is an insurance policy,
When a man shot down like an animal,
By a "rehabilitated" criminal.
What good is a life gone,
When prevention was an option.

Can you fault us for thinking
this blue above is vaulted,
strung in bolts, in reams
of ichor,
of material suggested and believed
instead of stubborn physics?

Stereoscopic vision is great
for seeing the ants walk close
and the rehabilitated bees
on local blooms

It can’t see, properly,
that the azure ceiling is a lie
of just refraction,
that’s always there
as long as our clouds allow

I used to be addicted
until I rehabilitated
now everything is low
compared to the time I spent high
but whatever brings you up
always crashes down hard
always leaves scars

the needle marks that were your kisses
sit on my skin as reminders
that you cannot save a person
who is drowning in themselves
and rock bottom is a lot closer than you know
when drugs are involved

Feeling like making something but you can't come up with anything at all.
Your brain is going haywire to find something to do,
Creativity has lost it's capabilities and you're rehabilitated,
Time goes so much slower and the clock is moving on it's own dime,
Feels like you could drown yourself in blank white walls and stale chips.

Boredom is the word you know and hate,
Thinking of simpler times,
When you could find fun in a rock by the creek.
Boredom is the word you know and hate.

Wishing that you had a gun to shoot up the toilet for a good time,
You've got cobwebs in your brain hole and you're not feeling up to ****,
Instead you'll just sit on the floor and melodramatically cry,

Boredom is the word you know and hate,
Thinking of simpler times,
When you could find fun in a rock by the creek.
Boredom is the word you know and hate.

I will be pumping gas into a make of car I call off-white when a passerby of guessable hostilities won’t know enough to ask if it’s my dog coming dazed for every one of its legs down the road at me like at a spot it senses I’ve disappeared near and I’ll have to agree with my mind it’s the **** dog for sure and it’s not far from where my boys are huddled in a borrowed blanket smelling smoke and I gather it won’t be long before the dog is nothing more than its best instinct so I let the lever and reach through the space where a passenger should be blowfishing on a window for my last gallon of milk to pour on the car like a rehabilitated pyro to give that dog something to see and something to lick.

Tears come from a tearing of love's fabric
Like blood on a scab they triage the damage.

Pain persists but the outflow will stop
The heart ache is a signal not to ignore.

You control the next steps -
how will you feel?

Healing is longer when you feel wronged:
They will not see your wounds nor care.

For they themselves are caught in a trap
that binds their soul in a ****** clamp.

Rinse your wounds in forgiveness,
and feel for their suffering.

You cannot move forward as they writhe
so long as you focus on your pain alone.

Reweave your damaged trust and forgive
and see the scars as proof you are healed.

I do not condone what they did
But condemning continues the hurt.

Goodbye blame and pain
hello rehabilitated future.

kindness is perfection
its a promise humans made
to keep the thoughtless hate from tainting
the water that we drank
and in this promise there is honor
taught from father to his daughter
taught from mother to her son
in hopes hell teach it to his daughter
i truly know of karma
and i pray to find forgiveness
you may rando call me a hack
but don't knock it till you've lived it ***** ****
ive slit my own wrists
and drank the blood
*** i was different and ****** up
im a pervert and i luv it
im a master at the ****
im bi ****** and ghetto
kinda ****** with my luck
i wripped my gfs ***** with my **** she had top get
stitches in her  ****
i ****** a dog and got arrested im the reason for the term
i cant believe that i was the fastest swimmer in dads *****
i smoke a lot im alcoholic
im high on coke inside my house right now getting this **** out
i was gang beat as a teenager and i never really made it out
i could have turned into a ******* with out a doubt
if things came differently about

i ****** phrenic diagnosed i take a needle to stay sane
i fantasize about my face some time implanted in the grave
i made myself so famous everybody knew my name
*** i said i was a killer and i sent him to the grave
slowly people set me off i did it to be known
i wanted any kinda love that i never got at home
i hear voices in my head of people likle you calling me a hack
heres a fat glance at my massive *** crack you ******* *****
you never loved me *** you judge me with out seeing past the flaws
again i state if your still starving you can ******* lick my *****
what else, one time i beat my sister *** she was hiding the remote
i pulled a knife on her another time *** i was suddenly provoked
saying all these things reveals to my self how bad i am
i guess i never said it openly the coward that i am

i draw demonic faces
ive drank blood just for the taste
my gfs monthly always tasty
i never let it go to waste

im addicted to ******* and i believe i need to feed
i even conconcted a race of imaginary people just like me
were called oumarro but im lonely *** i ******* made them up
cant you tell im ******* lonely and being inside me ******* *****
i hung out with tough guys thinking i was tough
but i was ***** when push came to shuv
never backing no one up
i even cried like a lil **** when someone stole my drugs
im ******* tell you my demons have you ******* had enough?
ive been to the nut house 11 times
they watch you as yuou shave in case the day
you take that razor blade and carve your name in ****** grey

i had a vinerial disease contracted from a ***
i ****** her in the hospital just after she ****** my bro
i started getting bumps around my ***** fro
but i don't really know
ive had unprotected *** so much never getting tested
theres a good percentage risk that ill die before im old

i could have saved my dad i shoulda knew it was a stroke instead i cleaned his puke and changed his clothes and went home to drink some more, he died slowly fading 3 days later in a brain dead
i remain emotionless about it *** i kinda ******* hate him

there you go you want more
could you handle all my scars
im the farthest thing from decent person you've ever seen thus far
im the reason why a demon sleeps no farther than fifty yards from where i park

after dark i dream of being ***** i luv the thought of choking
for a man to force my throat until im drowning in his dopamine
i pretend to see the future and i have some folks convinced
the only problem is im wrong 100 percent

i told facebook i had aids to keep girls away as if theyeven wanted me, i made a statement in that post so it looked like girls were constantly bothering me,

for a while i couldn't leave my hotel room
*** i thought the government were going to body me
a tactics unit meant to **** me cusi was turning the wolf into a modern dream.

a common theme in my problems see is that im a monstrous demonic wannabe,
but enough about the honest me
lets sit and watch you constantly
transmit your thoughts
to all around and see you slowly rot
inside your honesty
oh wait theres more
i ****** off in front of my brother when we were little kids out on vacation
i mistreated my first girlfriend till she took a serated blade and slit her legs up
than i found a way to thank her
we had *** and than i left and went and banged a total stranger
i use to date a rehabilitated escort
found her giving head to her cousin on the next floor
so i stole her bike andpedalled home like i was going to *** the next *****

have you heard enough? i guess im done. no wait i left out more

i cheated on my girlfriend twenty times while high on *******
id spend hundreds on mascara make up ******* than id go gay
while she was stuck at home raising my kids getting no thanks
i was ******* off a bald and ugly toddler size ******* ****
like no thang

i think that's it did i mention im ****** im bi ****** i like being *****, i thought i was a murderer, i ****** a dog and got arrested for it,
i dress like a girl,im an alcoholic drug addict, im a *****, and apparently im a ******* hack of a writer, well there you go this was absolute garbage for you hope you read some more **** face

Reese’s pieces scattered on the floor,
Different species like E.T but yet I’m deemed a predator.
Got the heart like a triceratops but looked at as a raptor to the cops.
Population drops; more like population control.
Darkened representation that be invading normative rules.
Starving depression that gets sliced open like a c-section.
All based on first impressions, all based on racist predispositions.
I say Watson this **** sure locks us in a precarious position?
No wonder the majority of minority’s are in prison!
Which then makes me wonder about authority and how it’s chosen?
For I don’t see the wisdom?
And in this rigged prism based elections,
I wonder why there hasn’t been any correction?
Maybe there is a conspiracy correlation,
That believes coloured folk are the ones that need correction.
Making coats with our lost kin,
Then rationalizing the destruction of seven generations.
Which then brews hatred that kills any validation.
Then to take matters worse they took our blood for their ink quill to write on the constitution.
Which is an intrusion on our human rights son!
Man whiteness is such an infection,
That gets injected into everything and everyone. **** what a great invention.
Investing into slavery, genocide, drugs, and prostitution.
Country build from the bones of primitives,
Man I haven’t seen such a betrayal since Samson feel victim to seduction!
I get it everyone got a hierarchy of needs like they Maslow!
And as the cash flows like riddles, snitches start packing so I got no time to fiddle.
For guns are more popular than instruments, and that was so instrumental in me being jailed by these corrupt governments!
**** the establishment!
For they think they subtle trying to fiddle with the actual documents.
Thinking only one fib will do,
Then the next thing ya know,
that one gets turned into two-thousand twenty two!
Telling us to respect the rules they broke,
Getting tangled up like fools yet we say there ain’t no strings on me!
Where’s Shakespeare because that’s quite an ironically sad tragedy!
**** these institutionalized structures where the rich slip through the cracks.
Where the one’s in poverty get sacked!
Where the blues spread from the use of a sax, where jazz shattered the glass!
Then rap took the mantle to disperse the facts, for being shackled impacts like income tax.
And I don’t know about you but I’m not ok with scraps, or getting the strap!
For slavery is the back bone of this country, yet whites try to subtract this dark history.
Time to pay up for I’m not ok with just a sorry!
Sorry if I lack classiness,
Sorry if you can’t handle my savageness!
But in a land of supposed progress?
It doesn’t seem like a success!
For this slow process feels like a tightrope or game of chess.
Feeling so frustrated and aggravated,
Wondering whether to do a peaceful or violent protest?
Who cares if we are emancipated,
When society is constipated!
Why do we have to make this so complicated?
Do we have to start resorting to stripping and going down on our knees like king David?
Do we continue being ok with being domesticated?
Can we be rehabilitated when the actions of our past was premeditated?
Idk man all I know is that’s just the way I see it

My mind is a prison
No light only cinder block walls
No color black and white
Even when I close my eyes there is no escape

It is dull
And senseless
Nothing feels the same
I hate everything
Anything

I'm not rational
My moods swing from one to the next
If you upset me I may scream
But no one will hear

Because in this prison it is soundproof
Not one peep leaves
An echo plays through my head
Never to live
In the outside world and be rehabilitated

Into a healthy and happy individual
Because that's not the way
This works
There is no escaping
Not that easy anyway

I wish I knew...
Knew what to do next.
The only thing I want to do is cry.
Stuck in the deepest wet mud like a serpent shedding its own skin and only waiting to see what's next.
I'm lost, but my philosophy is, all explorers get lost, don't they?
With constant transformations and changes, I struggle to adapt to my own lifestyle.
It all happens so fast, in the blink of an eye, without slow motion effects.
Anticipated, deprecated, impatient.
Waiting in pain, like a poisonous snake bite eating you up inside.
Waiting for the venom to be ****** out.
Consuming to every part of my being, like being stuck in a prison is underestimated.
This is worse...
This is skin prickling and soul shackling like shapes are out of order and the world is inside out.

I felt happiness, once.
When I got out and got some help.
Loved, supported, understood, not judged, accepted.
I was there for two weeks.
The depressing thoughts kept hitting me; ****, I still need to go back home.
I HATE IT THERE
THE ANXIETY, NERVES, AND ANGER CAME IN.

I'm never happy when I'm here.
I'm stuck in a spiraling tower like a dark Rapunzel cut her hair and had no way down.
Optimistic, faith, positive, I still find a way to keep grounding, yet, I'm the hero of my own story.
The only way out is through me, I need to make the change and get out ASAP.
YET, external situations have me trapped, it's out of my control.
I have no choice but to wait, no matter how hard I try to make things happen, it's just not happening.
I am my own hero, I fight my own battles, and win them every time, but somehow I can't win this one.
It requires a sense of patience and stagnancy that I cannot handle or tolerate.

Short-term fixes are my only solutions but that's left me broke and caged in more.
Zero impulse control, I can't help it.
I want out, I need my financial freedom.
I can't do this anymore.
Contradicted, rehabilitated, bored, and lack of full freedom.

So, I murdered a sonnet,
closed him up in a bonnet and left
him to charge me of ****** in 14 lines.
Well it was the length of his words against mine!!!
I shot him with an illegal firearm that
I always used to clothe my arm before I
slaughtered pages,
his shadow was always clothed in suits,
yet his existence so meaningless,
a privileged vocabulary,
well he couldn't fit into the ghetto,
the expressions that reeked blood,
the metaphors that hid black dead slaves,
the rhymes that had discords because a lot
of voices spoke,
I could not imprison those stories in
those white lies,
sorry I mean 14 lines.
I designed his corpse in a body bag,
recited his obituary on poetry stages whilst
my black toes knocked the ground,
nervousness,
the lies enveloped within his lies,
he spoke of bedbugs, Romeos and Juliets,
thus and thus,
I stopped, for his truth was attributed with grotesque lies.

So, I tried to bleach my eyes,
just to try and see the color of his reality,
I tried to express his stories,
but he kept calling my people Othello’s cousins,
he categorized them as kaffirs,
he spoke of thanksgiving, but my lips
shaded with melanin bit themselves because I kept wondering
what my black folks would thank anyone for,
they have been taught to
hang from strong lines that hug their throats,
painted on headlines with RIP hashtags,
so, if a Poet like me would spice up their obituaries with
punchlines maybe they would use
those lines to charm St Peters at Heaven's gates.
I feel like our ancestors have sold us to
death on the other side.
I have grown tired of plucking dreams from
buried graves at feared cemeteries,
speaking to tombstones that are support structures to
dry roses, wilted lilies,
blooming thorns,
so, would you blame me for murdering
a 14-line year old *******,
Shakespeare's child.
So, justify me in the Poetry court of
elite critiques.
By the way I plucked Mr. Sonnet's *******,
they were too pointy,
I think he was too ***** to be a Poem...

I cut his blonde hair,
and it’s now a mop for my bathroom mess,
I forgot to feed him his own ******,
maybe he would've understood what kind of
seeds he fed to these dead Poets societies.

So, I guess I'm already guilty
to some Jury poetry group,
so please sentence me to fourteen lines
behind poetry bars,
maybe I'll come out rehabilitated of my ghetto
lines, or sit me on electric chairs,
guess what, those have become our thrones,
no one notices our pride,
no one sees our poetry lines as power lines,
we cannot even feed our families with these
words,
we were born as street poets,
pirates of the pages,
the ones who hold pens beside pistols,
stop signs and zebra lines don't
really stop us from reaching the
Shangri-Las and Nirvanas of street word.

So, I killed a Sonnet and
buried him in my head's bonnet,
no guilt though,
but he's always behind every thought I embrace,
behind my head!!!
#RIP...... hope they write about you
wherever you are...
Ciao!!!

every friday i get a chance to plug into
a gramaphone, ditch the headphones
blasting into my ears
           at high volume...
  pulverising me to a finite submission
in an infinite space...
crack open a bottle of henry westons'
like some archimedes revisionist
with a cigarette lighter...
    the footie in playing on mute in
the background,
  and i put on a "cliché" vinyl...
     well... it's only "cliché" if you haven't
found something deeper in it,
or maybe: it's actually this **** good
that you need to imagine it
as an onion,
                       you peeled so many
layers off the record already,
         you even encountered scratches
on your 80s disco glitz compact...
   it's still only the "first commandment"
the first pillar of modern music,
miles davis' kind of blue...
             hey, hey!
i wasn't born in the 30s to "figure-out"
this 1959 release...
               what i have figured out, though,
well, jazz just sounds pristine on
vinyl...
   the whole experience,
the physicality, the intimacy with the music...
it's not some hidden c.d.,
      it's not some quickie-bypass
of an mp3 file...
    it's there, rotating,
      much more than a t.v. does in imitating
the promethean fireplace...
well **** me: zeus oopsie dropped
a thunderbolt
        to earth and that became
the new point of congregation: t.v.,
don't get me wrong,
             the current climate of crafting
meaningful dramas
outside the english soap opera marathon...
it's nice...
            but putting on a vinyl,
and allowing music to fill the room,
while you're drinking a 8.2% bottle
of cider, not smoking...
          that's like glancing at Jupiter
really close to it...
              the experience of music
without the headphones: that's truly
something else,
   and by now i can attest:
  jazz on vinyl is what vinyl was meant
to be, sure, it's a simpler technology...
but this carousel "ride"...
  admiring the subtle grooves
and indentations of some obscure
microscopic tendency to follow
the indentations of a canyon...
   round and round and round it goes...
but then comes the appreciation
of jazz...
       i give it "you" were exposed
to classical music as a child,
    i know i was...
              apparently it's called the i.q.
booster "food"...
            well... i sort of had to move away
from the rigid concessions of
classical music...
        the very aspect of a strict
methodological form of its expression,
it dies after a while,
for a very long while...
                 jazz has to naturally replace
it...
             to start off with classical,
let it devolve,
   and then to appreciate all this wonderful
modern bonanza of genres...
   must be a "black privilege", "thing",
well without a few africans being
shipped off to the h'americas...
    no blues, no jazz...
                        a thorn in my backside
listening to the the nexus vox
                    surrounding the rehabilitated
future generations of
the post-colonial present...
          ******: no german or russian
every dished out reperations for
   what my great-grandmother suffered...
why should you?!
                   oh yeah... we received
russian reperations: communism!
          why is jazz superior to classical music?
it, breaks, rules...
           it's akin to some sort
of japanese art of painting...
                     it's intuitive, spontaneous...
like this: a complete improv.,
          hence the naughty "n" word
in this text...
              there are times when i can
stand the *******,
   and there are times when...
                            i just... ha ha... can't...
like last night...
          having succumbed to one
of the two higher impulses...
        what are the two higher impulses?
crying...
                    and laughter...
           i can't remember the time i giggled
so much into the breaking dawn,
over the whole: well the Zulus didn't
take **** from Michael Cain's brigade...
          and if all these slavs (e e e e)
  where shipped off... who remained?
   the people who profitted from the trade,
shady agreement...
                   oh i'm pretty ******* sure
no man would go so easily,
        unless...
                     their tribal leaders,
persuaded them to go,
         sold them the h'american dream...
well... then Idi Amin Dada never happened,
nope, nope, neeeeeever happened...
only that Saudi Arabia gave him
asylum and a comfy "retirement" from
all the work surround skull pyramids...
black people could never be evil
to other black people,
                             like white people...
       if i have some Israeli shmuck
tell me that the polacks collaborated with
the nazis: perhaps... forced with a gun
pointing at their head when building all
the concentration camps:
build them - or die...
            nice, that's a, ha ha, nice ultimatum...
come on,
there was no collusion between
the slave traders and the african leaders
at the time?
          no one talks about that...
like that ****** joke about having a great
distate for rap music...
     'you actually think, it's that easy
to hunt down some of an n.b.a. posture?'
well either i'm dumb,
  the history's dumb...
              or we're living on another planet...
guns... ????
             slave trade...
  so... there was a tradeoff...
           the african chieftan got something
in return -
otherwise why would it be a trade
   and not a slave hunt?
                                     me?
i'm good thanks,
i just have to live a few germanic retards
who derived a false etymology for
a whole ethnic group of people,
namely the Slavs...
    hmm... last time i checked...
the word for slave in latin was
   servus... not slavus platypus origami
         servus...
      o.k. o.k. i'm dealing with
intellectual retards...
           i get over it...
               słowo (swovo) - meaning word,
no, really, in western slavic that's
what it means...
                      i really hope we can
find a commonality...
         one side attacked for their skin,
another for their understanding of
languages...
              i don't even know who to attack,
i've heard the retards etymological
"research" and "know-how"...
              extension - słowianin -
commonly associated with being a wordsmith...
maybe that's the reason for all
those great russian novelists,
   and so few... being...
    ahem... of germ-                     origin.  
                  double edged sword, isn't it?