1
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

                              2
The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

                          3
To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

                    4
The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

                        5
Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

                          6
Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

                 7
The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

                  8
Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…

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Poet, can I reliably conclude that things are good, since you have stopped (estoppel) writing poetry?

~for her, whose muse has fled, but not to Canada, one more last time!~

<>

a writers block of a two-step dancing duration,
we stumble on her green light status,
she’s alive, she’s up in Canada, so
do the obligatory checkin in, checking out

and that It occurs my next question is
a superlative poem title challenge for
the lady with the eyebrow extensions,
and other ways she found to make me laugh

so for her, for me, and perhaps for you,
I commission myself with a task, knowing
not where this will demise eventually

can I reliably conclude that things are good,
since you have stopped writing poetry?

which is a ****** self-mockery cause my dopamine
levels are ***** high when Mercury is yet in
retrograde, my serotonin is sinkhole sinking
in anticipation of Saturn’s Return returning,
the solstice just passed by, my full moon
phase is super glue stuck in the fourth
house of/if the rising sun

if things ain’t *****, why write?
is its therapeutic healing power aside,
maybe, baby, one, or two, can one, reliably
conclude that things are good, now that
you have stooped to estop
writing your poetry?

God I hope so otherwise I’ve embarrassed myself,
wisely forgot to dedicate this you-inspired-silliness
(by name, gender, bio markers, tribal incantation)
with a serious undertone, and
a writ of estoppel attached,
but you know already this
ones just for you,
and your many
toddler children
to whom you
attend to daily,
as they draw
strength from
sun and rain,
dark soil and
you.

natty

p.s. always use your turning signals

i should be handling a champagne flute by now,
i don't know, maybe it's the laughter
that's curbing me from doing so... oh the fizzling
of my shizzle: or whatever's the trend in Campton.

now i'm watching videos on the pros and cons
and i'm thinking: it's really out of my hands -
i can do what Pontius Pilate did, back when
everything political required things to be hygiene prone
- and when there were literate fishermen who
miraculously broke from physical toils
       and wrote anti-Pharisee booklets.
forget Socrates defiling the youth:
it's me and a few old men -
will i become martyred because of it,
am i deluded with an invasion of
Shoreditch coolio across the depth and breadth
of London: who cares?!
       i like a good film, and this one is
always going to be good -
it only takes one word (well, two): the queen;
mainly the logic stuck true to the end
result: it would have been too good to be true...
take that logic and make it into a motto -
        wholeheartedly honestly,
      i have not an inch of my own wet *****
dipped into your ear: that's what
being independent means -
it also means that Copernicus ruined
   all things nautical, sunrise, sunset,
                  and thank **** the earth is
3D, now the problem, what shape is the universe?
   as it goes we're in a fudge swamp -
we aren't going anywhere, we think we are,
but people forgot to twin thought and doubt together,
   instead we have thinking and denial twinned,
which means: no matter how many facts are
spewed and later picked up as golden nuggets
we're not going anywhere.
       that's the beauty of a niche armchair,
      you get to bypass the comforts of crowd and airing concerns -
i'd never miss those emotional reactions
of people slyly: for the world!
    i love how they think that spying is masquerading
and not stating the obvious: which it usually is,
spying is stating that: the opposite has a tradition
built upon using sharpened knives:
                    me and my blunt knives:
i'm tearing into the meat like a vulcher -
what the hell can you do?
   sell the truth for 30 quid, buy it back for 20.
  that's a Homeric certainty -
    no, not the jokey Springfield variety:
the serious Grecian 2000 year old (if not more)
one - and i already asked:
what are you here for?
  me? i'm into writing a 2000 year old chapter
ranging from monkey, neanderthal and man -
     given the obvious disparities
and image issues and ****** favours considering
the pale anorexic Parisian modelling skeletors.
     you know what i found distinct in that story:
Slavs among the Germanic tribalism?
i concentrated on the eyes, rather than admit
a less pronounced *occipital bone: yeah,
that's almost a tail in evolutionary sprechen.
       all thanks to a girl in school who noted
that "defect".
     i just looked at the eyes and found they were
more ****, and subsequently quasi-Mongolian
and less Germanic fish-eyed fixative of ogling
out as if about to be gouged out, or simply
popping out with a reference to helium.
    once again: a stick has two ends.
         it's the historiological (why the iota in that
i'll never know) demand:
the pendulum simply said: too good to be true -
and it was:
  i'll go one better, better than black and female?
how about native?
   now that would be a game-changer -
      anything less than a native american is
as about as revolutionary or a status quo disciple
or a hamburger for breakfast:
hence the reason why sarcasm and apathy mingle
        and look down at the doormat:
  oh right, only wiping my shoes does it? hell,
i'll wipe my shoes: come in and take a ****.
     thus the misrepresentation of writing on
pixel-paper (or what's called:
       drunk, but still in want of having a chance to
revise, because we're all sloppy when
      staging what the original transgression was);
   i never write with a want to say the things i write,
i just think the misrepresentation comes
when i treat the internet as a punching-bag to think
things through: a voyeuristic-reversal,
        as such a great medium to think things out:
the new ****.
   nonetheless, it's hard not to laugh within
the framework of defending the freedom to sprechen
and leave the defence of the freedom to denken
  within a socialism that never manufactures
    anything: apart from protest marches -
the F. Gumps amid broken vocal chords.
                  you get suspicious about deaf people
hearing more than those able...
                                 to hear a crackpot mantra
and subsequently diffuse it.
                     i wish we lived in world summarised
by the words: all eyes on Mongolia...
            but that's what happens when you popularise
**** and industrialise it:
    a. China and India beat you in terms of industrialising
             it (over a billion buggers by my count, each!)
and b. it's a litmus test of youngsters in the future
              suffering from depression -
now that's really obscure - i don't really have a b.
     point to make... pornographic industrialisation
got me...            come to think of it:
if america didn't industrialise *** i'd be in a transgender
clinic trying to figure out whether i had
    any ego in my phallus - completely bewildered
whether i should accept my ******* as if a dog
accepting its canine extension...
        given women these days
and the fact that i had to pay for the pleasure tells me
a lot...
            i either pay for it and play the genteel role
or i go mad from ****** frustration and ****:
at least we're talking a contract,
like that bubbly Puerto Rican woman in Amsterdam:
                                         **** it... Freud!
so we solved the whole "earth is not flat" debate,
           even though we still require the n.e.w.s.
to go about our daily business... tragic: we now have
to encapsulate the universe as having a shape -
  milestones have been conquered,
  from a 2D earth into a 3D earth
      we now have an infinitely 1D universe -
                because it couldn't have been: a box
within a box, within a box: without an actual box,
or as the people said: hence we having the sport of boxing /
dentistry.
            the Russians put a man and a dog into
space: fair enough...
      we go a step further and end all fairytales
  and turn our children into ambitious astronauts
breakdancing on the moon -
                              then comes Mars...
if we're going with that sort of escapist route then we're done:
   these traditional capitalistic endeavours for
mere competition have turned into a variation of
simple escapism - as i was taught in a catholic school -
imagine yourself in a world, then leaving it -
always imagining the earth from afar, from the moon, say;
all that really was said was the Taoist motto
about not engaging with the world on terms of
rounding up, rabble talking and ******* whatever needed
******* (pervert, i know the slang in the engagement
     of the cultish excesses of skin; rough ***?).
   but that's what it is: escapism -
                         as they said: a message from former
communist countries -
                           a sprouting vogue in western
           societies: with their beards, and chequered shirts,
social conforming hippies know as hipsters:
i don a beard because it's cold around here:
plus i look less of a fat person -
alcohol fat ain't cutie pie fat: it's called being bloated.
       only among an obese population would you
get anorexia - again: historiological logic (the pendulum,
or the Newtonian impression) -
         once Newton was told he was less than accurate
people decided everything was relative:
the Greeks abhorred moral relativism -
   it's not that god died - cause & effect died
in what's modern, and reliably crescendo.          
sure, humanity will go on in any other argumentative suite,
      it's the one thing humanity can't be, i.e.: undermined.
*** is (after all), an existential variant of ******* -
you'd be daft to think that it was or could / would be
  otherwise.

I've never been a sentimental person
but too soon did the
smell of salty air,
the sound of waves gaining
and receding
endlessly, reliably
become dear to me.
My memory betrays me
long enough to drag up the
sound of your laugh
(the unintentionally honest kind
that still raises goosebumps
on my skin)
along with the feeling of
Normandy sand beneath my toes.
No matter how much I want to let go,
I'll keep the jar of sand
on my dresser
and the image of you
with your arm around me,
our hair and our hearts wild,
in my mind forever.

~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and ******* simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"

~

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately

entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^  know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******* *******

your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without

"without any best position plan"

not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring

when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity

for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?

this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly

so here is an aligned confession fecundity

this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan

however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud *******,
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming

hallelujah, i'm aligned!

the man found albeit briefly
a  beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned

as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and *******

hallelujah, we are aligned!*

~

disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017

I am not reliably informed whether it were
hearsays or rumours, but it feels like an
apocalypse.
I neither relate to gauche nor belligerence
Connoisseur not cynical but I've been made an
adjective,described as a Curmudgeon.
See I have enemies, camouflage had to I, but
then it seems to cloud my judgement like an
eclipse.
These people are all schoolbags
because they said this behind my back.
Unbeknownst to me
I am a Curmudgeon.

My tailpipe spewing acid rain
I am M-i . . . on my way
To s-s-i-s-s and be ******
What I say . . . i-p-p-i
Memphis coming home

Crossing state line is heaven's door
I'm released now hit the floor
Old lead foot is on his way
You'd better believe it
I'm Memphis coming home

Coffee and whiskey my mainstay
Haul'n fast and reliably
No matter what my dispatcher say
Memphis coming home

Tupelo . . . past it's gates
New Albany approaching , now it's gone
Holly springs was a pleasure passing
I'm Memphis coming home

Cotton dust
Taste bud stuff
You can call them hills
Now if you must

Pine or oak , whatever's your choice
Tunica technically kicked your dust
Ole snake eyes soiled your luck
Broke , Memphis coming home

78 or 55
No matter I feel alive
Inside I'm outside myself
As I glide between the white lines . . .
I'm Memphis coming home

Blurry regrets of stumbling nights

And entangled intrigues
Lifelong sparks and crisp clean elation
A love affair for risk-seeking souls
And a haven for the lost
that seek something
To satiate the raw, raw emptiness
Of our hearts.

You're chaos, my own version of order
filthy but magnificent
Reliably unpredictable
Escape and anchor intertwined.

And Yet,
I choose you
My sanctuary,
my crucible--
&I; love your imperfections;

For the mess of what you are
Is exactly what I see in me
And so I am yours as you are mine
And in your embrace
I feel whole and alive.

What is so important beyond
the end of my own nose
that I must look and see?

this extrovert is not so green
I came, I saw, I looked,
I've seen,

the report will say
not much to see,
nothing of import'
to me.

Of course,
if I open the door
there'll be so much more
perhaps too much, I
dare not see

thankfully
there's always the
periphery

I stand between the side lines
which is hopefully
somewhere in the good times
and
the game goes on.

I'm very grateful for
The progress I've made
And that I can realize now
Just how much
I allowed people to use me
Without seeing them
Doing anything wrong
It was always an issue with me
I either wasn't enough or
I was everything
Used only one way

She acted like she loved me
But ever since high school
All I was to her
Was a good **** and
A solid support system
Reliably there when she needed me
A schedule she chose herself
Said I was the one who got away
I was probably just the safe choice
As she always came back
Trying to get in bed with me
Even when we both had boyfriends
And after rejecting her then
Radio silence

Or another one
She was never real with me
I don't think she knew herself
So she'd change per person
And she moved in with me
Fully knowing it was a bad idea
To her I was a nice guy
Which allowed her to use me
Manipulating my mentality
And trying to fit in everywhere
Using anything to get her way
Lying to everyone constantly
But if you're not being real
You're a piece in the wrong puzzle

And I really don't want to
Hold onto the past at all
So before you think I'm not over it
Please understand that
This is just reflection
Of my own mistakes too
In a way that helps me grow
Because I sure as hell
Will not let this happen again
I am worth so much more
Than what I can give to others
I am a person too
My feelings, thoughts, and choices
They're entirely my own
No one else can control them
Not anymore

"My home life isn't the best," I said.
"It doesn't have to be," she said.


BADLANDS BLEAT


Okay, I said it again. Getting out of bed was the worst part of the day. To begin, the marijuana haze from the night before never went away and left me sore. Sure it was likely enough to ease some of the pain, but in the morning my body stood and got to working slowly like it wasn't eager at all. Only the thought of fast food coffee got me pumped up, not even half-mast at that. If the **** I called erotica to save face couldn't bribe a competent rise out of me, the daily grind certainly couldn't get it done. Impetus again, every time in two week increments. Sure, I had money in the pockets of my sweat pants for the coffee and treats that I charged on a credit card years ago when I had the means -- but I was living with family. A prison sentence delivered by a cruel twist of fate that I caused myself in the first place. Nothing to blame but the errors in my own transactions. Much better than before, still not in charge of anything more than my mistakes. I didn't talk much. Who needed to know? I fulfilled the bare basic requirements of my peers so I could stay stealth. I had pills to eat. I ate them at home. I had meals to eat, and I ate them alone. Company was always safer to keep in a cigarette. Lucky me, when I ran into other smokers you would think they spoke for a need to keep their lips wet. There was a freedom in the chance to sit around a circle taking in information without the pressure to reciprocate. Four years running, I'd made choices in the Fall that brought all my work down. The scribbles and notes attached to cork board, reliably lost in a pile of clothes, paper and thumb tacks. Living with no other luggage made the journey more bearable during the dark days. It helped practice ignorance of others when I barely kept myself well.

I know I'm nothing, to you and to me
In fact if you did an X-ray you'd probably find a tombstone in my cold and dead chest cavity
I have tried resting but I can't do that reliably
Because my brain, while my most valuable ***** is sometimes, if not almost all the time 
My biggest liability
My inability to remember is very hard to forget
Forged in foggiest messes is maybe where my head is currently set
I'd go to my own world but I'd be driven mad by being alone
I don't know what to do and what to look for in my own zone...

The camp fire burned brightly in the cool air
Flames leaping to touch the sky
Our eyes transfixed as we sit entwined
Watching the little sprites dancing around

The yellow glow of phosphorescence
Bathes our faces and gives a strange
But healthy brightness, eyes sparkling
Lips drawn back in a grin, watching

Many times the central flames danced in unison
Then on their own, looking to be the best
The tallest, the most active, the restful
Flicker in the night then streak  upwards

Competing with the stars yet such a new light
An old light, primeval and reliably warm
Protective, dissuasive to wildlife, they too
Enthralled by the crackle of the hot licking flames

Three feet away our toes curl, enjoying the heat
The comfort of the enveloping energy
Every element a paradox of danger  versus cosiness
Gripping our fingers, soaking up the radiated waves

Hands stretched out at arms length, spread fingers
Rubbing together and pushing back the hair in our faces
Cheeks rosy, clothes giving that just ironed smell
Evocative and basic, life-giving and wondrous

On days like these, I look to the west,
seeing the dusky mountains, reliably in formation,
and my mind drifts skyward like hawks possessed;
I start to daydream of the wild midwest.

I sit atop my stallion, whiskey on my saddle,
surrounded by solitude as I dash through the trees
while the sunlit wind plays with my hair as I straddle
through the untamed lands catching outlaw disease.

Whirlwinds brush the dirt off my brim of my hat,
riding through nameless territories void of borders,
happy, nay, blissful to explore the wide open space,
who could wake up while riding at this pace?

Setting my spurred boots upon the wooden chest
I stoke the fire and the cabin smells of leather,
my tired cowboy soul sleeps through the stormy weather,
ready to again race into the western sunset.

I REACH OUT TO THE GREAT UNKOWN
with the natural hesitance of a child
nursed on plastic american protestantism,
always prosperity gospel or pariah,
answers just hidden behind a preacher's palm;
in retrospect i wonder what questions those
republican suburbanites crippled in their hatred
came to submit at the foot of the cross.
saccharine and soulless every sunday,
the rot reliably festering under the church stage,
brimstone traded for the wasteland of undecaying concrete.
i was baptized by a stranger in stagnant water,
now swaddled in the arms of a man who is not my Father.
i'm always the cold one. bad circulation when i'm turning away.
that abattoir left a pulsating wound at the
center of my chest— starved weeping
sickly and red.
every sunday, the worst thing i could do was be honest.
i worship with my hands,
i falter for words;
i never got to know the Lord in my youth
because He never called me back.
i find fragments of Him in lovers' eyes—
fingertips glancing over flesh as if
forbidden fruit, sweet real and warmed by sunlight.
i think God was always this;
physicality, connection,
the simple intimacy of making someone else laugh.
the only time i ever felt devout
was when i was walking to get an arizona tea
at the gas station next to the church with my friends.
stumbling over asphalt still sincere in my vulnerability.

Your alarm is ringing.
Did you hear me?
It's ringing, no chiming, maybe beeping,
just get up and turn it off.

But it's warm in here.
But I'm kind of wrapped up and sweaty.
But I really didn't sleep that well.
But last night, when I fell asleep,
I thought tomorrow would take an eternity to arrive.

I thought 'this time, I'll close my eyes, and really get lost"
This time the swarm of warm blankets will swallow me, right down into the center of the Earth.
It's warm there too isn't it?
I don't want to wake up,
and be 'just me'.
I'm so plain and mediocre.
So tired of feeling sorry for myself and to weak to do much about it.
I thought last night, that maybe if I had a 'you',
I'd feel a little stronger and a little less scared.
I thought that just as the covers tried to swallow me,
I'd stick out an arm, and you'd keep me from being ****** in.
That maybe even if you were sleeping,
I could just put my hand on your shoulder,
or my pinky around yours, and you'd keep me there.

I think if I could just have a 'you',
a whoever 'you' are,
the morning wouldn't hurt so badly, and the night
wouldn't be an anticipation of morning,
and the day not a long and convoluted path to the night.

I though last night, this morning would feel different.
I thought for once I wouldn't get swallowed, and sweaty, and scared.

I hoped for something to hold onto, and as those hope reliably failed,
as those hopes always do,
I hoped this morning wouldn't come.

You're right, let's
see where this will lead
and in an hour I'll concede to
spending all my afternoons the
sun rising and setting with you
reliably

like after-hours swimming pools, we
lead the way and make our own rules
******* to the ordinary, bring on
hula hoops and sherry

I'll send my heart wrapped in a letter,
hope that it will get there over shimm'ring
sails and stormy weather, hope that it
will find its way to you

As i shape stanzas, Adam Lanzas **** the cameras, in glamorous stands up, against the manners of actors, in the matters of forgotten factors, in a world gone bananas, I still cant stand us, even when we are dead.

I have tried every side of the bed to no diligence unchecked, in a nervous wreck of annoyance coining in and destroying it, for a bonus, its bogus to know us, but i'm owning it yet, with no regrets and loose concepts to be swept to *****, and on my feet.

I'm obsolete, and my talk is cheaper than most, as i host my feats in a single page, post heathen faze incomplete, as it is only so lonely in the frozen face of flattery, where i may fill my battery, but nothing more, in boring affordability, storing dreams for safe keeping to a later day that may never be, but hey, what does it matter anyway, i will either be, or not be.

I may be just lapsing in luxury, rupturing the subtlety of my structuring around the scars of brain parts too far to reach.

Lets meet on middle grounds with silent screams and loose eyes, fiddling the sounds and singing for the criers, expiring behind less than inspiring doors.

I am just bored, praising the lords of a more recordable source, reliably on course, with a deplorable force, endorsing the chores of servitude, never meaning to be rude, as i enjoy my solitude, while in the employ of the gratitude for what i got, but im not...

That boy anymore, my wonder turned wandering and i will never be that baby again, nor alone, so let go, in knowing the flow can be trusted in showing us something more, said the slave to his *****, before a morbid torrent to show her core to the floor of a showroom, vacuumed into space, awakening to the fate, of monotonous finality, praying to randomly generated gods, for the fogs of war... or anthing more, than this.

I’d rather be wonderfully wicked
And frightfully fascinating
Than be piously perfect
And dreadfully dull

I could be reliably righteous
And boringly bland
But why? when I’m daringly devious
And curiously captivating

To be goodly godly
Or delightfully devilish
How about moaning monotony
To my sensuous ****?

Never curiously kind
Without poorly plain
Always sweetly sinister
And always attractive

To be good, one must
Want to be good

But why be good
When you can be bad?

It is cherry blossom season
the white dust is settling into
petals decorated with boot prints.

Spring brings nothing new.
The same old worn out truths,
my doubt in all of you

lingers as clear as distilled water
pure and bitter as Russian *****
no matter how much I love someone

trusting them is not an option.
This is not a crisis of faith,
it is Springtime again, as it always will be.

Reliably.
The seasons never change.
They will never disappoint

so triumphantly.
I dug the grave, my friends
just threw the dirt to cover me.

Life is so friggin' weird, I'll tell ya.
The older you get, the weirder it gets,
and it just keeps on getting weirderer.

Grossly weird.
Wrongly and disturbingly weird.
Upsettingly weird.

But then, now and again,
pleasantly weird.
Delightfully, excitingly weird.
Weirdly endearingly weird.

Then weirder still.
Off-puttingly weirder.
Over-sweetly weirdly weirder.
Understatedly, low-key weirder to the highest degree contradictory weird.

Maybe weird isn't so weird after all.
When it's the only constant in life,
then weirdness becomes the only reliably normal thing, oddly enough.

I never thought the human heart was a beautiful thing until my youngest son did.
It has always seemed clumsy, relatively simple,and a somewhat gross *****.
Muscle-ligament-electricity
I have always been bewitched by the brain and its nerves.
it's mystery, complexity and resilience.
He loves blood the way I love nerves,
he begs me to re read the heart and blood pages in his children anatomy books.
He knew all kinds of facts about blood and the heart at 2.
He never drew the traditional valentine days hearts he draws, to the best of his ability, anatomically correct hearts.
He loves it's rhythm ,
he loves it's simplicity,
and he finds it above all else, beautiful.
he loves it for its tangible nature,
the way it is reliably one way and one way only.

my grandfather was also
born in may, you know
a stubborn bull
might just be fed up.
from what i’ve seen
they have every right to be

tolerance, then suffering
his lymph nodes grew too fast
"i'll never smile again" i told my father in the car
i don’t remember saying it, only feeling
grief.
we stopped at the reliably empty house
and sat on her porch to purge it all

i was born in may
and my grandfather now resides in our garden
a ceramic bull who takes no ****

New,
without you,
once lost,
once blue,
I learned how to commit;
let me elaborate:

Words reliably true

Paradoxical in every sense,
because leaving is not facing
a problem, as problems
seem to be everlasting;
however, commitment works
in both ways.
Committing to solitude
is held with less regard
the same way
the kernels in a popcorn bag
are thrown away,
the same as the ends of a loaf,
and broth of a soup,
and sometimes it is
missing the sun for a day's time.

But it will be there again.
It will be found again.

I think on what is true and just and honourable
I think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
I consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and I praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

I think on what is true
I think of God’s voice, his true promise,
his true plumbline, directing the eye down
to the centre, a reliable reference,
an alignment to righteousness.
I see the weight, suspended
and I wait as it finds the true vertical axis
pointing to the centre of gravity
as if that was its true purpose all along
- not to gravitate us down, but to re-direct us
to a true line upon which we can centre ourselves.

I think on what is true.

I think on what is honourable, noble.
I think of honour lists and of inherited nobility,
I think of integrity, living up to the responsibility
of my privilege and authority
and of using it responsibly, with generosity,
recognising opportunities to live
nobly, dependably
ethically, reliably,
faithful to the One who entrusted me
with so much extraordinary bounty.

I think on what is honourable.

I think on what is just and right
I think about the courage to live fully in the light,
to stand up for what we know to be the right
to admit to ourselves when we don’t get it right
to give heart-felt apology, to find a way to re-unite,

to fight injustice alongside those who can’t
to go the extra mile when our heads say don’t.
Not doing what they’d do to you
if the tables were turned,
but doing what you’d have them do
if the circumstances were reversed

and when the right of it still isn’t clear
to wait and figure it out, take the longer route
rather than the obvious, shorter cut
and if, even then, you can’t be sure
err on the side of the generous cut
because we know that the Cross wasn’t fair
but it was right and it was just just.

I think on what is right.

I think on what is pure
I think about the sudden clarity of a cold mountain stream
bubbling up from its spring,
running through and digging down irrespective of obstacles
flowing over all rocky hurdles
with pure, unadulterated intent
to get at last to the sea
where its creator intended it to be.

I think on what is pure.

I think on what is lovely
I think of the surface-beauty that catches my eye
but then of the beauty that only shows itself in the depths
- in patience, in the willingness
to put ill-feeling to rest
and to embrace forgiveness
and thereby release a smile that meets
that generous high-beauty in full gratefulness.

I think on what is lovely.

I think on what is admirable, commendable
and of good reputation, and I think how
how God views me is more important
than the admiration offered by others.
I think that what is commendable
is in the eye of the beholder
and that my beholder sees the heart
and so I entrust my reputation to the One who sees better.

I think on what is admirable.

I think on what is excellent
and I think past Bill and Ted to something
of diamond quality,
of designed symmetry,
of clarity, of weight

or perhaps of a line in a poem or a song,
something that takes away my breath.
- But then I see the sun through trees,
shining on breakfasting friends
and on my laughter

and I think that this is truly God’s most excellent.

I think on what is praiseworthy
I think of the ovation given to a practiced orchestra
and pitch perfect soloists
and then I think
of a five-year-old niece
mastering her first recorder
and getting to that tricky last line of
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and I think, for our God,
this effort, this success is by far
most praiseworthy.

We think on what is true and just and honourable
we think on what is pure and lovely and admirable
we consider what is excellent and what is praiseworthy
and we praise our God who is unmistakably
the creator of all of these and more -  

and I think that perhaps we too
are a little lovely and that we too
are partially admirable
and I think perhaps we too
are not a little praiseworthy

and so when I think on these things,
I think on you,
on us,
and I praise our God all the more.

Think on these things.

I cannot say how many suicidal soliloquies or
diatribes of dialogue I have veraciously verbalized
towards the stark stare looking back at me
from my own reflection.
The cold calculating eyes piercing, penetrating
a completely cumbersome set of armor
deliberately designed, ironically, to protect
those forlorn, forgotten windows to the soul.
Windows, once reliably radiating with life and love,
only now to be desolate, dark.
Alone.
Abandoned.

Each day I start with a book
A yawn, a stretch, and I thump down the steps
Eager as each day before

A navy armchair and fluorescent desk lamp
Are the only friends of mine

Each day I start with a book
Switch on my lamp, find my page, and I’m lost in thickening daze
Just as each day before

I’m grateful for my friends; My armchair keeps my limbs at rest
As my lamp illuminates forgotten words

Each day I start with a book
But a week or so ago,
Something was not quite right
Perched on my chair, I switched on my lamp
But something was off

“Now, not a moment’s more thought, time is ticking away” I say
So I crack open my book, and find my page
Eager as each day before

Each day I start with a book
But just the other morning,
Perched on my chair, I switch on my lamp, and squint at the page
I never had to squint before

But I was so far lost in the plot
I didn’t give it another thought

Each day I start with a book
But on this day, I notice my dimming lamp
Her light, reliably fluorescent white
Now shone dull yellow-gold
But I was intent on finishing my book
Eager as each day before



That was the last day I started with a book
I perched on my chair, and for hours I sat, eyes lazily scrolling forgotten words
I read late into the night

And I was just getting to the good part, when
everything went dark.