I turned the corner to see Sunshine and Crystal
Breaking into my efficiency.
Crystal’s legs and *** were hanging out of the window.
Sunny was already in.
Both barely had anything on.
Both thought I was asleep and wanted me on their own;
So bad that they teamed up.
Time's touch of roughness and
A hot mess of radiance;
Treating my house as if it were my heart.

So I was reading a Paul Krugman review of
Capital in the 21st Century, that French guy’s
Thesis on economic inequality that seems to be
Getting so much play in intellectual circles these days.
The word rentier came up in Krugman’s text.
I realized by its context that I’d better consult
My Webster’s--an archaic, print-era device,
A volume I keep close to the couch,
The couch where I do most of my reading these days,
Particularly my NY Review of Books
And The New Yorker,
Obbligato for us holdouts,
We 21st Century pseudo-intellectuals.

Rentier: (from the Old French,
Noun rente, circa 1847),
A person who lives on income
From property or securities.
A status far cry from Renter:
A schmuck who pays the landlord
For the leaky roof above his head.
Rentier & Renter:
It’s words like these—
Essentially polar opposites—
That make understanding our world so difficult.
What chance does the uneducated person have?
What chance to grasp the importance of Piketty’s book,
Let alone be spurred on,
Driven to the barricades once more?
The great tragedy is this:
Piketty's book will reach the audience
Least likely to support the kind of
Progressive tax policy change,
Change that anyone left with
A mere skosh of 1960’s heart,
Would demand in terms of simple fairness.
Capital in the 21st Century
Will only be understood
By those with little or no inclination—
Be it intellectual of moral—
To deviate from the status quo.

sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence
and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.

reposting a poem from 3 1/2 years ago, when I knew how to write
  
<>
organizing the day,
while the baby room renter in the adjacent,,
makes dreamy rock n' roll noises,
siren calls to stay~lay in bed,
tho status of semi-alert,
ready to relieve Ernie and Bert,
who have the first shift covered

soon on guard duty,
scheming about dis n' dat,
you are sleeping, dreaming,
wide awake seeing,
multitasking with eyes closed simultaneously.

lesser of a poet, more a notate-er,
list keeper, note taker,
arguing with yourself inside the head,
actually feeling the thoughts
coursing, lurking, seeing both sides now,
parentally, washing the dishes
of the hours and years ahead.

while the woman-mother
makes her soprano dreaming noises,
you laugh at the orchestra of
*******, sighing somnolent noises,
a cadenza of love dancing in your
irresistible wide awake dreams.

paying the bills, lying in the dark,
you wonder-worry about the agenda
unknown that will overgrow you,
fast creeping up the grain of your skin,
ivy on stone skin walls.

lala lala
you borrow baby's lullaby,
yourself for to calming,
keeping time, silly rhyming,
organizing the days ahead
in you head, while,
recording the harmonies of
sweet sensory inputs.

the dark provides the cloak
where you alone
feel and hear the worry
and laugh lines knitting
into a single stitch of parenting.


1/20/2013

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 27, 2019)

What acceptable audit will you leave
from all your labors and confrontations,
from all the sound and fury
in those moribund board rooms?
The clocks are sluggish with boredom,
the carpets are worn and declining.
What successors will profit from you
past all the centuries and the arteries
evaporating in the light of day,
diminishing and belittled with time;
and all our productive bodies
lie buried, slacking in their tombs?
You are the renter in every office
and own not a penny but the doing.

I thought about leaving
My alarm sounding in the morning
Our faces drew lines across the floor
The night before
Making love was hazy
I pulled away in an instant
And replay all the ways
I've been fought with, tortured even
Watching the back of a man
Exit
Renter
And finally exit.

All of those men seemed to come back
Return again for more
As we laid next to one another
I told you what had been on my mind
Watching you process it in that deep dark way you do
Like you are light years away
Reaching for you
You reach back.

You're a beautiful and mysterious creature
Someone that could be around for it all
Maybe not in the same way someday
But our eyes flicker back to one another
Like we can't seem to give it up
Can't seem to give each other up.

You said you wrote two poems
Scolding you in the kitchen
Jam with bread
I hope you always feel connected to me
Even in the moments where we don't feel quite as heard
I hope the connection never dies.

I used to ask myself where have you been all this time
The times where I fluttered around this city
With a platinum blonde mane
Drank and did drugs a lot
Like I had nothing and everything to lose
Or I'll think about the me I was in Philadelphia
How sporty and cool I was right after graduation
I think maybe you would have liked her the most.

I fantasize about you caring for everyone but me
Even the older versions of myself seem better
And that's probably the point of my achilles heel.

I woke up and held you for what felt like a long time
Before I left for Los Angeles
I had words I couldn't quite seem to find
As you slumbered and turned away
My hands started to write you notes
Like I used to do
But I didn't
I wasn't sure it would matter
So I went and left
And thought about never coming back.

Kissing you in the morning
Looking into your eyes
Do you feel it too?
Like when we connect everything around us becomes
Hazy, blurry, insignificant?
And I know you well enough to know
None of that is coated in badness
To momentarily forget ourselves, for a time
No, if anything it's the most heightened feeling
Humanity looks for
I think and believe.

It reminds me of sitting in classrooms
Of delivering speeches
All of the grass stones I'd leap upon
As a child in the Alabama sunshine
I mean it when I say I'll bring you sometime
Someday
For fried catfish
And southern lovin.

I know what it means to come from a broken family too
Maybe within the brokenness
The deep emotive caverns of our inner silence or
Noise
Or the way our eyes are light and our eyebrows pale
Maybe it's within that commonality, we love.

Geology, goodness
You've got your own theories
We teach and we swing
Batter up
Batter up right into you
I explain in hisses that I just like to spar
I like to spar because so few can keep up
We both have our own shields.

I don't know what any of it means
I don't know that it matters
I'm not so much interested in the big picture of life anymore
Here in the moments
Where your touch makes me tremble
Or I make you laugh for a reason I don't understand
Or we reminisce on how we danced
Saying goodbye all the way to the door of my front porch
You wrote me before because something was on the line.

When you go home and find yourself resting
Fingers etching, find the comfort of knowing
That even a syllable from you
Would make me smile.

I've grown tired of labels in life
Are you White
Are you Black
Are you Asian
Are you Green

There are so many labels in life
Are you Muslim
Are you Jewish
Are you Catholic
Are you Agnostic

They continue to put labels in life
Are you a homeowner
Are you a renter
Are you in an apartment
Are you in a house

They're driving me insane labels in life
Are you Democrat
Are you Republican
Are you Green
Are you Independent

What does it mean in the big scheme of things????????????????

Nothing at all as the only label that matters is

HUMAN

the dress is red
or black or off
and the eyes are
blue or green or brown

the hair is auburn
or blonde
some mix between
and the face is
tired or bored
or apathetic

the liquor is cheap
and strong and
does the job
and the love is
stale or bitter
or gone

the motel reeks
of something rotten
and her name is Jen
or Ashley or
anything
anything else

the ***
is old or used
or quick
but always
no good
and the bed squeaks
and the walls are thin
so the renter next door
feels every pulse

the goodbye
is laughable or sad
or about time
and the girl is
too old or too young
too beat up
but she always,
always comes
again

new dress new
*** new face
new love
but she always, always
comes again

I don’t know how to just be your friend
Trust me, that’s literally all that I want to be
Because I can’t be stuck in this back and fourth continuous stream forever

When we reconnected, I felt something inside of me that I hadn’t felt since the day we met
And that’s sappy and stupid, but I don’t care
How dare I let myself get close to you again
And we’re not even close
We’re nowhere as close as we used to be, but in a way we’re closer
How dare you renter my life and think that it’s fair to just pick up where we left off, but actually not
Because you know the impact you have on me

Did you know that the last time I cried up until recently was February of 2016?
But then recently, when I got scared of what was going to become of this newfound friendship,
I cried again — every night for a few nights
And when I think of you leaving again like you left the first time it honestly breaks my heart

Did you know that I wrote a letter to you a few weeks ago when we hung out for the first time
Because it didn’t feel like the first time, it just felt like a continuation of all the other times
Except this time was better
I wrote a letter that I had planned to give to you after a while of reconnecting
But now I just really don’t know

You said me “I think it would work better if we had dated now, rather than two years ago”
How the hell do you think you can just say something like that and it be okay
How do you think that you can have late night conversations with me
And send pictures back and forth
And, oh god, the worst, SHARE MUSIC WITH ME
And keep up this so called “friendship”

But no, not as a regular thing
God forbid we have more than a 5 minute conversation in one day
And just to be clear, no, I don’t think that it’s “unreasonable” to be developing feelings

I wish you would just give it a chance again
I know you recently felt something, even if it was just a little, because you told me
And because I saw the real you for a split second
And yes, that messed with my head even more, in case you were wondering

Do you believe in soul-mates?
Because I do with my whole entire being
And the reason I can write this without it being weird
And the reason I’m putting up with the 5 minutes a day, is because there is something here and it has not gone away and it will not go away
And I’m literally sacrificing any feelings that could be developing for anyone else during this time
Because I am not giving up, and honestly, I never did give up
I was upset and I acted out, but that was only to hide that I still cared
And I really think, well, hope, that deep down you might still care as well

Own that space
  you walk within

Show your face
  the same again

The facts will change
  the weather turn

But only deep
  within you’ll learn

To own that space
  you walk within

All fear delinquent
  —the renter’s sin!

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2015)

My favorite thing about this
Viral sensation
Has to be the complete lack
Of continuity
Throughout countries, states
Cities.
Welcome to my little slice of
Hell
As I am fortunate enough
To get to share my Uber with
Some random stranger at
Approximately 11:47 pm
Is a shady city
Crawling with shady people
Mind you
I am just a 20 year old female
Very protective of my body
But wait, there’s more
For just half the unreasonable price of a shared ride
I can get an express car pool in which
I get to walk for 5 whole minutes
To the Denny’s parking lot
In the dead of night
Yay me.
The ride to my house, a normal
20 minute drive
Turns to 37 as we take a random exit
To pick up a random stranger
Who does not show up
But that’s fine
As it is
We renter the same highway 10 minutes later
In a futile attempt
To get me
Home before
12:30 am
That did not happen
Did you know that 24 hour Subways exist?
Me neither

A roach came to work with me
in my shoe.

It's a true story.

I shook him out of my laces

And he joined in with a new group
of bugs on the ground.

He can get renter's insurance for
$10 a month.

I'm back, eating lunch in the car
by the path.

And cake.

That's a start.

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Tonight I'll wait to see the moon's face
Hovering above that cypress tree;
Then I'll drift off to my favorite place .....
The other side of reality

Into that land where passion runs free,
And wild fantasies lurk everywhere;
My body goes limp .... Love carries me
Like a hungry lion to its lair

I'm held captive, unable to flee,
But not one complaint do I proclaim;
Love fans the embers of fantasy,
And suddenly my heart is aflame

Soon the flames are enkindling two hearts,
An embrace and a kiss enchant me;
At last Cupid's free to throw his darts,
(A fantasy day cannot grant me!)

Phantom love flourishes in the dark
Where truth cannot invade its domain;
My hunger for love has lit the spark --
Now my spirit seeks this astral plane

Where do I go when I fall asleep?
Surely, the Edge of Eternity!
And so among the shadows I creep,
Where Love dispels its uncertainty

My worldly possessions are meager,
In this life I'm but a poor renter;
Is it shocking that I'm so eager
Through this blest passageway to enter!

If Love cannot find me in the light,
Then let my eyes permanently close;
Loneliness is banished from my sight
While my eyes are shut in sweet repose

So let me dwell where day's dormant dreams
Can awaken with temerity,
And woes are drowned in Love's sparkling streams ....
The other side of reality

I love this house,
the yellow stucco,
    my thinking tree, the one who's tallest branch helped me escape from the things below.
I love my room,
  it has absorbed everything about me into it's walls,
  they made me feel safe, and helped me escape

Sometimes I hate the owners who have shaped and molded me into the person I am now
They are the landowners and I am the renter
Coming and going without a trace and never offering nor receiving a likeness of an embrace

Alt du giver mig er på udlån
og du tager grådigt det hele tilbage når jeg går igen
med renter
Jeg er dit vinglas du fylder op for at tømme;
jeg tror også jeg får dig til at have det bedre med dig selv
Så nådesløs i din udførelse
og pludselig i sofaen til en flad fest
væk på medicin for en sygdom du ikke har
Patetisk og pinlig, sårbar
Afventer din næste symfoni af tør hosten så vi kan holde i hånden,
en undskyldning for at hvile min hånd på dit ben
Jeg ruller ofte øjne af dig og sukker dybt når du snakker men jeg skal nok passe på dig
Kysser dine øjenlåg så du drømmer om mig

Wage-slave, renter, debt-ower doer

of nothing now, but consumption
- I consume power
- I use power another might
- I listen to the news, I seldom read

I tried, I tried, said the tennis worker,
whose name caught my ear-
Stefanos Tsitsipas, sounds
like Sisyphus, my happy
reminder.

We push our way
to new places, or we may
pay our pointy gnosis snif ifery
attention to sign-if-icant curiosis
need, to know way to go. At tend to,
that, we all need that
one thing,
one needful thing, one thing
we do,
that none other may do, we
see one thing-   this is me, my bit of us,
we bubble with joy when doing this,
doing this, and that,
another doing that,
and, indeed, we do as we
see one thing…
form
a point to life, poetry, the mythic force.
Eustacy, joy's veritable power,

swells with a feeling now called pride.
Joy is not the pride that comes
before the fall.
Joy, heartfelt,
next-worldly joy, you know,
Joy bell bubbling soul joy,
sensational, subtle, so soft sometimes,

whispers wish wish wish
sweep away the first formed fear, now,

know the need to know
is not a treasure to be horded
omagod.. jagonnasayit jesu

save us, all the treasures, cried to the priest,
the host, cried out to Na'amah,
some tales tell,
is it true?

--maybe, but, it's a retell of a retold tale,
--In this story, Na'amah is Noah's wife,
-- she who bhor alone the knacks of Cain

--- live lyve liv e set free for future use
--- gibberish, you wish, but future use

telley-osis-echo-ist ping ping ping

scrub jay emphasizes, earth time, listen

there are maybes that never are,
scrub jay saying, here am I, there are you,
this is what we do.

-- then a breeze of if-I-knew asked me for a lift.

when another (anointed as lady lucky)
   resident renter bequeathed her bed
prior to that good samaritan deed thyself and spouse
   slept on the floor like dogs dead
tired from another day acclimatizing ourselves,

   especially when tummies got well fed
and grudging adjustment lying
   supine upon the carpet

   did upon arising found aches and pains from head
to toes, yet financial shortcomings disallowed this Jed
eye wannabe to defer attending domestic chores,
   cuz ma whole body felt like a Led
Zeppelin, and matter of fact oft times,

   thy body electric, though lacked
   no evidence of disease NED
for short, I near felt a need to relearn basic motor skills,
   gingerly, and eagerly reached for performance
   enhancing drug i.e. PED

which coded identification exemplified the a rich color of red
this (and other) prescription medication
   (about a half dozen total found me to sleep akin to a Ted
dee bear, many instances of snoring  
   thine wife claimed emanated –
   probably no more than when we wed

if memory serves me correctly
   twenty plus years a husband aye attest
and find peace of body, mind and spirit most exuberant and best
cherished, when hen pecking wife (yup, this husband

   got pecking, pock, puck size marks to vouchsafe
   his sworn statement)
   some visible on my slightly flabby and hairless chest
and if traced with a ball point pen, the shape
   loosely resembles mount Everest

with evidence of what appears to be erosion,
   but actually evidence of wifely cannibalism –
   viz zit on par as with an unwanted guest
which at first found this pop (sic) hull averse
   to share the same firm mattress lest
she arise like a flesh eating zombie during
   wee ***** weber hours of the morning and taking nest
ling to another level, whereby teeth and scratch marks
   sure testament asper a pest

stiff ferrous mate, this husband would sooner bid adieu,
   letting fate guide  terrestrial quest
that might incorporate undergoing the
   electric kool aid acid test

perhaps buffeting this corporeal essence north west
or maybe the unforeseen sojourn would spirit thyself
   to a distant alien nation
one where each day of soundness of mental, physical
   and spiritual growth will be reason enough
   to celebrate with élan and zest.

Now tis one upside to this stroke when with restfulness
   awake after nocturnally conjuring sheep and lil bo beep
yet, no ambition exists to get down and out
   from this posh plush place to sleep
even wild horses cant drag me away, lest hie weep.

After revoking themselves from the transposed swords that slightly decreased in size, they uncrossed them to size it to the historical size that actually conserved them. They were the existing Xiphos that began to be delineated over sixty centimeters, which figured from what separated them before turning through the nearby heights of the Thuellai. After separating both when detaching themselves from the ribs of the Xiphos, they thus penetrated the light of the Empyrean, cutting the bastions of the dreamlike attire that had them articulated, nailing each of the Xiphos in the calcaneus as Vernarth executed before entering in the fight of the site of Gaugamela with the Falangists. In this way, they both took the Xiphos and synchronously pierced the crossed swords in each calcaneal bone of each foot, but across so as not to incite the Gods of Olympus, to hold the Angels and the God of the Seventh Heaven. They were left with the iron-bronze on their feet with a short encysted difference, and with the spears that the hoplites mainly before adopted with Vernarth in the charge of the Phalanx that was towards the shadow of a famous change of climate control that was splendid of the dying Kassotide, making these swords more invulnerable and deleterious.

Seventh Necropolis of Messolonghi
Parapsychological  Ellipsis

Vernarth came as if they had just come out of the Kassotide escarpment, resembling the imitations of repetitive interference on the assessment of re-invading Xerxes in what personifies him. Alexander the Great had already expedition this sea of the Hellespont and this time he would do it together with his egregious Commander Vernarth. What they had to reach together were the dominated geographical limits and their experiences, even what the conquest of Heles meant due to his resurrection from mythology or submitology, perhaps inquiring this as if it had not existed, or if it had been more preponderant when leaving his image as a hagiography that received a concussion and that pain never lets him overcome being on guard towards the front of the wind that hurts the autobiographies, of whom if he knows how to read the degree of the works with his maximum oratory, metaphorizing and adjusting in revolting voices alembicated of Messolonghi Seventh Cemetery.

The vapors of evil followed the converted spaces of other bodies that regained life, here the ears were clipped with songs from Hades, which from Messolonghi came to constitute before the fight with the revived war spirits of Dario III. Before reaching Skalá they felt impassive nascent airs that were emanated from the underworld, from where the tribulation would constitute unhappy chambers that revealed the bodies of the Achaemenids who woke up bilocadly in Patmos, they were transhumed from the aldehyde vapors that made them breathe themselves and supposedly insightful. The visions of this cemetery were made vacant to receive the casts that would fall after the fight on the heights of Skalá, where the weak and daring would be condemned before the natural graves that would reconvert them into precious ornaments of the Kassotide Trench from Delphi, to revive them in the stench that is greater than that of the corruptible human being.
The Seventh Cemetery would be the genesis of the global warming concept of the modern world grafted onto the atmospheric leitmotif of the Kassotides. The Anunnaki will rebuild the bones of those who no longer had them, and of the shattered bodies that were advancing in those who would occupy the void of the Messolonghi necropolis with dust from rubble from other bones covered with Cinnabar decanted with the Antiphon, and with the airs of trial where all the prescriptions lyricized a general funeral apostille that authorized an eternal dimension, which swirled through the dry nails of some who did not overcome the fear of existing, knowing that they would risk a thousand years without the universe that made them the son of a father from Andromeda, where enemies and friends would decree the global changes that would originate from the first-century b. C., the first consigne of the meetings that would alert the efficacy of containing a ****** and constant abyss of supernatural power, further away than that of a God who leaves behind the atonements that sustained him in the immediate ideology from the Seventh Heaven to the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi that tried to intercede between syntagmas that came from the shady fifth of the Helleniká Necropolis. The weaknesses that actually had to be imposed were increasing, and everything that could be solved becomes a disturbing renter of Drestnia, who would intervene with the enlightened when coming from Kalidona. Many stayed in the circles of abstention derived from the first Messolonghi Cemetery, from where Drestnia was alienated to get rid of attachments to mortuary remains, which every hundred centuries were physically and psychically absent from all the astral storms of Andromeda.

The climatic changes began to take shape in the whole world from the paralysis of the office of the Oracles of Delphi in 391 b.C. Since the moat of the Kassotides began to vary its alchemical tributary, after centuries in the bars of the bastions of the feminine brotherhood of Pythias and Sybilla's, everything was detached towards the physics of the globe with incessant rectangular impulses that emanated cylindrical emanations that radiated from Messolonghi, cleaning itself of the implanted grafts that were intended to replace the ex-karst nature of the Dodecanese, in the aerodynamics from which the impatient eyes look. The seventh necropolis was dissipating from three hundred cylindrical hectares, which would finally bequeath to the Archon who would define waiting for the de-demonization of the colossal shadows, after the few minutes of existence that were subtracted.

Bet your life,
let it roll,
make up minds, enough to see
around mountains and across canyons,
to the future.

Right now, this now, they say
today, while it is called today,

let this mind be in you, when you
realize your truths alignments
with the fabled truth, known
to make free men,
with no fear
of death.

But the duty is daily,
wake to drift away, daily…
when you mature,
and reach your golden years,
regretless regarding wasted years,
redeemed
in flash of recognition, times change,
basic mankind mind, in  mortal form,
is good as any basic living creature's,
the empty slate
comes preloaded with how to breathe
and later auto responders add reason
with emotions, good reasons needs,
and parenting, when equipped,
is not the most important
to the civilizating decadence, which
is importing reasons,
make believe,
until lief itself is defined as doing
by
some oft referred to higher power
reader readiness,
achievement
tested annually as were we, by
now
some authority has authorized your
training in all requisite social skills,
listen, good citizen,
allow obediance as sacrifice,
by laws that allow religions
to flat out lie
about knowledge and how God,
in the Holy Bible, out
lawed it, knowledge,
full spec, pure through good
for nothin', once you know, well
you must go to hell, or learn obediance
-you just do, yep, fool's names,
and fool's faces
oft appear in public places.

Any fully Disneyified child wishes to be rich.
The moral of the whole idea, live and learn.
Property laws protect owner's rights,
renter's rights are same as always.

For all the knowledge released in my time,
non
T
most seems better never to have
held true through osmosis, pressed, ground in,
heel grinding, teeth gritting, holy I said so, by God.

'Best believe there is a Manichean Evil afoot,
a jealous God, an avenger who hates unbelievers,
and hates the child unsaved by ritual adherence

of responsible adults to the things that make
Donald Trump's version of the Master Nation

Great as it was when we went to war against
the heathen ****** alien nations,
using capitalism's enrichment paradigm,

a rising tide lifts all ships. Yep.
And drowns all ports in the resulting surgepull

Greenest summer in Greenland history, wait and see.

I paid the rent for an 18 year old living with us

And oh my the rending was great

But there has been no rendering of the account

Because my mom couldn't comprehend that I had been rent

In two.

Years passed until one day as I was driving home from an account

I imagined my own son, at 18, splitting a four year old asunder

Who deserves my love?  The renter or the rent?

That moment I marked his account:  "PAID IN FULL"

and only then I could render an account and finally comprehend

The story's end.

In between notebooks
writing on the back of bank statement envelopes
My money would be in wise temperance
if I didn't haunt auctions for cursed instruments
I got a bargain baglama in route from Greece
it's just the chase
the replacement of writing songs and hard work
I could at least join the fox hunts
but don't forget coming from those that are forced to hunt
Sometimes envious of that pressure again
but don't resent cause it's just weakness
What I can't force myself to emulate
the neo-Malthusianism of my anointed material condition
_________________­

I'm back at it
running out of space
Might have to switch to that student loan
refinancing scheme from Chase
I won't even open it cause
I'm just waiting for society to value
education as a better use of time than
bailing out bankers gambling on the
backs of the poor and middle class that take all the risk
You swindle their paycheck and taxes too
Worshiping at the alter of the greenback printer
Sell your grandma and your grandchildren's future
__________________

I think I ran out of unimportant mail to write upon
I need to do my taxes so I can stop stressing
about hoarding unopened letters
I'm afraid I'll find some catastrophe like a disease
or a stolen identity
There's too much to fear in the 21st century
Yes, how weird
there's no aristocratic family lording over my plot of land
I'm not even a renter anymore except
to the bank and I get my food from multi-national global kings
Much less personal than the ****** that used to rule our lives
Now they're depersonalized into the corporate body
Escaping heaven's mandate
I suppose
Through layer and layer of fabric reality
the market, democracy, technology
is the belief that this whole world is fake
Ascribing deity to digital creators
Bad faith actors
Pretending it's other than profit you desire
"Profit's just a means"
but you need more means to make more means
What's the real product you're peddling?
Do you not have pride beyond the money making aspect?
Why do you highlight such shortsightedness?

Alt du giver mig er på udlån
og du tager grådigt det hele tilbage når jeg går igen
med renter
Jeg er dit vinglas du fylder op for at tømme;
jeg tror også jeg får dig til at have det bedre med dig selv
Så nådesløs i din udførelse
og pludselig i sofaen til en flad fest
væk på medicin for en sygdom du ikke har
Patetisk og pinlig, sårbar
Afventer din næste symfoni af tør hosten så vi kan holde i hånden,
en undskyldning for at hvile min hånd på dit ben
Jeg ruller ofte øjne af dig og sukker dybt når du snakker men jeg skal nok passe på dig
Kysser dine øjenlåg så du drømmer om mig

A Poet tell the best stories,
It’s a daily struggle for me, when I am on
Schedule, to show up there….at 3035
I usually take one foot slowly off the bed
I have to transform my body into someone else

Her name is Waverly, the most frequent alters,
a pretender, but not like the mouthy poet (A.L)
Seven hours of lies, trying to make ends meet
Twenty eight years of deceits, show in the receipts
Of hard, hard labor, and the back breaking toil of the day

The pointy nose, hold on to fake clipboard
Should I hate them, the system or me?
They is so many of us low renter in that place
But in the days of the corvid corona 19
These, days there are So many of them
Uprising, coming and leaving, the drilling
Should I hate them, the system or me?

The ones who tell the best story
Is the most observant one, to the craft?
A river is a body of water
With lot of stories to tell
Sadness and happiness,

My experiences there comes with pain,
Shame and mostly the sadness of
Staying at one place so lengthy!!
My restless spirit is now catching on to me
Is it too late for me, for us?
Me or my alters or just I
Oh, how I remembered them so well

Within each new poet there is a new idea
Each new idea brings a zest to future poems
The new poet fades too soon: so has the pointy nose
They never, stays, but memories of them, stain like glass
Taking the memories of their appearances
like shadows over the sun:

Did I really had years of experience
or years of daily repeats.
then I must indeed say my confidence has suffered..