I met him on the Amtrak line to Central Jersey. His name was Walker, and his surname Norris. I thought there was a certain charm to that. He was a Texas man, and he fell right into my image of what a Texas man should look like. Walker was tall, about 6’4”, with wide shoulders and blue eyes. He had semi-long hair, tied into a weak ponytail that hung down from the wide brim hat he wore on his head. As for the hat, you could tell it had seen better days, and the brim was starting to droop slightly from excessive wear. Walker had on a childish smile that he seemed to wear perpetually, as if he were entirely unmoved by the negative experiences of his own life. I have often thought back to this smile, and wondered if I would trade places with him, knowing that I could be so unaffected by my suffering. I always end up choosing despair, though, because I am a writer, and so despair to me is but a reservoir of creativity. Still, there is a certain romance to the way Walker braved the world’s slings and arrows, almost oblivious to the cruel intentions with which they were sent at him.
“I never think people are out to get me.” I remember him saying, in the thick, rich, southern drawl with which he spoke, “Some people just get confused sometimes. Ma’ momma always used to tell me, ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with trustin’ everyone, but soon as you don’t trust someone trustworthy, then you’ve got another problem on your hands.’”—He was full of little gems like that.
As it turns out, Walker had traveled all the way from his hometown in Texas, in pursuit of his runaway girlfriend, who in a fit of frenzy, had run off with his car…and his heart. The town that he lived in was a small rinky-**** miner’s village that had been abandoned for years and had recently begun to repopulate. It had no train station and no bus stop, and so when Walker’s girlfriend decided to leave with his car, he was left struggling for transportation. This did not phase Walker however, who set out to look for his runaway lover in the only place he thought she might go to—her mother’s house.
So Walker started walking, and with only a few prized possessions, he set out for the East Coast, where he knew his girlfriend’s family lived. On his back, Walker carried a canvas bag with a few clothes, some soap, water and his knife in it. In his pocket, he carried $300, or everything he had that Lisa (his girlfriend) hadn’t stolen. The first leg of Walker’s odyssey he described as “the easy part.” He set out on U.S. 87, the highway closest to his village, and started walking, looking for a ride. He walked about 40 or 50 miles south, without crossing a single car, and stopping only once to get some water. It was hot and dry, and the Texas sun beat down on Walker’s pale white skin, but he kept walking, without once complaining. After hours of trekking on U.S. 87, Walker reached the passage to Interstate 20, where he was picked up by a man in a rust-red pickup truck. The man was headed towards Dallas, and agreed o take Walker that far, an offer that Walker graciously accepted.
“We rode for **** near five and a half hours on the highway to Dallas,” Walker would later tell me. “We didn’t stop for food, or drink or nuthin’. At one point the driver had to stop for a pisscall, that is, to use the bathroom, or at least that’s why I reckon we stopped; he didn’t speak but maybe three words the whole ride. He just stopped at this roadside gas station, went in for a few minutes and then back into the car and back on the road we went again. Real funny character the driver was, big bearded fellow with a mean look on his brow, but I never would have made it to Dallas if not for him, so I guess he can’t have been all that mean, huh?”
Walker finally arrived in Dallas as the nighttime reached the peak of its darkness. The driver of the pickup truck dropped him off without a word, at a corner bus stop in the middle of the city. Walker had no place to stay, nobody to call, and worst of all, no idea where he was at all. He walked from the corner bus stop to a run-down inn on the side of the road, and got himself a room for the night for $5. The beds were hard and the sheets were *****, and the room itself had no bathroom, but it served its purpose and it kept Walker out of the streets for the night.
The next morning, Texas Walker Norris woke up to a growl. It was his stomach, and suddenly, Walker remembered that he hadn’t eaten in almost two days. He checked out of the inn he had slept in, and stepped into the streets of Dallas, wearing the same clothes as he wore the day before, and carrying the same canvas bag with the soap and the knife in it. After about an hour or so of walking around the city, Walker came up to a small ***** restaurant that served food within his price range. He ordered Chicken Fried Steak with a side of home fries, and devoured them in seconds flat. After that, Walker took a stroll around the city, so as to take in the sights before he left. Eventually, he found his way to the city bus station, where he boarded a Greyhound bus to Tallahassee. It took him 26 hours to get there, and at the end of everything he vowed to never take a bus like that again.
“See I’m from Texas, and in Texas, everything is real big and free and stuff. So I ain’t used to being cooped up in nothin’ for a stended period of time. I tell you, I came off that bus shaking, sweating, you name it. The poor woman sitting next to me thought I was gunna have a heart attack.” Walker laughed.
When Walker laughed, you understood why Texans are so proud of where they live. His was a low, rumbling bellow that built up into a thunderous, booming laugh, finally fizzling into the raspy chuckle of a man who had spent his whole life smoking, yet in perfect health. When Walker laughed, you felt something inside you shake and vibrate, both in fear and utter admiration of the giant Texan man in front of you. If men were measured by their laughs, Walker would certainly be hailed as king amongst men; but he wasn’t. No, he was just another man, a lowly man with a perpetual childish grin, despite the godliness of his bellowing laughter.
“When I finally got to Tallahassee I didn’t know what to do. I sure as hell didn’t have my wits about me, so I just stumbled all around the city like a chick without its head on. I swear, people must a thought I was a madman with the way I was walkin’, all wide-eyed and frazzled and stuff. One guy even tried to mug me, ‘till he saw I didn’t have no money on me. Well that and I got my knife out of my bag right on time.” Another laugh. “You know I knew one thing though, which was I needed to find a place to stay the night.”
So Walker found himself a little pub in Tallahassee, where he ordered one beer and a shot of tequila. To go with that, he got himself a burger, which he remembered as being one of the better burgers he’d ever had. Of course, this could have just been due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten a real meal in so long. At some point during this meal, Walker turned to the bartender, an Irish man with short red hair and muttonchops, and asked him if he knew where someone could find a place to spend the night in town.
“Well there are a few hotels in the downtown area but ah wouldn’t recommend stayin’ in them. That is unless ye got enough money to jus’ throw away like that, which ah know ye don’t because ah jus’ saw ye take yer money out to pay for the burger. That an’ the beer an’ shot. Anyway, ye could always stay in one of the cheap motels or inns in Tallahassee. That’ll only cost ye a few dollars for the night, but ye might end up with bug bites or worse. Frankly, I don’t see many an option for ye, less you wanna stay here for the night, which’ll only cost ye’, oh, about nine-dollars-whattaya-say?”
Walker was stunned by the quickness of the Irishman’s speech. He had never heard such a quick tongue in Texas, and everyone knew Texas was auction-ville. He didn’t know whether to trust the Irishman or not, but he didn’t have the energy or patience to do otherwise, and so Walker Norris paid nine dollars to spend the night in the back room of a Tallahassee pub.
As it turns out, the Irishman’s name was Jeremy O’Neill, and he had just come to America about a year and a half ago. He had left his hometown in Dublin, where he owned a bar very similar to the one he owned now, in search of a girl he had met that said she lived in Florida. As it turns out, Florida was a great deal larger than Jeremy had expected, and so he spent the better part of that first year working odd jobs and drinking his pay away. He had worked in over 25 different cities in Florida, and on well over 55 different jobs, before giving up his search and moving to Tallahassee. Jeremy wrote home to his brother, who had been manning his bar in Dublin the whole time Jeremy was away, and asked for some money to help start himself off. His brother sent him the money, and after working a while longer as a painter for a local construction company, he raised enough money to buy a small run down bar in central Tallahassee, the bar he now ran and operated. Unfortunately, the purchase had left him in terrible debt, and so Jeremy had set up a bed in the back room, where he often housed overly drunk customers for a price. This way, he could make back the money to pay for the rest of the bar.
Walker sympathized with the Irishman’s story. In Jeremy, he saw a bit of himself; the tired, broken traveler, in search of a runaway love. Jeremy’s story depressed Walker though, who was truly convinced his own would end differently. He knew, he felt, that he would find Lisa in the end.
Walker hardly slept that night, despite having paid nine dollars for a comfortable bed. Instead, he got drunk with Jeremy, as the two of them downed a bottle of whisky together, while sitting on the floor of the pub, talking. They talked about love, and life, and the existence of God. They discussed their childhoods and their respective journeys away from their homes. They laughed as they spoke of the women they loved and they cried as they listened to each other’s stories. By the time Walker had sobered up, it was already morning, and time for a brand new start. Jeremy gave Walker a free bottle of whiskey, which after serious protest, Walker put in his bag, next to his knife and the soap. In exchange, Walker tried to give Jeremy some money, but Jeremy stubbornly refused, like any Irishman would, instead telling Walker to go **** himself, and to send him a postcard when he got to New York. Walker thanked Jeremy for his hospitality, and left the bar, wishing deeply that he had slept, but not regretting a minute of the night.
Little time was spent in Tallahassee that day. As soon as Walker got out on the streets, he asked around to find out where the closest highway was. A kind old woman with a cane and bonnet told him where to go, and Walker made it out to the city limits in no time. He didn’t even stop to look around a single time.
Once at the city limits, Walker went into a small roadside gas station, where he had a microwavable burrito and a large 50-cent slushy for breakfast. He stocked up on chips and peanuts, knowing full well that this may have been his last meal that day, and set out once again, after filling up his water supply. Walker had no idea where to go from Tallahassee, but he knew that if he wanted to reach his girlfriend’s mother’s house, he had to go north. So Walker started walking north, on a road the gas station attendant called FL-61, or Thomasville Road. He walked for something like seven or eight miles, before a group of college kids driving a camper pulled up next to him. They were students at the University of Georgia and were heading back to Athens from a road trip they had taken to New Orleans. The students offered to take Walker that far, and Walker, knowing only that this took him north, agreed.
The students drove a large camper with a mini-bar built into it, which they had made themselves, and stacked with beer and water. They had been down in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras season, and were now returning, thought the party had hardly stopped for them. As they told Walker, they picked a new designated driver every day, and he was appointed the job of driving until he got bored, while all the others downed their beers in the back of the camper. Because their system relied on the driver’s patience, they had almost doubled the time they should have made on their trip, often stopping at roadside motels so that the driver could get his drink on too. These were their “pit-stops”, where they often made the decision to either eat or court some of the local girls drunkenly.
This leg of the trip Walker seemed to glaze over quickly. He didn’t talk much about the ride, the conversation, or the people, but from what I gathered, from his smile and the way his eyes wandered, I could tell it was a fun one. Basically, the college kids, of which I figure there were about five or six, got Walker drunk and drove him all the way to Athens, Georgia, where they took him to their campus and introduced him to all of their friends. The leader of the group, a tall, athletic boy with long brown hair and dimples, let him sleep in his dorm for the night, and set him up with a ride to the train station the next morning. There, Walker bought himself a ticket to Atlanta, and said his goodbyes. Apparently, the whole group of students followed him to the station, where they gave him some food and said goodbye to him. One student gave Walker his parent’s number, telling him to call them when he got to Atlanta, if he needed a place to sleep. Then, from one minute to the next, Walker was on the train and gone.
When Walker got to Atlanta, he did not call his friend’s family right away. Instead, he went to the first place he saw with food, which happened to be a small, rundown place that sold corndogs and coke for a dollar per item. Walker bought himself three corndogs and a coke, and strolled over to a nearby park, where, he sat down on a bench and ate. As Walker sat, dipping his corndogs into a paper plate covered in ketchup, an old woman took the seat directly next to him, and started writing in a paper notepad. He looked over at her, and tried to see what she was writing, but she covered up her pad and his efforts were wasted. Still, Walker kept trying, and eventually the woman got annoyed and mentioned it.
“Sir, I don’t mind if you are curious, but it is terribly, terribly rude to read over another person’s shoulder as they write.” The woman’s voice was rough and beautiful, changed by time, but bettered, like fine wine.
“I’m sorry ma’am, it’s just that I’ve been on the road for a while now, and I reckon I haven’t really read anything in, ****, probably longer than that. See I’m lookin’ to find my girlfriend up north, on account of she took my car and ran away from home and all.”
“Well that is certainly a shame, but I don’t see why that should rid you of your manners.” The woman scolded Walker.
“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry. What I meant to convey was that, I mean, I kind of just forgot I guess. I haven’t had too much time to exercise my manners and all, but I know my mother would have educated me better, so I apologize but I just wanted to read something, because I think that’s something important, you know? I’ll stop though, because I don’t want to annoy you, so sorry.”
The woman seemed amused by Walker, much as a parent finds amusement in the cuteness of another’s children. His childish, simple smile bore through her like a sword, and suddenly, her own smile softened, and she opened up to him.
“Oh, don’t be silly. All you had to do was ask, and not be so unnervingly discreet about it.” She replied, as she handed her pad over to Walker, so that he could read it. “I’m a poet, see, or rather, I like to write poetry, on my own time. It relaxes me, and makes me feel good about myself. Take a look.”
Walker took the pad from the woman’s hands. They were pale and wrinkly, but were held steady as a rock, almost as if the age displayed had not affected them at all. He opened the pad to a random page, and started reading one of the woman’s poems. I asked Walker to recite it for me, but he said he couldn’t remember it. He did, however, say that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever read, a lyrical, flowing, ode to t

Many have walked the path of life only to be cut down violently. I can hear the voices of the dead whispering their last words. A trace of their souls forever stationary in time. Can you walk past a graveyard of white crosses protecting those who fought for freedom. When you do do your eyes remain level and thank whoever it is that you pray to that such men lived. We should not be thankful that such men died for freedom but rather we should be grateful that such men lived. Or when you walk past that graveyard do your eyes blur as if you see right past the lost selfishly thinking better them than yourself. I say let the voices of the dead ring into the stillness of the night and awaken every living person. Let the voices chastise and haunt the living. Let the living know that we are still here and we must act. We can no longer sit back as if the world  does not concern us. As if the spread of disease and death across the African continent is someone else's problem. As if the slaughter in Cambodia and Vietnam are but the problems of tribal people. Or the slave trade which runs rampant in South America along with the disease of man into madness of drugs. Or the constant gang warfare which spreads in our own nation. Are these gangs any different then the very terrorist which we fight in the middle east. They **** and terrorise in the hopes of personal glory and living a lustful selfish life. Let us put an end to the ******* and apathy which reside in the so called European Union. Which cares nothing of the problems of the world, which vetos every vote to make the world a little safer. Or the starvation of the North Koreans under the madness of the tyrannt. The oppression of so many people in the middle east by by the hands of their masters. Treating their women as mear slaves to which to repopulate the country, tools of breeding. Using their children as instruments of warfare. Is that what we fight for. Is that what the dead whisper, or rather are the dead tired of the living ****. Listen closely and you will hear the dead speaking into the realm of time and history.

Many hundred aeons travelled,
Over many days.
Though I know, with certainty,
Just where all my love stays.
Like a bee to pollen, it is
Instinct, finding you,
As, if somewhere else it went,
All life would turn askew.
So give me all your nectar and
The usual clichés.
Pollinate, repopulate,
Until the end of days.
I promise not to sting you
If you promise not to *****,
For when it comes to both our love
No honey is as thick.

Exterminate
repopulate
overcompensate and
so exterminate

When we last saw Noah,
He was about to embark
On a long, stormy journey
Aboard his mighty ark.

For forty days and nights
The heavens constantly drained
Their waters upon the earth,
For it rained and rained and rained--

Covering the towering Mt. Everest,
And the great Kilimanjaro.
Noah exclaimed, "It's raining
Like there's no tomorrow!"

Ham and Shem said, "Dad,
With our small, measly crew,
Feeding one million species
Is kind of hard to do."

Noah pointed outside
And looked at his sons and said,
"I suppose instead of in HERE,
You'd rather be out there--dead!"

That shut up the boys
Who attended to their tasks,
Saying, "We're feeding the lions
In case anyone asks."

Shem whispered to Ham,
"I like that lion, but she
Is always licking her chops
Whenever SHE sees ME!"

Ham said, "That kangaroo,
Who looks so calm and mellow,
Has a nasty kick.
He's not a very nice fellow."

After many days,
The waters receded; then Yay!
They were back on dry land;
All could go their own way.

The Bengal tigers went east;
The penguins headed south;
The skunks and beavers went west--
According to word of mouth.

Noah grabbed an animal
For a sacrifice quick and succinct,
And turned to his sons saying, "Oops!
I JUST made one species extinct."

Ham, Shem, and Japheth,
Had little time for mirth,
For now it was up to them
To repopulate the earth.

Growing grapes for wine
To Noah was time well spent,
Until he got drunk and naked--
All sprawled out in his tent.

Walking in on his father,
Ham saw a sight not so splendid
And ended up with a *** deal--
(Silly pun intended)--

For Noah cursed poor Ham
For having walked in on him.
So what if a guy saw him naked;
Hadn't he been to a gym?

Actually, the curse
Was more on Canaan, Ham's son.
How had poor Canaan managed
To be the guilty one?

I guess that's the nature of curses;
They don't always make much sense.
There also wasn't a lawyer
To come to Canaan's defense.

To live to be 950
Requires a very strong ticker.
But Noah had a weakness:
Trouble holding his liquor.

- by Bob B

*Sequel to "Noah's Dilemma"

people operate under the wild belief that
survivors are strong by nature
strong is a weak word
adaptable is better
The meek shall inherit the earth
the strong will die trying to save it
Me? I’m a survivor
an actor master of disguise
playing the part of a self-righteous anti-hero
but when the bombs start falling
you aren’t coming in my bomb shelter
hell no
and when the mobs are chasing us
I’m tripping you for a few more precious seconds
too stubborn to die quite yet
but don’t worry
when the dust has settled
and the cults have left their caves
to repopulate this rock
I’ll tell the story of your heroic sacrifice

Her* lips were soft,
Moist as Her clothes fell off
Anxious I would never be lost
In the maze of Her loft.
Crawling around in the dark,
Wrestling with who we are.
Thinking that if the world were to end,
We could repopulate the ark.

Slowly losing sight of Her heart as I
try furiously to split Her apart.
Sweating swearing turning yearning
Trying to be smart.

But it is beaten by an evil lurking somewhere in the start.
I just wanted to remain inside of Her for a lifetime,
Remembering that the only love She had ever felt was mine
as I finish up just in time to avoid his eyes.

I'm sure Her boyfriend is still quite blind,
Just how much She shines without him in mind.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then away and seems to circumvent the gateway to better, to truer and rather it dips and, for some unfathomable reason, detours through bone aching drivel which we sit through lest we cause offence and in defence we smile until someone offers a glass and we can distract the conversation to something real and relevant and alive – preferably with alcohol.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
and then it rainbows, so you’d think that there’d be no excuse but to look up and wonder at the way in which each colour blends, leaving no distinct edge, no start or finish, leaving you in no doubt why spectrum is an apt term to capture diversity with harmony, and leaving you staring curiously while the world walks on, heads down, focusing on the familiarity of their grey, woollen comfort zones.

The arc is long and it bends towards -
the other side, it crosses divides, where bridges were long fractured, and diversions had left the land desolate - and now we can repopulate, reconnect and proliferate something that binds a kindlier fraternity wedded to justice indiscriminately.

The arc is long,
bending, not broken.

As a young gal I married a much older boy,
he was 8 and the love of my life.
Then we divorced when I met Nathaniel;
his blue eyes and love of trains were dreamy to say the least
we never spoke much though
the marriage was unrequitted.
Today I love only writing
people are too animal to keep commitments,
they must eat and hunt and reproduce to repopulate
words simply listen and convey
can be flaky at times when there isn't a word to describe an idea
but at the end of the day
words will not die
unless they are latin
and when enough are written
you will never feel lonliness or discomfort
but only inner peace and relief.

On the first day of the last week
A girl wrapped in gold did appear
She whispered to the people of the land
Who knew their ending was near
She softly uttered these words:
"This can all be avoided still
The destruction, the chaos
The end all be all"
     The people shouted and cursed
Throwing rocks and casting stones
They all wanted to just return home
Each worldly word fell on deaf ears
For the rocks and stones clouted
The girl of gold with fear
     On the second day of the final week
A boy clothed in silver did appear
He spoke to the people of the land
For he knew of the crimes they committed the day before
"You can repair the damages done
But only within one last day
You still somehow have hope"
     The mayor of these people
Stepped forth and pleaded with
His kin, his brethren
But his words fell on deaf ears
For he and the boy of silver
Were slaughtered by once innocent people
     On the third day of the final week
A screaming light tried to save them
But the darkness of the hearts of the land
Swallowed the light without thought
     Days later
On the final day of the final week
The world was visited by the four who died
Each voice was powerful
Each voice was echoing
The people had been warned
But now their choices came back for hauntings
Each rush of negativity ever uttered
On the now barren earth
Fueled the four deities who had tried to help
And their great power
Engulfed the world in flames

     On the first day of the first week after the final week
The grass was replenished
The sky was once again clear
The poison that rushed through the veins of those people
Finally eradicated
A new race emerged slowly
To repopulate the world
But they had not yet been created
So all that rested on the
First day of the first week after the final day of the final week
On a perfect green hill
Under a perfect blue sky
Grew a single flower
Seven petals
One for each day of the week

Sis.
A story of sibling love.
By
Jude kyrie

Hey honey you're sixteen.
You're almost a woman.
Wow what happened here?
It seemed like just yesterday
You danced out the womb
To bug me your older brother

Can I come with you?
No it's not for kids
Why?
Get your coat then.
You always got your way with me.

Half my clothes were missing
Found in your room.
I like this shirt you said.
These tee shirts are nicer than mine.

Then you were twenty four.
Wow what happened to you.
You're  a Mom honey.
He looks  like just like you
she said.
He just spat up his milk
I replied.
You started looking a bit like mom
But you looked great love.

Then you were thirty
That kid turned into three more
It's bedlam in here honey.
Are you two planning to
Repopulate the earth
all on your own
I love you Sis

At thirty four the divorce
You guys all moved into my house.
Its a good job I was still single Sis.
These kids are noisy.
But your always welcome here love
Always.

Then at forty the hospital.
Hold my hand honey.
I will take you through this.
I said.
You're not going to lose
to that crab sign love.
We are not ready to lose you.
I brought you my favorite shirt
It aways looked better
on you anyway Sis.

Four years later
We visit your grave
On mother's day.

We lost you Sis.
But we still love you.
I got your four kids Sis.
They are getting all grown up.

Angel looks just like you.
You would have been so proud
They are great kids honey.
They call me Dad.
I am not getting any of my own.
I do my best with them.
They keep me busy Sis.

No I never did get married
Don't pretend you didn't know
I was Gay Sis.
I **** well miss you honey.

I gave our shirt to angel
She loves it and won't take it off
See you soon Sis
I love you honey.

Of Anchor babes he cries foul
but it seems an empty howl.
Just look at HIS life
A Serbian “Anchor” wife!
Plus a Russian first spouse
what a hypocritical louse.
And He reveres Vladimir
why, He holds him so dear.
His claims of innocence belie
perhaps HE’S the Russian spy.
Give Donny the code?
not well does that bode -
He’ll repopulate the earth
using his daughter with mirth!
Heaven forbid we elect this toad
for our fair States it’s the wrong road.
He’ll be busy building a wall
while the crazed shooter's at the mall.
With this whacko in charge
and his cabinet at large
All we’ve worked for is gone
while the lemmings follow the “Don”

you asked me one day
"zombie apocalypse, three people
who do you take?"
my first thought was you
so we could repopulate
but that's not what i would say
i'd just laugh and turn away
give you someone else's name
and make up an excuse like
*he's probably good with a blade

when I was a kid
the graveyard across town
the one my father rests in
was significantly smaller
decades later it is quite big
and growing
because time is not slowing
and neither are we
where ever we are going
does not matter
because in the end
we become a spec scattered
across the land
and what if instead of burial plots
we were buried with seeds
that grew into beautiful things
we could save the bees
or the oxygen we breathe
what if as we die we repopulate rain forests
instead of taking up land people need?

Whats so cool about ***
Why do people want it so bad
Is it because we talk about it so much
Why does it drive people mad
It has the power to make a good person perverse
It can make a man ****
But all for what
For a duty to fulfill
To repopulate
Is it simply what we are made to do
Or is it something totally exempt from all dimensions of knowledge
It does not make sense if im being true

They all approached the Colosso  from Apsila, from where the eleventh star began to make the quantum leap of conformation of twelfth aligned stars. The combat explorations in multiple routes showed the compliance of the identical Eddaphos or the sacred homeland of Patmos in the significant profile as a strategy by Eddaphs that seemed seas of prejudice and confusion of the farmhouses around which was not conquered by anyone, nor was anyone immolated. It was only the magnificence of the Colosso of Apsila that gave the saddles to empower itself from the detonation of atomic light, which was fired from Tire and Gaza on the riverside where today was the residence of Mardiath; Vernarth's lieutenant of the lights of the capital of Memphis, where he temporized areas that were worthy of an atrium of predilection to repopulate all the areas from where Persephone would sprinkle cinnabar for the Persian yokes, to compensate the Oracle of Siwa in the interstices of a god Hellenic Egyptian Zeus-Amun who would reside between his gums. When capturing the highlands and the lowlands, immediately joining the triangulation of the Beit Hamikdash temple and all the currents of the Euphrates, in the direction of Susiana where Vernarth was sitting on the gold horse, after dismounting from Alikantus, glimpsing luxuries and becoming of specters with the Manes Apsidas, congenializing before entering the Pasargada entrance parapsychology, since these succulent areas of gold managed to cross the Euphrates in parapsychology of annihilation, but when bilocating in the supply units insufficient flow, to divert the Attention from the stubborn Persians who still wanted to pursue their siege vows.

Possibilities of superior authorities remained in the infra predominance of their overexcites that encouraged them to deviate from their points of despotism to become from on high in the stream that shone by making propaganda of two ascars in the breadth of the plain, only leaving the cessation of first admission in front of Zefian and his four arrows with the Scythian Archers, in counterbalance to the contingents that were already in full risk of the target territory in the Eruv of Saint John the Apostle, which had demarcated the lines of pachyderm tracks in the frenzy of an oracle that sneaks in from teleportations of audio-sensory iconographies, discovering the mantle of Saint John where he would lead the garrison that would supply the majestic and triumphant portico of the Souls of Helleniká, taking possession of the paragon of quantum in the portico of Susa, from where shimmering looting of capital increased, helping to minorize the territories that would make it possible to aid the gates balance of the accesses of universal connection between Skalá and Susa, from where thousandths of a dorus would already begin to fly for a Macedonian king reference in the doors that would unite both geophysical zones, after attempts that make retentive in images of the struggles of the spectra to the see them, who then dissipated in advance from the cataclysm by convincing themselves of the eternal refuge where battles that had taken place between two rogues prevailed that never had to confront a conjured and assassinated sovereign, after an attempt to rebel in the Battle of Patmia, unable to avoid the recognition of a Satrap like Bessos like the horror of Artaxerxes.

All had been thrown into the possession where the light was present on the elytra of flying organisms, from where the imperceptibility of time and its aetoí or raptors were made free of some prey from the sky that was uncaused unable to support themselves, in means of the Salpinx and Shofar who heeded the voices of angelic *******. The tenors were stewed in stormy queens that dwelt in the mesosphere where Geburah resided for causes outlined in advance, attracting Hellenic claws that were actually a serpent-bearing Ophiuchus that was the thirteenth of the zodiacal sign of the dragon that was stratified in the Opioukos u Serpentarium opioids to settle that it was teleported by Captain Mardiath from Shots by the Wheel of Animals. The celestial groupings were constellated by lurching incontinence of their wills that were not able to advance and attempt what had already been lost. It was already the point of Aries or Vernal as the equinox was marked, from here with the twelve divisions of the zodiacal of Ophiuchus, where the astronomical limits that were in Vilorta were constellated, embracing the iron that held the thalamus of the plow at the helm of Vernarth, tri meaning supposed datas that could correspond to the limit of the quadrant of Aquarius with four new signs since the twelfth signs were distinguished in the wheels of the animals; being Apollo's oxen, having this spelling of the Dodecanese of Saint John after having toured the twelve churches in Turkey, where the collection of the stations would carry the Kouvalíthike se Vódia, "carried by the Oxen" leaving the precipice of the escarpment to Capricorn as the definitive wheel of the twelve divisions of the Dodecanese in the cardinals of the Shemash, making stations of Capricorn and Vóreios of Hyperborea with Wonthelimar, in the extreme north of this dawning night and of the projected equinox, which would be the tangent of the Sun through the celestial south returning again in the fused iconography of all the innkeepers that the astonished swords possessed in their assistances without being able to detach themselves from the reckless image of the scorpion or of an ***** that is illustrated by the ecliptic of the captains of each military squad. The league of fuss and perplexed reactions left them in the limen that became gaseous behind the ecliptic that transpolated the ends of the decision-makers, in these same with the ecstasy of the limits where each cycle appeared in its stunning sponsorships, related of the uncrossings of the bearer that made the cardinal points vary by the ecliptic of Notós de Borker and Dyticá de Leiak, leaving the dawn in the firmament below the mesosphere and the sunrise that was based on the thirteenth zodiacal abode of Ophiuchus, unraveling the gloss of the first postulate of light that was transferred from the unnameable transit of the Apocalypse's declaration. While everyone looked at each other and did not stop wondering when the Colosso of Apsila rose towards the ecliptic of precessional time where she herself detached herself, emerging in her imperceptible time, and carrying seas in the rivers, and rivers over the mountains where the serpentarium more than the sidereal opus that was distorted in the tertiary scale of Aurion, taking them to the Hebraic ladder of Judas Iscariot. The intertestamental analogy would throw the treatises between the Hellenes and Achaemenides and the Mashiach with his multi-consciousness in Judas Iscariot. In this instant of florilege of the heavenly palaces, it was summed up in the female that spread through the nets, hecatombs and afflictions, with crusts of arches that held the quiver from the claws of Beelzebub, which was not imperative for a Geburah who constrained himself to the tension of a god Íblis,  that if he asserted about the temptations of Judas destroying all the temples in the world and the post-captivity of intergenerational breeds, that they would go to the mercy of the host of fatality and inverted horror, that is, with the onslaught of pseudo-Christians who covered themselves with the mantle of the Ofiusco, creating outpourings of the flood that would extol severe genocides of the universe with the immature Apocalypse, which was protected in the ravages of the devastated territories with plagues and morbidities of septem saecula, which would be the execrable legacy of those who did not know that centuries would be born from these spoils of the escapes of the body by the body, only leaving bizarre souls that would reap the inverted step of the genocide, for escapes in the desert of Jerico where if they saw crimson Ophiuchus of the valleys that are from the boiling thesis of who always sees the twelve Giant camels dragging Judas, and clutching camelid legs where he was never safe.

I've built a bomb shelter type crawl space for us to hunker down in when the world blows up.  If that isn't the ultimate proof of my love I don't know what is.

     Sure you'll end up pooping in a bucket and washing in recycled *** but **** it woman, you will be alive.

     You know how they say a person could get so hungry they would eat dog food. Well I left us mostly dog food. That way we can skip right to that sort of situation and experience it first hand.  If that isn't the ultimate act of love I don't know what is.

     You Know how you said you wouldn't have *** with me if I was the last man on earth? With only you and me in the bomb shelter, we'll have a chance to test that theory.  Besides, it might be up to us to repopulate the world so that's going to mean making babies which requires lots of ***. Sacrifices must be made. It's our duty. Count me in.

     I'll have to extract a pint of blood a week from you to feed the crickets. Later to grind them up as cricket meat. Cricket burgers, cricket burritos. We'll mix it with the dog food for a unique pate'.  Toss them in your mouth when snacking, like popcorn. And yes, crickets make noise but so did Beethoven.

     Plus it will be cold down there in the bomb shelter but blankets take up so much room there won't be many. We'll have to spoon at night to share our body heat. It only makes sense. To share our body heat. Spoon at night. Body heat...Oh yeah...

    Anyway, where was I? Oh right. So I dug you a bomb shelter to survive in, just in case the world goes kablooey. Maybe I'll even be the one who blows up the earth so we can be together. Now if that isn't the ultimate act of love I don't know what is.

My hair and your hair
     in the sun
appearing to set the world ablaze
               like my heart feels now
like a sinking stone in a clear blue rushing cold river
like bruises on both my knees
like breathlessness, 150 feet suspended in the air
             lowered slowly by your gorgeous hands
breathless
like waking up tied around your hot skin
like hot tears in my morning coffee.

like writing poetry to send messages to you via universe vibes mail

How to tell you i miss you
how to express that my soul has melted
or disintegrated

As if Chernobyl occurred in Northeast Minneapolis

Killing us both -
I'm simply waiting. When
will the green luscious vines and plants, butterflies
and birds repopulate this barren space -

filled with the worst kind of poison

Not for another thousand years
Or at least
not until
Spring
Summer
Fall

When two is one
And one is nought
What is the magic
That makes one comport
What it is to calculate
The thing that makes us
Repopulate.

some of my really long practice rambling put through a few text
manipulators. it is 95% random.
I just took out repeats and misspellings. the rest is how it was spit out of the TM.

the you with whenever
back insensateness
window benzole Benzes
superstrength
rats have ichthic because
pried be how are tide
randomised the doors
limbs perpetually adrift
until reactivating evocative
phonetic persuaders to a ok fog
all undepraved the time
gainable arrears
financial nonteachings
stuck *******
space circumfusion
to things still doom of mending content
believe broadcasters highdive
into glycosylating days
classmates trepanning to
delightless clocks
sovereign
tiramisu isn't ruinable
Other then to repopulate gigaflops