It's one thing to say, it's another to do. We have become a generation of sayers forgetting that words mean little without action.

I¹m not sure how I came to be obsessed with Dorothy L. Sayers and her
beloved Peter Wimsey.  At any rate, I was determined to go on a pilgrimage
to England and walk in the places where she walked  and to see the place
where her ashes lay.  And  to ostensibly find a signed copy of one of her
books  every copy of which was beyond my economic horizons on my internet
searching.  So  I went to London  I saw her heroine, Harriet Vane¹s
Bloomsbury.  I went to Russell Square and stepped back into a time when
hotels smelled of potted meat and wet wool  and it was always raining.  I
saw    where Harriet and Peter set up housekeeping after their marriage.
Finally, I wnet to St. Anne¹s Church in Soho  DLS¹s final resting place
where she was warden for some 12 years before her deaeth in 1957.  It took
three trips to the small tower where her ashes lay under the concrete before
I could get inside and stand in that place, but I finally got there  What
is it that makes us feel connected when we stand where someone else is
buried?

And  wandering around London on our second day there  I stumbled into a
small book shop and, wonder of wonders, I asked if they had any Dorothy L.
Sayers¹ books and they said ³Are you her to look at her private library that
they had recently purchased at auction?¹  So  I now have three of DLS¹s own
books  and I have one signed and annotated in ink by her from her private
library.  I have the books sitting in my living room in a small house, in a
small town in Indiana.  But I have a part of something in my bookshelf  I
take it out periodically and ****** it  and feel like I can reawaken some
lost show in some other place and time.

Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines

Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand

and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon

in big pink petals of bloom;

A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
       patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
      the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (


be gentle, though whispering wind)

Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign

      fears,
      as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
      Consume the years between Here and Now;
      Watching from blank perch, among
      the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
      Sing the branches of experience, to wake
      in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
      of waking,

ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—

Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;

                          Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
        and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
        of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.

With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis*

Look at the
    Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
    Hiring hands.
We walked,
    Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
    This heat?
Forget Vulcan
    And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
    A rip tide
On the shore
    Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
    Pretending to swim
Underground,
    But only out
Of pure respect.
    Some had boots
Made with
    The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
    Others wore suits
With goggles
    Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
    Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
    Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
    Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
    Waves of S and P
Flailed away
    Like flags.
One nation
    Under a new.
No one looked away
    From the fiery daze.
No one wept.

grandeur

had brought the well outta ground the muscled men and she came upon them when they had split into teams and were rolling it and had not yet become competitive. the hands of her gone infant came back to her to see these men heave back and forth a vanishing. of her many fathers one had said ‘the deep train went even deeper and I could not wake’. he had said it to excuse his one day feat of linking unadorned toilet paper rolls to stretch a rat’s mile. her stomach had yet to go down and she was comforted by such literal remnants as thinking of the last place you had it.

libel

two white boys come outta shack each with a wrist one left one right being ****** at the mouth. their laughing I wouldn’t say manic but still not righted. like certain bible stories seem to tumble outta that book it’s the same with their eyes and ears. their heads each one shrunk so as to be united. I want to say here at least a ****** knows what it’s mocking. I only know one of’em and only as far as this thing being passed and told that he ain’t a foster but he was born in a pan and taken from the offices of the parent company his father got laid from. you think that’s the joke but had I not said white you’d have thought they were anyway. here come two girls grisly with month and I never seen two boys so quick to put down the shack they come from.

prayer

I like it best when my girl is pregnant because I get the sympathies. on her hand, she likes me drunk. at any one time, I can remember seven of our eight kids. this means of course one gets left home but also that not a one gets left grocery. I’d tell you their names but then I’d have to split this saying into parts. but I can tell you seven are boys. now and again they’ll slip on sister’s dress to **** up my math. a good joke I start with is that they take after their mother and if they take after me it’s with sticks. I change the batteries in the alarms for fire and carbon monoxide every two weeks mostly outta fear that I’ll lose them all and have to recount them to some fireman I went to school with. I don’t know if batteries are cheap or not, I don’t know anything about them, but I know I spend a healthy chunk of my portion to have. wife and I are keeping the ninth at bay the ways we know how. she don’t ask me and I don’t her. one kid a week goes with her to church and it’s up to me to remember who in my charge caught a fish the week previous. but I’m not wrong with god; no book is the bible, I believe that. at cemetery by which I am lack whelmed: I wish I had his memory.

nativity

wonder they ever told him grown, that black foster, how he'd been at three years dropped manger while crying for the congregates. straw in everything. back a throat, bottom a shoe. pop said he just about caught himself afire at work, straw sticking out his pocket. pop unable to split work clothes from churched. some wanted to resurrect a fuss about color; don’t go resurrecting a fuss and waved his hand he did that pastor ingénue. heard then I the word negress and after its saying the sayers looked about as if she would appear. this was our town after god and many were still making their own. this answers how the black foster needn’t audition. the gold I brought was soft on my thumbs and the flakes stayed in my nails weeks after. pop could tell for that time what I’d been touching so I’d cover when I could. we were quite a pair in our fooleries what with his straw and my gold. he stopped going on about the blacks and I was able to skip school with your sister the ****** mary. the town was never up for nightmares or for dreaming so I kept your share to myself until now how you seen mary fingered by a man with seven. heard him saying it's okay baby, this one's asleep.

holy ghost!

I will cut myself, Horror Film. will fidget my nethers a last time. maybe make the snow an angel with a third leg. which means I have gone outside. maybe my father will happen by you and put his beers together. but I will be gone. into the woods dragging my feet so some will think it took two to take me. I will whip branches about me and generally scuffle so the some will better convince the left. my poverty will be confirmed by your presence on videocassette. my father will hold you aloft and your tongue will droop above the depths of his hair. my father will claim a vengeance he owes on and the some and the left will follow him over the states of my angel and into the woods. when they find me I will say I had an in body experience; that the two men nearby sleep and it’s what we’re walking in.

haptics

little he knows that in holding them hoppers until they spit and before they go wing he is making hitch the upcome carriage of his *****. his future nudes are backtracking and the gravity of this has been diagnosed as your emphysema. he is your, nothing more, son. he will rub your back and worry his thumbs orphan. oh thumb; toe six. the way you deeply stand arms folded he sometimes thinks you have been replaced by a statue of his mother. it is then he remembers the fence his father built and the collective plank his father carried under his arm. you want life to be good again; your son’s low hand and the pups it could feed.

verbal abuse*

she has brought with her a shoplifted teddy bear. on a good night her age is seventeen. two days ago the voices in her head moved to her mouth. she has seven teeth that remain quiet. she fears so much how this third day will go. she has been told, and she believes, I am only in her mind. but there she is, at the sitting rock where we met, the rock I told her I could see things in. unprepared for her faith, I am unclothed. I am glad she has the bear and glad for my part in her having it.

spiders

we got some kind of plague in our toilets mama.*  that’s my dad calling her mama, my mom. that’s him declaring another plague. week don’t stop until a plague has been pieced together by this man so named Paff Snull on the subscription stubs of any number of unread magazines mom uses to swat dramatically at imaginary flies and wasps and locusts depending on the week. this time though I’m ******* because when dad cracks his knees and ***** himself to fetch mama from silence, I look in the toilet up and it’s true and in the toilet down and it’s more. spiders grey and black and off white. with our low water pressure, spiders having a ball. mom and dad they get tents and tell me twice to get inside mine once it’s on the front lawn. I get told things twice because I was born thick and I haven’t the heart to tell them that after the first saying the saying of it is diminished. I mumble to myself in corners, sure, but it’s the same mumbling. our dog gets a separate tent and I sneak into it when dog allows. seven nights so far outta three weeks I haven’t. mom says it’s because of my acne dog don’t recognize me sometimes. ******* bit the meatsy of my right hand a month ago and my handwriting got so neat I was sent from school for cheating. it’s most of my summer and the house is still spidery. the dog has gone to the river to drink and seems okay with it. mom, dad, and I **** in the backyard in shifts. mom ain’t swatting anything, she doesn’t have to on account of the spiders. when right now I mess up my shift I find myself next to dad and he’s just some guy telling me them glass-full people got the joke on them because the water is contaminated. he’s so happy it makes me think I’m the devil to be grinning so big. long wasn’t the reign of Paff Snull.

Stars shine on in a night sky so black
you can see the truth.
What is that light but an interruption
to progress so blinding
the sun blushes–
as if another light vandalized
our ever darkening sky.
Closing out on reality,
opening up to ideals,
it’s the rays piercing through the layers
and the yea-sayers nodding
off to sleep in a darkness so deep.
When the genius strips off the latent,
flexes its manifest intelligence,
and puts down thoughts
that flare into the darkness.
No effort from a sun fibbing eternal.
The end might come but the hand
who writes eternity can’t see
the end coming.
Who are the geniuses
expelling the light
and who are the receivers
not likely to admit their stupor
for fear of fantastic phantasms.
Fleeing from their folly,
straying into strange, insipid
serials, unending, not rerunning–
only growing obese with weight
Of chances not spent.

I lie on an endless sea
Floating in circles of thought
Drifting on an eternity of feelings
Projecting on to an astral plane
My human emotions of fear and doubt
But longing, nay needing
What was given to me
At the explosive moment
When the soft Sayers of love and destiny
(who sit in waiting below bozos trademark
and above the triangle point of bone
at the bottom of the face)
Is finally and intimately
Introduced to the most exquisite
Opposite that sits in the
Same position as its opposite equal
And the muscle behind the spoken gates
Of anticipation is so energized with passion
They can no longer be held at bay,
Break free from hiding and searching
For reciprocated passion and
Emotional electrocution
And no, never, is there foulness
In the bitter morning cigarette
That pays homage between the lips
So proportionately perfect the introduction
Of unspoken breath between two sets
Of sayers, freezes time forever in a
Block of eternity called oblivion
Where everything that had ever happened
In time, from the big bang,
To the very second before,
Compressed collectively, pale in
Importance to this single solitary moment
Of forever.
I am a lost boy in this kiss
Where am I in this overload of
Sensory bliss
From the smell of her
As she washes over me
To the feel of her face and hair
As it glides through my fingers
Like wanderers on a pitch black night
Who need no light and
Require no map
For this is where my fingertips
Were meant to be
And they play the role, they were made for.
Then breath is held,
For it is no longer as important
To draw air into my lungs
Since I must already be dead
Because surely nothing else could be
As beautiful in my life as this, forever,
And when lips are ultimately
And unwillingly parted
And eyes are opened to what was
Lost and forgotten
In the stopping of time or
Was it lost in the meaningless of time
Whatever the case
My eyes have been opened
Not only to a more splendid sight
But to insight
An internal collection of every magnificent
Painting ever painted, and every
Wonderful word ever written, and all
The exquisite expressions ever spoken,
And every passion felt by those
Acutely intuned to their sensory system.
Alas, every magnificent, wonderful, exquisite
Occurrence was only a minor player
In history, until mankind's existence
Came to a ******
With but a kiss.
I am a river of everything
Of all that is wonderful and beautiful.
This is a story of a kiss
Just that one syllable
Alone and isolated in the expanse of
Larger words
But a kiss, this kiss, the first and only
Kiss ever
Is more important then words
Can say or express
With their limitations to coherent thinking
And more meaningful the my mind
Can comprehend in its broken down
Simplicity
A kiss
Nothing less
But everything more
A kiss to end all kisses
The envy of all other kisses
A wonderful, beautiful kiss
A kiss.

Listen to the aye-sayers;
Pay heed to the nay-sayers
For point and counter-point;
As Lear did with his fool,
As we did once in school.
Hear the sycophants and flatterers,
The realists and truists;
But in the end what matters,
Is the voice between your ears,
The sooth-sayer of future years.

oh it's the end, the world will end today,
the Mayans said, they said it long ago,
according to opinions people say,
the modern sayers saying what they know,

it's noon, the morning hours i have survived,
now fifteen minutes till the clock strikes two,
i find in all the silence i'm alive,
the sayers thinking twice 'bout what they knew,

survivalists in barricaded doors,
with rifles loaded, ready on the walls,
will pace upon their dusty wooden floors,
awaiting for that ring when death makes calls,

today for many, dying one by one,
the prophecy was right, their time is done

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.

Some say salt is bad for you...

                 so what


l e t s                              K I s s

A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce

A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce

I have forgotten what day it is
I have forgotten what day it is
my purpose is to wait-
and long for you to
Address me, dress me, hold
me.
promise me; the blue sky I grow lustful
and drunk over.
tide me over with
the hidden knowledge of
soothe-sayers
astronomers, those
who have a hand
inside of them
and His fire, blinding
and
bright and
alluring
in their eyes.

"If you've got a better idea, go and do it yourself."

What a price to pay to say "well said"
For all great phrasing comes from great tumult
And gladness, sadness, joy are all but fuel
As the "sayers" translate thought to word

They are as hunters, patiently in wait
For a great stirring deep within their being
Emotion wildlife rustling the trees
The game that does not recognize the game

Strategic are these hunters, clever souls
Whose precision cannot be repeated
Miners for the gold within their hearts
Exploring, exploiting their perceptions

And yet, it is but great coincidence.
They do not mean to feel, but still accept
The ludic, accidental inquiries
Subpoenas to their creativity

How much does it cost, a wondrous phrase?
The charge is pain, or love in great amounts
For words upon the page can but reflect
The bittersweetness of their author's id

Living the dream or so it seems
Riding the waves, cascade after cascade
Jumping through hoops,
going round loop de loop,
like a roller-coaster
Believing you've got closer
To what:
you're supposed to do.
what you,
perceive to be
what you,
intend to see.
Knowing that, this is your goal.
The thing that drives your soul.
To reach to the sky,
stretch up to the stars,
float upon the clouds,
make yourself proud.

Because this is your dream.
it's something that means,
everything to you.
there's nothing that you wouldn't do, to reach the heights of success.
Continue to achieve your best.
Push through till there's nothing left.

Because this is a passion, a craft, a choice.
Don't listen to nay sayers,
down players,
people who say:
This isn't the way to go,
this is something you should know.
And it is something you know.
Why wouldn't you.
It's drummed into you day after day,
you get used to the people being that way,
it's a hard business.

Okay, okay
I get what you're trying to say but I don tell you day after day;
That your job is monotonous.
A corporate chain,
whose only aim
is more money to gain,
from your daily pain
of trying to maintain the face of joy
when your boss walks by
and asks how it's going.
With a nod all knowing you reply
"It's going great Mr Johnson."

Yet in your head you weep
And wish to retreat, back to the age when you could openly phrase a strong affirming gesture.
A finger raised to the sky,
Stating ******* and goodbye.

But you don't.
You nod and say "yes"
Cause that is your best
There's no passion inside you.
No craft that will drive you, to achieve.
So stop for a minute and believe
Believe in the strength of desire in your heart
let me take my path, leave me alone and then start on your own.

Apophrenia,

does that mean anything?

Yes, but not to you. It's me who must
discern the meaning
Synchron
ological
linked to words arriving in time to make
magic look easy.

Why would a documentary about the loss
of a national identity,

be made for you. Like why would a poetic muse
think of you,
fake person.

whither come your desires?

familiar desires, we have these in common, they say,
the sayers of what we have in common,

based on
stories.

Nowadays, everybody knows a queer or two,
we have that in common
beware, aware
the divider, twixt soul and spirit,
the cision, cut the cord folded thrice,
cut the cord folded twice,
cut the cord folded once.

tech replaces the twisted cord with
titanium chains, malnamed religion.

Ah, do I have a role. Definer. Re
lig or leg

upsy-daisy, a boost to umph u
past the try to the rite thing,
this is
what I do.
It's good for the whole universe, which
I have prayed for since I was eight.

Referee, blow that whistle!
Why is life unfair?

Life wins. The original deck, was stacked.

Hell, whose idea were you,
whose Idea was I
? Ah, who is gaining power by lying to me? I
wonder
if I knew,
what makes no difference at all,
null, none,
don't count, non re-al-if-iable

ever after now,
don't count. can't count, it hasn't happened, has it?

Tequila could have a spiritual role in this.

I answered, when axt.
Normal, I ignore, such seeming meaning things
But I responded. I got the good news,
and acted asif I had
and everyone noticed

but my friends in church. Ouch. Do you lieve be
that which chains you to a lie? or

do you wink, and think, fishished is as finished is.

or ever the silver cord be broken, how did this
appear
meaningful, to me, to say. Connect.

Whispering anointing flowing down Aaron's beard,

you know, the meaning?
You might be insane.
It's possible.
Or the tequila, yeah. It could be that.

---
the war of my calling, the warrior I can't help
but be,
or wish to be,
the hero of the story who saves the world

from lies let be true,
when you know,
it ain't so.

---
ah, why did the lies arise, oh, the money was made
available

we are
wonderfully
fully wonder made and cautious, wise, stay alive

translate that
fearfully,
and wonderfully made. Be okeh with that, even if George Fox is BS.
And the rich get rich

and the fact remains, the poor, so-called,
are always with you. We don't mind.

recrudescense, is an old redeem-ed word,
when you learn
there is a word for nearly every common thing.
Made raw, re-crud-escense
Even being rubbed raw trying to scritch an
unscritchible itch...

Can you handle the truth?

you may be those who have been called to take America,
the idea,
to a new task, to paraphrase Cecil William c. 1966

there are strokes of edge
ed weapons, mighty, through God, if you can belive that,
trustme,
belive and believe are some different here,

we make the difference real. Phrenia of any sort can't make us lie.

That ol' TG she be I am
wild as the wind, I laughed, you're just

out there, by yourself and everything is
about you, in a swirling
round about way.
As we charged the original al-go rythm, I'll go
be a suggestion to global brain's frontal cortex,
urging gestation progression of manifestation,
whispering to the search engine at the corp, of
the company with "don't be evil"
as a motto,

or was that a mantra, a plea to set truth free,

an ins tru ment of thought, set free... I be
let it be
and, so it goes. You know.

May you do no harm, ya'all.

Tired eyes,
chasing street dreams.
Life ain’t always what it seems.
Bright light blind.
People run schemes.
Snipers focus their beams
Night terrors tarnish dreams
Pain is being,
feeling it, is to believe.
Cowards seek only to deceive.
Hear sayers only speak,
After the truth leaves.
Too many fakes for me.
Real should recognize real,
Lately, I can’t believe what I see.
My trying to change the world
Instead, it changed me.
I was better off being me,
Cause that’s how its meant to be

Master Piece

To get to the level of mastery
A must urgency
Needed necessities
  a master fee/
master time master weakness master craft
mastering/
all the short comings
over come
catastrophe blasphemies/
master strength master length
The duration it takes to overtake
It's important
master these/
the nay Sayers
what they say?
Correct this too takes mastering/
convey compute portray transmute
No further dispute
Now that's masterly/
listen...    First priority
the highest form of a master fee/
pay attention to their actions
the feel...     tension?
If it's the last thing
master these/
Observe you'll already
be ahead of the curve
massively/
Master the little things/
Every inch you give is a mile gone
Turn those inches in to millstones
Master fully/
never to be locked down or in always a way to win
Now thats a master key/
They laughed at first now no jokes
Master stroke master-ease/
Within the master class
Enrolled contemplate  
Confine till you find
That's master mine or mind/

Eventually/

you will be
A master of ceremony/
The silence will increase
When you piece
it all together
Now that's a master peace

Who was the first person to decide
what's right and what's wrong?
Not the picky choosy **** we think
Came straight from the Bible.
The book that's been translated across
many languages, cultures, and general
beliefs?
I mean the first person.
The first group of people that decided
having a full life is wrong.
Being yourself is wrong.
Wanting is wrong.
Yearning, dreaming, achieving...
All wrong.
Who decided being a woman
was so wrong that we should be condemned?
I should be able to **** who I want
and not be defined by my "number".
I shouldn't have to be asked that question.
I should be getting high-fived for having
Consensual *** with the guy who
makes my coffee.
I should be applauded for having ***
with multiple men.
I should be shown the same level of
respect as any man out there.
But my number is vital, isn't it?
Well, I say **** all of that.
**** a whole bunch of it.
**** anyone you want.
******* do anything you want to do.
Don't hurt anyone, and it shouldn't
be anyone's ******* business but yours.
Jesus ******* Christ.
**** him, too.
**** any imaginary thing you want.
That's what ******* is for.
**** yourself, for God's sake!
He wanted his people to be happy, right?
Free yourself from the chains of
modern society!
Find people just like you, and don't let them go.
They will be strong for you,
hold their heads high for you.
Defend you against nay-sayers and party poopers.
Stand behind you when confronted with
mass objection.
We are the lovers, and the fighters,
and we are many.
Band together and **** society.
You know,
For God's sake.

lmt

Bright as the menace, Man
brings gallant shadows
for the golden idol.

We give a wicked turn for the fire,
and jonquils for the Essenes,
pillories for nay-sayers,
squawking and gawking, bronze
bottoms for the whip:

perched piety, an angel
and a demon,
I forget their names
as they whisper petty
prayers into my ears.

Countless and listless are
the eyes that beam, Heaven-
sent and Heaven-forward,
the wanderlust leaving
Paradise in shambles.

Bright as Venus, acid rain
beckons all the saints
left dim, a shadow
bursting in the stratum.

We give wicked lies to the worrier:
One night, near to waking, he tore
the Devil's wings
and traded them for daylight,
bright as the
gallant  menace.

and the God laughed,
and then he cried.

Sometimes I wonder if jealousy
will lay with empathy, equal
halves to the other.

And I forget my name.

Forgetting piety, forgetting blame,
leaving the vagabond,
the lowlier child,
to weep alone
in his nakedness.

Countless and listless are
the prayers of children,
caught by the reign
of night, gleaming silently,
lonely
and together in the stratum.

Out of sight out of mind
I haven't look in the mirror in months
The Sayers of the sooth sensed
I'm selfish and the truth is
I've been thinking about myself to myself
and how to be a selfless influence
So I cut to the chase with multiple contusions
Lead.....ink.......bled
Through my art-array it's hard to say
Freedom of speech?
Well... Well I'm well aware that my where with all
is on borrowed days
So I had to e·val·u·ate
And I came to this conclusion
Stand my ground no matter what
To create a movement
Every one follows the leader and what ever he's doing
Caught in the race in confounded amusement
Some ones open the gate escape
from the labyrinth of illusions
Shucking and jiving showing and proving? No
I come from the bottom I'm showing improvement.

The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.

Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.

A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.

Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?

Too much commotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.

I guess I've been building up to this rant for awhile. It being too big to write on the fly and I thinking not everyone will share my world/life views, this is being prewritten before being posted. If I even do post it. Now, the purpose of this rant. There are those who say I don't do it enough. Others don't really know me well enough to find that I should. I've been toying around with a lot of life thoughts in my head. Some sounds like excuses for choices I've made and maybe they are. However, everyone has excuses even when they say they have none. Excuses for good and for bad. It varies from religious views to personal relationships. I lack the intelligence of higher learning, so I admit, I do not claim to know everything. I only know my point of view. And I've had it for awhile and it's the only thing I know for a surety about myself. This is written to neither offend or berate those around me. Instead, to give those a better idea of the person I am.

1- religious beliefs: just to get this out of the way first, I'm spiritual but not religious. It's an over used phrase. Not really agnostic because in a small way everyone is. No one knows what exists for a fact. They have their gathered experiences and ideals to come to the conclusion that's seems reasonable enough to guide their lives by. And even when they have those beliefs, no one follows to the letter of it. And that's ok. We are a world of imperfections. From what I've gathered from theology, through out my life, the main 2 things that everything has in common is to
              1-be a good person
              2- be a good person to others.

IF God fails to exist, then that means I am the master of my own life, experience, moral compass, actions towards myself and others. Brought up in a religious house, this was obviously called free will. And I've been painfully aware of it's reality since childhood. Not by my free will but of others. IF God fails to exist, then that means we either choose to live for ourselves or live in the service of others. And the conflict between selfishness and selflessness of those who do express religious beliefs always confused me. I've stopped questioning the place it has in my life because the things I question do not come with answers, only positive and negative influences that I have been taught throughout my life. I, myself, am selfish but I try to live selflessly in order to strive to be a good person in my mind. This brings about drama but joy as well. I see it as a way of being whole spiritually. Light and dark must coexist in order for all thoughts to take root into actions. Without light, anyone trapped in the dark will not be able to fathom joy, love, compassion....basically empathy. The dark holds only the opposite. Yet, without the dark, anyone living wholly in the light will seem too naive to trials and being able to truly understand how hard it is to find a glint of light in a pitch black situation. And, if no one is aware of themselves, they will most likely choose one or the other. Never both. I strive to encourage the light and face the dark. As a spiritual person, I'm grateful. I have moments where the trials of my own life and that of others tend to lead me down to the dark corners in my head but knowing the light I have a chance of weathering it the best way I can without being consumed by it. Those who have done this know it's never an easy feat. I believe that I must be all things in order to be whole. Good, bad, happy, sad...if I lack but one thing because I feel that it serves no purpose, then I feel I would have cheated being myself.

2- Love: like faith, this is simply an emotion of perception. No one idea of love is the same. And everyone holds love in different regards with different people. Some believe that once you find love in one person, that should be shared with that person alone. Monogamy, friendships, family. All creatures of a constructed idea that loyalty is the root of love. And as beautiful and trying that is, I cannot believe this is so. I believe love to be a necessary virus. That we are born with it to spread to those who need it. To those who crave it. To those who have yet used their own idea of love and desperately crave someone else to show them the description. Not just sexually but unconditionally. And this creates conflict of the soul. Especially when we force our minds and suppress our hearts to show that love on one singular facet. To love is to lose oneself completely in the possibility that it's vast and it's easy to get lost in. Moments of infidelity. Moments of torn emotional turmoil plays it's toll. Picking who to love and why you love them and what you would do for that person because you love them is insanity. But we all crave it. I believe that love is made to validate war or at least calm the tremors that it brings about. It's a chemical balance of things we've subjected ourselves to feel through habit and example. We create the brand of love that we give others and we seek that brand in hopes that other have the same or at least similar brand so we can feel the comfort of home with someone else. The feeling of safety, the feeling of rest, the feeling of realness, the feeling of acceptance, the feeling of truth, the feeling of comfort, the feeling of life and the feeling of fighting when love is deemed worthy of fighting for. This is my brand. I give it freely with the price that I will be questioned in where my love truly lies. It's scattered about freely like breadcrumbs. And if someone finds me at the end of that trail, I'll be ****** if I created that journey for them for nothing.

3- service/friendship/family: when I was younger, I though friends were the gold of my life. Irreplaceable and unable to be made the same twice. I use my friends to create the persona I've grown since youth. I am those who have love me and hated me. I am those who inspire me and depress me. I am those who fought for me and fought against me. If I feel that I'm flawed I search for others with these flaws. If I can help or even be the catalyst of my friends to overcome their flaws, then I have a shot of overcoming mine. My friends are proof that I'm not alone even in the moments where I wish I was. Even those I choose to be "unworthy" of my friendship, I cannot help but show them the courtesy of friendship. They are the reason why I stay alive in hopes that if I cannot help myself then there are those in need of me....hopefully. My family is, in a way, very tight knit. They are what molded my sense of dedication and perception that I bring into the outside world of society. They are the jokes I tell. They are the tears I've shed. They are the hugs I give. They are the noise I've screamed out of anger. They are the pillars in which I've stood on to weather the strains of being an individual. Wether the examples were good or bad, they were always the educators of my emotions. And there's a bitter sweetness that comes with that. The feeling that one must rise to an expectation and risk the crushing reality that, I alone, may not be able to rise to the challenge. It's hard to break away from those who raised you and create your own family in combined reasons with strangers around you. Or to create a family and come to find out they will only part ways from you after some time. To me, friends old and new, gone or present, they are always family. I could not have pieced myself together as the person I am today were it not for those who willingly gave pieces of themselves to me. And by me, they are loved.

4- Judgements: this one is always a sensitive one for me because I'm guilty of judgement. I've found myself many times giving the side glance at others and feeling like my thoughts are better than theirs. My theory is, if one has enough attention to pick out the flaws and cracks of people then they too possess the ability to pick out the gems in them as well. And it's difficult to do this when one is trapped in their own mind of "what's acceptable and what's abhorred. Homosexuality, deformities, drug addicts, mental illnesses, bad attitudes, poor management in a work force, dumb choices made by friends and family, someone who cuts you off in traffic, worldwide tales made by those who don't want the truth of matters to be revealed, politicians, other races, WHATEVER! We live in a time where life is taboo. Differences are mocked instead of celebrated due to our lack of living outside of ourselves and really put in the time to live in someone else's head. We justify our judgement by feeling so secure that we are always right and that other simply don't know any better. And deep down this makes us angry. Or to me, it does. And it should. We use are judgements as a safety net of our insecurities. We use them to feel that our lives are more significant than those we figure are wasting the time and air we greedily consume. We use it to feel pride in killing others in battle and deem it with a sense of patriotism or a mark of gaining hierarchy in are status but for what? Those who hide behind religious walls will or wealth or self serving thoughts will never know the joy of finding a stranger and making them a working cog in the life we're lucky to have. And it's sad that one must pursue past the nay sayers just to find that voice of reason that tells you, " you're imperfect but that's what I love about you."

Maybe it's the zen influences that I've recently encountered in my life or maybe these are thoughts that I've always had but due to stress and tragedy, I never was able to put this into words. Maybe fear that I know...by my words nothing will change according to my own perspective. However, if you made it this far into reading this, I'm grateful that you did. And I write with the intent, not to change how you think, yet, to make you think all the same. Life is too short and the human mind has too much potential to be wasted on a monotonous life that we believe will grant us happiness. There is so much more out there. And if you don't have the funds to travel or the friends that inspire you or the words that resonate within you, you have a mind that can sense life in all it's forms and all you need to do is use it. I love you guys

So called, taker of the offered gift.
-- some say he is the lazyman, some say holy
here's this day, wit you and me in it, see/
clever berdach clown curio
here's whose telling who's story, as if
what is it, the touche engarde
peace re distance, engaged,
- final gloss, if it makes peace
touch me with a sign, signal peace first
at a distance,
a whistle, and a wavy, hey
what's new?
Finding any finer points
to press
into service? Dialoging with Daemon's.
-- spirits claiming truth makes nothing free.
so all who aim at nothing know it.

In a time, we all hold, in stories
of who we were
when only sense talkers lived
on the dryland,
relatives of mine and yours lived
on the dryland…
- we came as children, already
- teachers and feeders were here.
- we became boys, we learned
- we learned letters let one
- become any believable,
- why not factor, a will,
- and we was only me,
- suddenlies occur,
- and this one was you…
- we the writer/reading mind, me

- I said, I see no other, I must do some new--ness
- necessary how ness options,
- so sleep came and gave me hats,
- each hat held a dreamtime,
- I had artist intuition, I knew the use of gifts.
As a I shudder when I hear "the burden of the Lord"
the long forbidden phrase, banned
to any professor

becoming the story all boys and girls know by heart.
-Grace comes with a price, Christ failed to pay,
according to the institutions of religionized authority.

Augury. Spill the dove's guts and wish on the liver spots.

Been there, done that.
Played the game, read the book, watched the trilogy.

Drama serves to open wedoms, welcome, become dear,
pay up front for an hour or two of laughing,
at the royal fool retelling the savior story.
-----------
cut to Danny Kaye, close up wink,
check out the Emperor's New Mind.
-----------
whole world of inventions making our link occur,
instant occurences, technical tools for making joy.
Happy hellos, that each have good byes, good be witcha.
Turn up the house lights. See your role,
take your proper bow, on your mark
pirouette on a paradigm./
Roll in the Phrygian dime, tales. Fascis./ what
could that mean, in a peace making tale,
told in the fallout shelter,
after the legend of the Alamo lost all credibility.

Staged form,
dance expressed
in silent wordwise opera,
quest for meaning, go riverwise, be rain,
be one drop
of your kind of thing,
falling splat… near where the whole fallen man story started,
timewise, around the time Jacob dreamed,
what would seem the right thing to do,
that's a question from Hebrew Schule, if you
were Jacob, and I, your brother, keeper
of our father's flocks… do you take usus fructus abusus,
of our father's lands and wells?

Forethought set piece,
a mental drama
in the literal jungle of guesses men have left,
scribbles in sand, gigabits aligned in assorted sense,
pearling stones in wide shallow streams,
reflecting fractal suns,

rented cyberspace poet taste tests,
poetaster proofs of progress, testimony-

witness if I lie, catch me if you can,
lest I lean on my own pile of reasons
for being any thing at all, as a man, I mean,
not as a stack of sense
I
balance by leaning lightly into winding Jello
time winds of reasons after imaginations,
shifting actual pairs of dimes,
Phrygian capped Liberty,
she who welcomes po', any shade,
sifting fine sense to hold one particular
God's thoughts, so no jot or tittle is ever lost,
God knows, pro-verbs pro-cede acting as if
any who opens the habitate, is visited,
by the visitor who gave reason worth,
the truth you test through living it out, once,

logic, orderly paths to production at scale,
odds increase
as new minds come online, wondering
if I had the tool for the task at hand,
how might I use such a tool.
Money and data, both lack any good, save
the use that can be made of each concept,
each mind framing paradigm building tool,

take a thought and hold it, mark your time.

---  there's my cue, says the real Ken Pepiton,
in text, actual current context of --
What is this…?
play, perhaps,
- feels like a movie- you know?

happening to be enabled by my augments,
to remember any fact I was ever given as a go-by.

Benchmarks in history, of your single point
for becoming anything at all,
relative to the edge
of my influx, swinging wide
ifitsnotitsgottabegnosisnotted, tangled
knots, tighten, right,
or loosen, if
depends, swings on a single strand that is you,
and nada mas, just
you… doer of all you ever do, before or after.

Now, so, as we think,
in mind, we exist,
at the moment, this instance of reality,
a thought I used to think of you, ready,
is behavior in progress,
be, I became holder of this thought by
having read the story I believe,
my leave, I let my story be true, I do not
lie to me, ethos. Point… from which an axion

extends… a sense of thick, frictionless time,
in a wind-like form, gnosisnot, you feel
you know, the flow is safe to let go,
-Jello-time slowing
think with logos as logos as that word
unfolds to essential first phase human maturity,
recalling names of things you named, as a child
learning the role of mankind in reality, growing
sharper, or brighter as age, demands,
understanding, and, in my culture, forewarning,
do not lean on any structure you build alone.

I have my being in that same story,
after my entrering in
to the realm
of walking upright,
I stepped
knowing some time since, giant
steps taken feel just like falling
- faith, fidelity its ownself
strong confidence in the depth intentionally
forcing re-deflection, cross winding threaded

thoughts fit in words, each word held either

sense, common or crazy, to any seer, in this medium,
connected to a mortal means for holding thoughts,

as no man can hold the wind in his fist,
so no lie can hold a truth known to make
it's knowers free…

so, what is free? At the moment, you. Free
to choose to
retry tracing conservation of energy, or
let it be, at innate literal action level letting loose,
open the sluice, let go the flood of ifery,
the way life ever was done,
is the way life ever is done.
As a mind thinks it is it is.
As a man, wombed or un, thinks at the core,
so it is, and only actual faith shifts from absurd,
to sublime, one step past proverbial simple…

if the sense in any word, holds mere, I know, right,
mere inspiration, a thought that feels real yessy,
no pain, easy to work with, ever onward leaning,
no dread hell to pay should I assume the reason,
I was made,
is peace, made by my say so, where none was,
where only I was,

bottom line, good for nothing I could think
of being
worth the effort
to guide through the meandering course
of human events, where all the power lies,
to hold back the flood, forecast by the redactors
of the literature, all we know, wordwise,
from the time
of the oldest texts, and most recent prophecies.

- aside, btw, sidetrack, all the oldest texts,
- sealed in eroded alluvial bubbles,
- you have seen the edges of the deserts,
- geological symmetry, same forces, same patterns
- -- Dead Sea Scrolls, found in once sealed amphora
during my mortal moments, those were deciphered.

- same aside, the tehkne we use allows, if we chose
- to learn to learn forever, no fear of never knowing all.
- The truth you know, frees to the limit of the sense it makes
- in post- all we all ever knew, loosed, in one generational
- laminate of spiritual images fitted in words for use,
- rote
- ritual liturgical dance, done in clouds of representative
- saintly prayers on the way through the void to the other
side… meandering streams of conscience, science, sfumata,
no lines, smoke-like streams of conscious -- awake, and attending

From on high the seer says, we saw when the poet wrote the tale
we tell it as we told it,
still,
few find the time or patience, to ponder, dams.

---------- Now, me, 74 and a half years old, today, by the way,

Younger me lives in all my once unaccounted for idle words,
rusting hulks of reasons for my shame,
all my reasons for war,
all my reasons for crafting confabulations, - another btw
I learned why preachers tell jokes, by paying attention
to one thing, one Sunday, for about a minute.

The Methodist Minister, in his Holy Garb, classic black
John Wesly style flowing robes of early modern academes…
advisory boards, seers, sayers and prognosticators…

Told of a preacher overhearing children staging a liar's contest,
the prize was a common box turtle. Why, heavens,
of course, the guided holy man, knew, I must give these lads
a lesson… so he peered over the plank fence, and ahemed them
to attention, "Boys, when I was your age, I never told lies."

Where upon the boy with the turtle handed it over,
all conceded none could tell a bigger lie.

Riverwise, meandering is how whole forests, and mountains,
have been carried to the sea. Ideal fluidity, presumes
we can think real complex things,
look at any protein, that’s a twisted process,
think that up, irreducible complexity of realification,
twists that twist as far as possible, constantly, taking shape
forces beyond the power
of water and rolling stone and flotsam, command,

a lip of the earth rises in a one-sided smile… things thought
riverwise, always,
in any religion,

accepting truth, is the way life takes us beyond our fear of death,
or possible acceptance of chains forged in guilds,
doctrinal congress, doxological orthogonal games, in the realm

of my reality, my century after the concept, the first gripping
hook, metaphor, hook-up, connextion, come along, hold on,

if you did inherit the wind,
would you find your self returning or going… from now on…

True Love most say is the work of fiction and fantasy
That it doesn’t exist in the real world today
But for those nay Sayers and disbelievers the world
Is a dark and weary place.

But True Love does exist I say, for it lives in the
Hearts and minds of the dreamers and poets
And but of course for those happy and fortunate
People that find it.
True Love isn’t measured by time nor distance
But by the strength of the heart and the mind

True love can cross any boundary, from the
Smallest of pebbles to the highest of mountains
From the smallest of puddles to the largest of oceans
True love even transcends death itself

And for those happy few that do find it,
Let them seize it and hold on tightly
And never ever let go

Sapphire eyes descending my torso
Have I a head, or is there just more so?
That you require upon evaluation
Leading me on orbiting space station
Had no idea, this alien encounter of ours
One of affection; should have brought flowers
Am I your mate-ling, here for devours?

Crystalline follicles free flowing hair
You meet me in spacesuit whilst I am bare
This really be not most fair advantage
Your briefings seemingly micromanage
Intergalactic trans-species inseminations
Are forbidden by Rules of Constellular Nations
Yet admitting magnet-ting emitting vibrations

Super charged particles pucker your orifice
It is enticing this boudoir you have by Uranus
The décor is all slippery, wet and inviting
I must admit to you, it all very ionic exciting
Are we to agree to be astral *** players?
When shall I see what lie beneath foiled layers?
Drop your robes please, I am with no nay-sayers

I travel alone, as Lone Space Ranger
This proposition to me I find intrigued danger
A plus and a minus electric storm lingers
Exceedingly long seem your definitive fingers
Polarities, rarities amongst planetoid creatures
Though I’m quite digging your extended features
I’m glad we’re alone to be each others teachers

Survival is imbedded in instinct.
What I know to be right
Tears me apart at every crossroads.


Today, like all days, I am sick.
Outside my childhood home,
Spring brings with it an air of change.
Tulips burst from the earth,
Freed from their bulbs and stretching
Every petal and leaf skyward.
They lean towards the sun.
Reminded of the Chesapeake with each brackish breeze,
Birds warble a welcome to warmer weather.
Harvest is upon us, and most will eat their fill.
Sayers and doers move about the world
Saying. Doing.
Perhaps one day I will go outside.
One day I may be able to say and do –
It doesn’t hurt to dream –
Maybe I’ll even rule the world outside my childhood home.

Inside, everything is the same.
My voice is a passive one.
It screams from the bottom of an ever-expanding hole
No one listens because a birdsong is prettier.
No one taught me how to live on the surface
So I adapted.
No one taught me.
I dug myself a hole away from liability
Inside my childhood home.
I lied, cheated, and sacrificed my freedom
just to remain comfortable.
My dark, cold hole knows no tulips.
The spring breeze doesn’t bother
to wake me in the mornings.
Perhaps one day I will know what to say –
It doesn’t hurt to dream –


What I know to be right tears me apart at every crossroads.
This is my survival story.

I did sign that treaty
that treaty forbidding me to spread my black wings
but time has past
and at last I am not your prisoner

Time to dance in the skies sweet
for I know the sins you have committed
you lied and cheated
you even lied about god

So the treaty I had with you
those words of little substance
I do burn them in your eyes
you ******* of sayers

I burn our covenant
and so **** on our treaty
run you sack of ****
for I am onto you


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Require desire and delegate the choir to my sire, redesign and perspire; the liar deigns to fire the dire hire. I sleep soundly and softly while the people shoot aloofly so sooth sayers deny a responsible player and quietly quiet the last word.

When I look into the sky I see forever
Wary clouds of the infinitesimal kind
Water may wash the dirt away
Wind can lead a heart home
Wisdom wants to direct the path
While instinctual feet trudge on
Wild are the hairs pulled premature 
Wasted on a sense of needed advancement
Waging enraged regret for oats poorly sown
Where have all the past time gone
Were all of the nah sayers wrong
Will the breezes cry my song.