Thunderstorms is that deep anger inside me. Its rather rare and it doesnt happen very often, but when it does, i just get very miserable and take it out on the people around me. I dont mean to hurt them, i just need to let it out. But since its so rare, there's a sort of beauty in that passionate anger.

Volcanoes. My anxiety lays low and simmers steadily for long periods of time and then it gradually rises and the pressure increases until it explodes, and then it just covers every single surrounding aspect of life, temporarily consuming everything else. Then theres a period of silence and nothingness after. Then I begin to rebuild.

Gentle and persistent rain is just that gloom that hangs around, and you can never quite shake. Its not necessarily painful or harmful, its just dreary and more draining than one would expect. It can be dispelled by strong bursts of sunlight.

Wind is for those times when I rapidly shift, going from gentle and lovable on a hot day to a violent gale which pushes back outside influence.

And the ocean is because im constantly exploring myself constantly trying to map out every section of my brain and my body and my limitations but no matter how deep i ever dive, the pressure is too overwhelming, and ill never know everything, and so theres this.. Mysterious aspect to the deeper parts of the ocean, similar to the deeper parts of my brain.

For those times when my emotions cycle rapidly, I am as destructive as a hurricane. The emotions whip around just as fast as any gust of wind, but truly, they are all just as deadly as each other. Nothing can stop the trio of emotions, they just go until they don't have enough energy to fuel themselves any more.

Forgive me if I am a blizzard. From time to time I become scathingly cold. I become icy, unrelenting and unbearable. Getting caught within the blizzard will leave those so unfortunate with a bad case of frostbite which can only be amputated if you hope to survive. The cold will linger, but the regretful sun will try its hardest to warm you back up.

Then in turn, I will become too confident in myself. The sun will get too hot. It will be too sure of itself, and it will scorch and burn.
As a result, the clouds will roll in and humility will take over, masking the arrogance which was so offensive. On a cloudy day, forgive me, I just wish I could be better.

Be wary of earthquakes. Fear will be felt throughout my body, and it will rock me down to the core, and it will rumble through my mind until I tear apart. Beware of falling objects.

Your anonymous blog

To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,

but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.

You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.

You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.

With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely pesuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.

poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.

literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.

To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.

– Zumwalt (2011) (copied from www.zumpoems.com)

I want to be the cigarette
   between your lips,
   to when you would always decide
   whether to light me,
   take in my smoke,
   and let me singe scathingly your lungs,
   as you stare on my embers,
   entranced on my flicker,
   watching me dwindle
   with the haze growing
   more drunk of the evening dank;

Or keep me cold
   and suffer the grim hankering
   for my tepid nicotine
   to be your oxygen;
   for the comforting reek I leave on your collar;
   the bitter aftertaste, in your mouth.

And then rustle in sobs to the placid moon,
   "Let him **** me;
   He is all I want."

When people you know become people you knew,
When friends become strangers you just can't get through to.
Change happens so quickly as time rushes past,
You can try all you want, but close ties just won't last.

The crooked smile you once sought can't be found,
In its place a cold, deep, unfamiliar frown.
This path that I take, it's all on my own,
There's no trace of the warm house I'd once called a home.

I try to let go, escape old memories with age,
But the harder I try, the tighter the cage.
Memories once false, now memories true.
Rosy retrospection, now splotches of blue.

The pleasant memories, once neat and pristine,
Full of pastel colors: pinks, yellows and greens,
Now sneer scathingly, they're superficial and fake.
The past, once so beautiful, now a giant mistake.

Smoke unfurls from the ancient urn
Twisting scathingly
Marking territory
Snaking terribly
Towards her

The souls had a burning eagerness
They were lost and mislaid
They were worn out and drained
Frazzled, they searched for aid
A momentary Band-Aid
Unbeknownst to them, their aid was at strife
Exhausted from a strenuous plight
When approached by the souls
The aid clasped its knife
And scathingly ripped the vines of harmony and yearning right out of their haven
Leaving the souls crumbling with a loss of direction and a non-existent elation
Drowning in hopelessness
The end, was at sight
Finally arriving, barely alive, there was a clamorous knock
Fervent and ready to pay the price
It beat the souls down
Only to bring them paradise
A mystifying euphoria
It felt like they were in an ecstatic coma
The souls exulted in the thrilling aurora,
Discovering their freedom, the gleam of propriety
The burning souls had arrived to their new normality

Preface:
Earlier today May 28th, 2021,
the 12-member jury unanimously
found Cristhian Bahena Rivera guilty
of first-degree ****** in brutal stabbing death
sentenced to life in prison
without the possibility of parole
of Mollie Tibbetts remembered as then friendly
20-year-old who was studying
to become a child psychologist.

IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the body found July 18, 2018,
an exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts.

Impossible mission to deduce
senseless killing of innocent babe
wild speculation perchance
spurned, snubbed,or scorned
love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack.

Grievous punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bullying utter disbelief.

Family/friends question
the supposed almighty
at devastating loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl.

Third anniversary regarding
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
aforementioned deceased  
affected sodden wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
a foregone lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit said slain lass
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence),
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.

Thelonius Reborn as the Dee Oh Double Gee

If we rhyme metaphorically , reach back historically, spit out new styles  just like Miles, compose tunes that Trane, John Coltrane, would be proud to compile, or like the Bird, Charlie Parker, bravely brake rules, take take take, the music apart, do you  honor Darwinian progress? Do you demand excellent art? Then you might might be from Hip- Hop,  yeah, that's where many geniuses start. The way each style, with its own honed sharpened edge, achieved unique prominence,  it’s just Chi Town Commonsense.
It's simple, it's like nature, there is no fakers, take Kanye West or Chet Baker. Satchmo begets Biggy, Tupac was influenced by Dizzy. Our Discerning ears are blessed each time new evolutions arise, that redesign and define, unleashing musical highs with no conpromise. Parallels and similarities to cool people like you should be no suprise. Stretching art just for art's sake, eyes eyes eyes, on no other prize.
They got Words and Chords fired with a furious frenzy and a ferocious fluidity. Lines and rhymes scatted so scathingly slow they create this surreal serenity. It Might have you boppin to Hampton, Sir Duke , or Miss Ella? Or tip you to trippin on Twista,  Tribe Quest, Rockafella.
Monk and Snoop, Thelonius and the  D. O. Double G ,they both got game.. Basie the Count, The Clan of Wu Tang, the same. Dedicating days, weeks, even years carefully, lovingly crafting perfection. Giants, and I do mean Giants,  of Hip- Hop and Jazz,share that improvisational connection.
But alas, amidst greatness we are graced, and humbly  each day,I say, Let's embrace the soulful caress that each genre conveys. That Cool Cat may take hip- hop, that Pretty Lady may take jazz, or you can twist the order around. Cause each delivers a pleasure that is non- stop, and that, my amazing people,  is How Music should Sound!!
Bobby O




◦

Thelonious  Reborn as the Dee Oh Double Gee

If we rhyme metaphorically , reach back historically, spit out new styles  just like Miles, compose tunes that Trane, John Coltrane, would b proud to compile, or like the Bird, Charlie Parker, bravely brake rules, take take take, the music apart, do you  honor Darwinian progress? Do you demand excellent art? Then you might might b from Hip- Hop,  yeah, that's where many geniuses start.
It's simple, it's like nature, there is no fakers, take Kanye West or Chet Baker. Satchmo begets Biggy, Tupac was influenced by Dizzy. Discerning ears are blessed each time new evolutions arise, that redesign and define, unleashing musical highs with no conpromise. Parallels and similarities to cool people like you shud b no suprise. Stretching art just for art's sake, eyes eyes eyes, on no other prize.
Words and Chords fired with a furious frenzy and a ferocious fluidity. Lines and rhymes scatted so scathingly slow they create this surreal serenity. Might have you boppin to Hampton, Sir Duke , or Miss Ella? Or tip you to trippin on Twista,  Tribe Quest, Rockafella.
Monk and Snoop, Thelonius and the  D. O. Double G ,they both got game.. Basie the Count, Clan of Wu Tang, the same. Dedicating days, weeks, even years carefully, lovingly crafting perfection. Giants, and I do mean Giants,  of Hip- Hop and Jazz,share that improvisational connection.
But alas, amidst greatness we are graced, and humbly  each day,I say, Let's embrace the soulful caress that each genre conveys. That Cool Cat may take hip- hop, that Pretty Lady may take jazz, or you can twist the order around. Cause each delivers a pleasure that is non- stop, and that, my amazing people,  is How Music should Sound!!
Bobby O




◦