(seep yourself to leak away)

all reveals are feints;
I take you right
but I am moving left,
always left,
then left again

when I turn the faucet of me on,
brown, rusty pipe water comes out,
never turning clear,
even if the flow
went on for a millennium

someone traveller passerby
reads my excellent explicit illicit words,
with kind sweetness
observes a valid conclusion:
Poems take.a lot out of you

correct+wrong

not take, give
they are the slow seepage
of my overburdening
which is
yes, yes, I know, all relative,
but perspective is a
sometime summer thing,
and all the springtime streets
filled with filthy frozen slush

having  come from some rusty water leakage,
never turning clear
no matter how long the street runs away
from you

so you take yourself to give away,
seeping and leaking

ah words;

so useful and so inadequate
crushed petals from the Tree of Life

you ask me If I have read my brother,
the prophet-poet Jeremiah?

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.
Who can understand it?

When your words came, I ate them;
they were my joy and my heart's delight

Then the Lord reached out his hand unto my mouth and said,
"I have put my words in your mouth."

these are those words

Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”

Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.

Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”

Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the ****-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.

Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******* the ball-****
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?

If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).

I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.

It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.

With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?

So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?

Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****.

With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.

We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,

Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.

They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.

Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter

Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,

Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,

Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.

The mask of vengeance is not to be confused
with the seepage of hurt and confusion.
Something to blame, to get in the way
of a blazing fire providing.
Kindle it with substance and truth,
but instead with damp lies and gritty sand.
An effort of competence in place
of the evading truth that sometimes
the idea of affinity diminishes
in the hole of bewitching fruits.
A spell to take hold of the clean,
turning ***** in morality. Excuses
to remain pure at heart, blame to never
feel the pain of rejection.
Darkness.
Pain.
Loneliness.
Desperation.
Anointing the headless children without
a thought of the purpose. Watering a rootless
tree, attempting to make it grow.

Unbeknowst to all,
The tree of life has three stages.
Trunk. Branch. Oil.
Terrence Malick knew this.
Dinosaurs our oil.

Ten sephira. One oil.
It is my burden of dreams, I shall prevail through the pongo del muerto.
Foucault's pendulum spilling sand. Spilling oil.

Scaoil. Release. Urchar.
Sraith pictiúr a ceathar.
Airborne toxic event.
Seepage Daniel. Seepage.
Put Oil.

My minotaur has mad cow's disease.
The FDA is rounding up each one
in a forty mile radius for slaughter.
They're incinerating the bodies
at the trash-to-steam factory. I hear
gunfire and wailing children. Sharon
next door is in shock. She's been
on her knees down on the lawn
mumbling, "please, please, please,"
for the last two hours. Crimson clouds
bleed into sunrise. How will we
escape the seepage?  

I'll stop at the Getty for a car wash
before I pick you up. Have some
sandwiches packed.

O for the love of God,
the moos, the moos.

I feel like I'm at the age in my life
where I don't know if I'm
Cheap,
Poor,
Or extremely resourceful.

Band-aids to prevent the social infections that could eventually
spread to the frontal lobe,
Diseases started on Fox News, spread to the living room,
circulate around the family dinner table
putting victims of ignorance on the coroner’s slab
Alleviate the pain.
Should we let the gapping wounds of intolerance fester, decay and grow maggots?
***** bigotry, vile illiteracy, primitive ideas coat the skins of society like a black goo.

Band-aids: self adhesive bandages
We aren’t teachers. We are medics.
covering the gapping wounds of life
lathering the lesions with Neosporin.
Healing the scars from parenting gone wrong
- scars from wounded self-esteems
-lacerations to the proverbial heart

Scars lasting longer than the body itself.  
No one knows where its impact will end.

Band-aids
temporary fix
heal the wound fast, heal the hurt faster
A Johnson and Johnson remedy for damaged organisms
Well-meaning ones hurling scriptures scald hands with tainted words
Healing is a matter of time.

Arm teachers to protect children from the crazies who loom?
What will protect them from their own inherited ignorance?
The damage is already done when they get here.
Equip us with Band-Aids, boxes and boxes.

Hello Kitty over their ears to block the infection from coming in
Spiderman for their mouths. Stop the seepage of any contamination from spreading to others.

The remaining scars will fade, but not disappear.
even with a band-aid.

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My minotaur has mad cow's disease.
The FDA is rounding up each one
in a forty mile radius for slaughter.
They're incinerating the bodies
at the trash-to-steam factory. I hear
gunfire and wailing children. Sharon
next door is in shock. She's been
on her knees down on the lawn
mumbling, "please, please, please,"
for the last two hours. Crimson clouds
bleed into sunrise. How will we
escape the seepage?

I'll stop at the Getty for a car wash
before I pick you up. Have some
sandwiches packed.

O for the love of God,
the moos, the moos.

Beyond the rusty and almost  illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited *******, leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.

Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.

dropped hard to the floor
the crumpled sound of dead weight
his cracked skull oozing
lifeless body releases
blood, ***** and seepage run

the stench of death fades
bones gnawed clean by sated rats
start to fossilize
just another new entry
in his basement collection


Del Maximo
© September 18, 2009

Choose your satirical weapon of choice,
Draw a three-dimensional box and conceal the hidden within a two-dimensional sphere,
Needle-point holes squeeze tightly, a misty spray like that of a busted soda-pop can,
The knowledge leaks consistently into the universe, morphing tear droplets into The Great Lakes,
These ten toes hover and glance over the edge, zoning prints like words in a descending motion,
A touch of the shoulder from a folded palm gently comforting and confirming life above this Earth,
A speedy squeeze of all five joints, now on my knees, the gravel latches onto my scabs, pushing and pounding through the pain,
Molars grind, tongue-dried, salty saliva salvaged, yet sitting silently on a secretive cold-sore,
The knowledge is flooding the dam gates, burying ankles in piercing hot grains of sand, diving into a castle's moat, a rush like traffic on a Friday evening,
The world seeps into the depths of my transparent drain,
The seepage creeps slowly downwards into a mental shaft constructed purposely for psychological phenomenon,
I worry there may be excessive overspill of rescued reality,
An unopened present, the anticipation and expectation as a child dreams,
As the gaps and cracks expand, I am able to touch base with memories as they pour outwards like a dog's busted territorial marker, a firefighter's ammunition,
Extinguish the forrest fire,
Paint the canvas gently with a spin of the color wheel,
Play the part of a lonely plumber,
Plug every hole.

slight crack allows seepage
slowly undermining the structural integrity
allowing erosion free reign
trickle with enough particulates to encourage life
on its own
runs down the face
exposed –
supports tumble, clattering
bits too boulders
torrential force pushes away remaining derbies
sending wave after wave
pyroclastic flow –
distant thunder rolls in without a cloud one
explosions from afar
trembling from within
excitement for what is to come –
the abandonment of emotional baggage
open to a fault
disintegrating damaged walls
new bridges through conversation
released while behind bars –

when I disclaim that
there be no poem today
I suggest you
put me in the dock,
hit the chess clock,
to time the length
tween my lies
sit me down in
the witness stand,
to better see
the holes in me,
from which word seepage,
grey matter leakage,
blackened white slush mush,
covers my face and hands,
and with fingers splayed
in the V
of a Spock like Cohenic blessing,
I make

my beginning and ending
Commencement Speech,
a recitation of incantations,
an eye on the pyramid inspiration  
of cockeyed cantorial hymnations

Like this:

there is only one Godhead
that the spirits that allow me
breathing space in this world
and the one yet to come,
demand of me, worship -
It would be at the altar
of momentary fears
that clarify the whole,
the unifying principle,
that my blinded eyes,
my Pharaoh hardened heart,
my closed and deafened ears
see, soften and hear and believe!

I am slave to the
Gods of Poetry,
their truth, my lies,
stirred in one ***,
and as I live and breathe
I am rewired
with a new poem every day,
an addict who cannot obey,
who cannot afford to pay
the judicial costs
of the cease and desist order
of his own common sense

Jan 2, 2011 10:05 AM

whipped back across the line
in harsh tones of childhood trauma
vile acidic tongue
lapped and corroded the biodome,
which maintains the constructs
of who I am needed to be
white smoke fills the black space
changing gray as it wafts through
ever so slowly

Patch the chemical burn!
Patch it NOW!

before it compromises emotion
before it spreads and corrupts
the foundation of all
the slightest justification
can stop the seepage
Lies, Lies, Lies, Lies
honesty isn't truth
when used as a weapon

watching the dome slowly fail
smoke seeping through pinholes
waiting for the death of hope
frozen in place by hateful expressions
of those who claim not to care

girl -
your silence tears upon me
a savage beast mute
for in your intermittent groans on gusts of ire
masked in murmurs curt
seepage coarse, acrid leaks

girl -
tell me straight, hide not my fate
your real intent upon these clouds benign
for when the heat of marinated fury bursts
erupts one day on bowed head sad
intent on living life in peace

girl -
will it ruin times of joy we knew
bursts of copper, gold and red
no separation there but alchemy of spirits free
so what is it that ails you friend
arms folded eyes aflame in chilled blind rage

I lay on the floor my soul dissolving and melting from me.
A pressure is pushing onto my heart, I can’t move, breathe or see.
How can I become muscle and bones?
So I can stop the seepage of life, the tears and the moans.
The sadness overpowers me and kidnaps my mind.
The weakness of my pathetic being is cruel and unkind.
I’m oozing away as each minute goes by
Drowning in sadness, I gasp for air and I cry.

In this hour of lead;
within walls that have
contained the seepage
of a families turbulence,
I swipe a light finger
over her former belongings,
leaving a trail in dust
to mark a temporary presence.

Lately, I've tried to relate greatly to the daily slew of poppy brew and wisdom grew by the tv news crew spittin their wisdom from the pedestal push of the routine pedal stool mush that slid across the floor of lava rocks and hot spots that rupture soon enough when the keys rattle in doorknob and the whiny creak opens with meek silhouettes on shadowy walls of latex seepage...the colors' fingers stretch from the threads, penetrate the outlet, crawl through the cord, and tap my brain through the spine post run. Whiskey was the inception, but the jar was the culprit for sure: the vessel that drilled my brains and scratched the black background noise of my dreams. Logic plays in the background but the car fume imagery bores me lately. Need someone else to care to pretend for a minute, need two cafecitos to go, need three job securities to take a vacation from three life voids, y necesito una chica seria for the rest of this conversation...unless the inconvenience of engagement confuses she like the language attempts on me. Gone fishing, for the missing, for the family don't listen, for the docks do rock, and the waves make the the light prowl the wake off the take of the bow of the ballast aft tower. Opportuney viola sin duda, ninazungumza kiswahili...clock me in, blanket spanker, tuck away your worries. I love you and care about you too

my well has begun to dry
the water seeping through the growing cracks
burrowed by the little mice
who carry away the pieces of my structure
allowing the seepage to continue on
until all that's left is dust and bone
my tongue of sand
weighted against formerly flowing words
drowning on the dryness
of severed ties
the water disappoints
now surely i must leave

This is what it has come to
The wide majority
Flaunting their wears
Like street peddlers
Like ******
Like gypsies covered in
The placenta of the gutter

To avoid my sight
From the difference from
What there is to be seen and
What there actually is

Is to see the wide spread
Ocean aflame with
Oil seepage & a singular match

The piano man
Plays alone

He knows that
The flames will of
Course engulf him

Yet He plays on...

TO TRANSPARENT TO SEE
HOW FAST THE LIGHT WILL
TRAVEL THROUGH THE GRAVE

SINCE ALL THE FRIENDS
ARE GONE, WHO KNOWS WHAT
WILL BE SEEN WHEN I AM DEAD

Dear thoughts who transpire through
The misty and electric transfers of
Bleak battering of keys of white

Each number that represents the
Maddening gap of pages & pages
Of once white but now black covered
Filth producing a childish sniffle as the
Tickets of Vesuvius are all sold out

To death we make our money
To war we make even more
To heroism we clink our champagne glasses
To history we clear our throats
Gather our spit
And aim
Right for its eye

To sell ourselves to ourselves
Is to prove to ourselves
We are nothing more
Than the dollar

Sell your soul
Make your money
Prove what we
Say we are not

And live in the mountains
Hunting the wild
Drinking the wilder
Shooting at a sky that
Has been crying since
The first of this species
Has been around

On this night
There are no losers

On this night
There are no winners

On this night
Winner Take Nothing

And Loser
Take Nothing

As Well

You stand at your front door.  Looking down, you see horror.  You freeze in that spot as from under the door, comes the ****** seepage of carnage.

It pools around you.  As you push open the door and walk in, it makes a sickening squishing and suction sound.  The gore seeps into your sandals.

You know that you shouldn't, but fear also rules curiosity.  You walk further into the room.  Afraid that something is going to attack.

As you step through the room, you here an odd pop .  You gaze down at your feet.  There oozing over your toes, is the remnants of an eye.

Your throat starts to burn, as the bile rises up.  Your eyes lose focus.  You faint and slink to the floor.  You lay cuddled in the blood.

Upon your waking, you find yourself soaked in the blood.  It is gelled in your hair.  When you can finally stand, bits of raw flesh cling to your clothes and cold skin.

There before you are your freshly painted walls.  Covered in...someone.  It is then that you notice that you front door is now shut...and locked.

All you can think of, is the plumber that you had called in to fix you leaking kitchen faucet.  Oh no!  Is that a pipe wrench?

A noise from behind, has you quickly spinning around.  You see a shadow move.  It slinks in to the kitchen.  You give chase.  Stepping on entrails.

You had dreaded this.  You knew it would happen again.  There is no way to stop it.  There, like the last time,  on the kitchen floor is Diablo, your cat.  Daintily licking it's paws.  Looking very satisfied with himself.

You walk towards your little demon of a cat.  It stares back at you with eyes, green as jade.  You stand there, not knowing what to say or do.
As Diablo looks and says......

"Next time, order Chinese, O.K."



Ahhhh, I hope I scared you a bit.  This is my Halloween offering for Oct. 5th

Bwwwaaaaahahahaha

I remember a lot, though there are compartments of this upper story storage house with bolted doors. There have been hours, even days spent picking at combination locks, soft clicks of medulla oblongata. From within, such malodor,  bleeds ooze and ****. Constant mopping of icky memory's seepage, trickling from underneath hatchway is unending, so I often walk away. Knowing what lies behind vaulted chambers of grey matter is indeed the greyest matter, as nothing is quite so black or white.