I

Wonderlandia, torn off the submerged lung
of a daydream diary.                   Reoccurs
as she does with silver eyes, weary Alice
during tea time--bullets burning past her
                                     like flowing nations.
Everyday similar tsunamis fund
                                     the lack of 20/20.
Nose to tail--the surge of angry engines
splits the ends of her blonde strands.
    Each one the last witness to maddening hospitality
--utopia never sweats as it talks and withers.
Amnesia blots,
new aspirin machines
vaporize apples and ***
on the other end of spectrum,
                                                     trans-positional labels--

Guillotine gargling teapots
       have no patience
         to the bushes of Olympus opiates
                                      bound in yellow barrier tape,
                     five o' clock traffic
               welcomes her back to what we are facing.


II


Dreary weather of late fall                       and her beautiful,
              powdered face

great mouth of atomic hell,
         when she speaks--80,000 deficiencies boil alive
                                                   --Trinity's teething test
                                                           on the tired bones
                                                   of a story-teller's raspy cards--

"None the wiser," she speaks,
                                "during the transition of ships
                   vermin turn into krakens culturing
                               on the surface of a raindrop.
    Heroes, villains, animals frozen together
                 after now eating for four days.
     The transition of one genocide
                                                        ­  to the other,
                the delineation of cat-and-mouse,
   mingle too long
   with the dead
   and its necrophilia."

                 Blind Alice wanders off the highway,
leaves her brewed cup of steamy static
on top of the unimportant saucer, sticks pins in her *******,
             and enjoys the sound of Cleopatra
             rolling over in reincarnation.


III

      Dear Alice smells
sunbathing, studded tangerines
                      assimilating liquor within the vast,
       empty, glowing nausea that is--
                        the warm germ

Oil                                    and                 ­          water
               rippled glass too silly for skulls
              made humid by distant salt water,

blood, acid, enzymes,
cheating probability
that runners with drunk kids
have blood between their toes.
                                                      Death­ to the distillation within
                                                    --the chronic diamond too polished
                                                       in *** to see the roses in her *****
    She curses these wood songs,
             heritage patriots with the pelts of wild lions
             with antlers over their heads,
                                                  faces advertising war paint
                                                applied by gargoyle hands
                    --sad memoirs always drink people
                                                  that use God as a cookie jar.


IV


  Gorgeous names
  on graffiti institutions give her a home
                                                         a market
                                                         a nickname
           still                  Alice only accepts Alice.

Grace periods where she misses tyranny
                  rise and fall like endorsed breathing.
    Now Alice feels her dress fall off,
                                  extinct years message future occupancy
                                  about what to wear.
New era, this era, past eras plead guilty
in a      clinic museum
             of forcing demons
              down the medical
              throats
of first graders. Court adjourns at 9:01 PM, Saturday

             The populus can sleep now,
                          but not her.
                 No one gave her clothes
                 to cover up the drained monochrome.


V

Instead she celebrates her flesh,
                                        the broken glass,
   and quakes and leads off to expose
           others to its potential vital prosperity.

         Instead
                     headlines like bumper cars read
                     about the beheading of weeks,
                     failing rescue missions,
                     and debates on teenage tolerance.

Nicotine intoxication points Alice
to over-extended memories--wards of music
sequenced to point out the extinction of marble tigers.
                        Only 550 expected to understand
                         tethered to millions able to survive.

  Flood waters look at moral standards, a mean hurricane
                                   that collapses the death toll
     all patented 50 states
     have a dating service
     and huff paint as a way
                              to pray to art.
                                                      Double­-canvas faces
                                                      dyed in pixel     hope
                                                       that the media levees hold,
             but volunteer to herd sheep into poppy seed fields.
                                            She refuses to stay,
                    to watch the long night
                    of castration on men with mud-covered ankles.
                                      Television says eunuchs want
                                       to be prodigal's children,
                                       everyone wants to come back home
                                       to mom and dad, safe zones, away
                                       from themselves.
                                                     ­                 It says our ancestors want
                                                            ­          this for all of us. They worked
                                                          ­            so hard to tie up the hair
                                                            ­          out of Aphrodite's face.

                                     They treasure the silver eyes of Alice,
                                          but call them blue,
                                                  they issue her high cholesterol
                                          but pump sweet ****** into he stomach,
                                                  they tell her to put down the drill,
                                            so she can finish their orchestra--

her lightning
    is
     a
  string
     of
  souls



VI


     She decides to depart Sunday,
to discover the ordinary beginning,
                        painting WHY? on its delirium.
re-arrangeable viewers become
                      inserted sounds under percussion and piano.

       Caging various important charts
                                          undetermined
   ­                           as finished attention.
                                                      ­              Three movements in flux
open end the people                     vacuuming
                            craftsmanship blocks
                   from                                dogs and zen.

                                                 The
                                 suspended letter               is happening in 1951
   drenched in existential white                                            spacing
        ­                                                   the viewer
                        from integrated architecture.

Down
the
bell is a structure called
"the quarantined wheelchair."
                               Dead ignorance changes pattern
                               after six movements of the second hand.
Alice speaks, "To you all, know
                                       that this is an un-dramatic situation.
          Everyday windows with the same
           participants have girls drinking
                                                     orange juice, activate fluid,
                    both exist as objects
                    and caught propaganda."

                                                   ­                      Six tunnel
                                                          ­      audiences are watching
                                                        ­        drown in the plastic silk
   her                                                       built by the motorized collage
                                                         ­                                        spider.

          Alice, a kinetic mannequin pop star
                        is limp in the glass point.
             Rhythmic flux is objectified war torture
                         censored in fitness magazines
by simple toilet literature.

                                        Six tunnels worth of eyes
                                 latch to the *******
                                           as a way to bury **** protesting.
                                  A coat of pepper spray
                                   works in front of the exhibition.
This stage is shaded by moans.


VII


      Alice the female, has a door-to-door friend
                                                          ­    over the sea
of the cathedral's ceiling               who died of disemboweled
pulchritude             at the mutilated nuclear other-place.
                     Her friend was a synthesized example
                     of staged catastrophes. Her friend is her, silver-eyed
                                                     ­                                             Alice.

            ­                     She performs herself and herself
                                 but they are played by polished, scored poets.

Everyone of them incorporates the events
                                 of a dancing gunshot. Everything rests
                                                           ­ at an intermission

               but after fifty minutes of pondering,
          the lost audience remembers
         her name is Alice.
                   So it comes back on with a shower of sweat
                  and this clear
                                  substance
               ­                                 called
                         ­                              patience.
       This composing, peering vulnerability
                        psychologically destroys the flux tension
              like analog genocidal dictators.
                                   Ultimately this is dream liquor

     commentating war to the war tree
      using trauma and chairs as humor.



VIII


               Patience on the water level lives translucent
                                            on networks that brand flesh
                                            with displaced identity.
Alice convinces us all that pickled ***
                                                             ­               takes eight years
                     to ****** and we accuse it
                                         of being fake. Afterwards, her character dies
in confident silence.


IX


     Not majestic, but she does cough
                  to mock the earth.
        The seeds of Alice are ripe,
                        harvested early, and now her children come out and dine
        like speaking tongues on gibberish.
                          The room is fat with hair

and kindness. Feeble, mundane hands chew on each other,
                                                         feet stand proud.
We even call her Alice or "the beautiful *******,
                                             a black cloud feasting
                                             in orange."
                       Everyone feasts on the nectar
                                                         she has, but never the rye
which makes her round. Juice is squeaking and her children laugh
                         as in competition.

     It's a distinguishable game as the mixed
                                                           ­      couple up front
              begin to play whistles as
                                         everyone eats
                   the pride of the silver-eyed Alice's children.


X

                                                ­ The children's souls
                                                       bow and say
                                           "Thank you for barely growing."
                                                   and dissipate after five minutes.

          "Curiouser                                   ­                                      and
           Curiouser"                                                       ­                   they
           say                                                              ­                        as
           they                                                             ­                       leave
           this                                                             ­                         homage.
                  The decimal backbone
                     of each of sweet Alice's
                                   blonde strands
                   divorced by the gust/ of a green light's/ allowance.


XI Epilogue*


  The day crawls away
                   a vigilant pest
     of the nocturnal project
                   --suns beam down still, like
                  stomachs of grinning felines
                           at Valentine's day.

toxic-dyed fingers
                        soldered
to bodies pittering across rainy streets

--legionnaires with hearts on stones
                         we are waiting for her orders,

     thistled-teeth clench,
                                         but did she
                                          actually
          ­                                ever come?

Synchronitities

It's 11.11 again,
AM through to PM,
Just to see you again,
In all your simplicities.

11.11 again,
Now tell me what's the relevance,
When I see you there,
Lying in sentimentality,

You got the 411,
Telling me just about anything,
That you can breath,
Steals your rationality.

11.11 again,
The sentence that won't ever end;
Caught up in a comma coma,
Blinded by the clarity,

11.11 again,
I seen it on the TV screen,
What does it mean to you & me,
Simple sequenced synchornities

The forested breeze blew eastwards. On each swing of the wind, the birds flew and fluttered. Each of their wings swaying to find a harmonious balance. The sweet melody of ethnic hymns from the native village rose above the trees. The sequenced output with equalised acapella became an anthem that ruled the forests.The gravelled path structured it's way between the trees right to the heart of the village.

The village elder sat outside the middle hut. His hut stood out from those encircling it. Humbled in stature but yet symbolically decorated with colourful redness of the roses. The beautiful scented ambience rose to fuel the air within and around. The door of the hut was formatted with sculptured inscriptions that had a covert meaning. A story line about the long historic lineage of leaders. The entrance of the doorway was guarded by two warriors. Each of them had a shield and spear, alert and portraying courage. Their bodies were bare ready to attack the enemy, their groins fully formed and covered with *****. The sight of the hut itself was magnificent...... it's aura radiant with an embodiment of hereditary and hierarchical authority.

As the village chief watched the birds sway and whistle, he sat on his antique stool. In the openness of the nature he appeared puzzled. As he shrugged his symbolic leopard hide on his back.... it swung side to side. Still in situ, but there was something about it's presence that nagged him. He touched it and then speedily moved his hand from it. He then raised his voice. "Amita!"

His voice echoed and roared penetrating all the homesteads. By the time the volume of the echo subsided he called out again "Amita, Amita, Amita!"

Amita came running and knelt at the feet of the Chief. She replied "Yes Chief Hashi. I am here for your service Sir!"

Amita was a 21 year old girl. She was wearing a straw skirt. Her arm was tattooed with a prominent artistic representation of a snake swinging from the tree. The shades of the red snake pictured on the hues of the green tree. This symbolised that she was a servant and lived at the Chief's Quarters. Amita had sacrificed her life as her lineage did to serve the Chief and his household. A dedication of servanthood to the Chief and him alone.

Amita bowed as she knelt, her bare ***** ***** and shadowing the Chief's feet. The chief looked at Amita as if hyptonised by the touch of her *******. He glared at her beauty, the outstanding womanhood she poised. After a long pose of silence the Chief responded, " Amita, can you fix my hide ensuring that it's attachments are secure"

There was a level of vulnerability that the chief showed Amita. He appeared to be humble, a denudation of authority, that very call of submission. There was evidently a reciprocal of roles as Amita raised her eyes from the ground to face the Chief. As their eyes met the Chief hastily paused and froze as if speechless. As he gathered his senses he was firmly able to look at Amita and said, " Can you join me inside my hut please?"

Amita remained kneeling as the Chief stood up from his stool. Chief Hashi steadily walked to the doorway of his hut. Pace after pace, stroll after stroll. As he walked by the doorway the warriors raised their spears to his presence. He was proudly ushered to his exquisite residence. He then  faced the warriors and asked them to leave guard. Chief Hashi requested, "Can you come back after two hours." As the guards walked away the Chief in his freedom danced around, hysterically moving his hands multi-directionally.

Chief Hashi opened the window to his hut. This was adjacent to where Amita was kneeling. In his vulnerability he whispered, "My child Amita, get up and join me inside my hut. The door is open and ajar.... always for you my queen."

Amita stood up from the kneeling position and run her way into Chief Hashi hut.

It's reddy pink petals
sniffed or chewed
might grant dreams
a tendency to
inveigle poetry
with flowers
gift the surrealistic
shifts in sight
pluralistic ignorance
sequenced realities

Rare serious
side effects
include concern
for a green planet's
billions of voices  
buried unheard
by enculturation

Of course
it's proper name
sounds like *****
suggesting labido
enhancing sniffs
for this

Official advice is:

'An excess
of chewing
may cause
drowning !

The quake of oblivious control,
aimlessly sends me spiraling.
I feel a break in the tumble,
Realizing the forged signatures from
Those who seek calculated risks.
I am only a human,
With this life thrown at me in a hurry.
Stars march & chant.
Revisiting the nights shallow freedom.
Displaying cuts of bleeding light,
A treasure to those who see its dance.
I have come far for a drink,
Of essence.
The book, we share on the darkest gravel,
Having featherweight ambitions.
The mornings betray my dreaming.
My flaws accept the rituals.
Whatever will, I have left,
Becomes a map.
A velvet initiation, to wonder again.
To seek the ways of life,
That many call disappointing,
& Pointless.
For it is I, who sees a ribbon on true beauty.
Each day following a thread to a lake.
Following the sequenced whispers,
Telling me, I am Moonchild,
Giver; of redemption.

and while adam inherited the sunrise of eden, the devil inherited eden's sunset;
so that writing about something is less satisfactory
than what was never really envisioned, but otherwise handed
with the befriended samael away from library or cocktail party,
**** writing i suspect, but the feeling is too immense for words
to capture the images that were sequenced in that frailty, because they were fleeting moments; thus the night's former admiration for the eyes to behold, the lowered horizon of the moon in such bulging yellow as might encompass the frozen one of winter's heights.

how can language be made believable in the sense of
creating images out of words?
here is an example,
and man did his "buddhist" bit under a tree in the
night, on the field he fancied himself a stranger
but a place he forgot to frequent.
upon return to civilisation from equating
******* of sexuality as that of the ******* cut
before being able to be experienced
laughing about it,
he walked down the hill,
a herd of deer made it onto the darkened streets and pavement,
the stag died, the harem was in disarray,
but the youngest one did not follow the herd
and turned into the street the man was walking on,
in lightning momentary genetics of similitude via atoms
the man looked at the young deer mare
and told her: run! with eyesight.
then came the sight of the harem herd at the crossroads,
and thus this same man started galloping, wild at heart,
herding the deer mares back into the forest.
be warned, i had witnesses who would vouchsafe that
they saw and that i too had eyes.
this is the equivalent of heideggerian expression of this one
remaining truth: man, he who herds animals,
he who domesticates animals also.
i never write from fantasy, i experience my sickness
as a woman weeping in my mentioned care for mentality;
it's simply... the misery of not being with me, being near;
thus i reside writing from experience,
nothing more, nothing that could make me give into
the modern twist of fashion and fame:
only fictional characters elevate any mention of realistic fame,
all the real people are journalistic target practice;
fifteen minutes are up! time to create fictionalised celebrities,
and that time is upon us.
thus the problem with fiction, given this poem.
i imagine the women after muhammad's death, just
to make it easier for you to imagine a man with this harem (otherwise herd)
of deer mares; i frequented populated places too often
in winter, now spring's passing deflowering comes sepia-like,
thus i can unbutton my need to cherish human interaction,
and return home, forest bound.
thus we say, unto clarice lispector, wild at heart,
thus we say, written out of parring against images that haunt
the schizoids' arable need to see in colour and phantom; i cannot;
take it or leave it.
if this is my best itemisation of events
then i didn't run the deer off the street to allow the traffic to
pass, but because i wrote it like picasso drawing 90º metered
into hammer blows in architecture class
doesn't mean it didn't happen, it only means i wrote
it like the remnants of a child in an ageing man - which suits
the quote by him, be an artist by remaining true to childhood,
ensure there's no precision no schooling
in the work you try to vogue, because it won't vogue
after all, given you're still encrusted in imaginary befriending
and dreaming, just remain true to childhood
and your art will not become overladen with itemisation
of *** being the last remaining frontier away from
the antarctic, the alps and buddhism;
indeed all children are born artists, but only a few
make it art in adulthood, most make it to jealousy
and marketing or sleepwalking into selling furniture
with hope to buy it back into self-employment,
that's why art is borne from those who cherish childhood
and think less and remember more.

so ardent me within her deer-like to her prance jesting happy
jump-over invisible fence-like structures content
with the *** so full of life, and her, the *** of so much potential for death
ably being guarded to return, out of man's sight;
i didn't even bother to count them to a number;
i hate it, beauty cannot given the righteous expression,
letters are nothing but skeletal compared to the muscle of images.

Things blow up
People throw up
And then walk on
A land mine
When they talk on
A landline

I try to enjoy myself
But enjoyment has stealth
And eludes
Which secludes
Happiness hides
Behind sentinel shrapnel
That makes us abide
The rules of this flat Hell

There are frequent explosions in my mind
They are sequenced implosions through time
I have poor explanations
For my inflammations
My hands fumble
My brain crumbles
Progress is lost
That's the cost

Frustration cooks
From holy books
And constitutions
That can't be changed
Or rearranged
So we're gridlocked in an explosion
In Hell's fruitless fire we are frozen

Explosions dot the planet like acne
Humanity has no choice except to get older
Sharing information is our main asset yet we grow colder
We must evolve together
We're doomed to be tethered
So we must gel
To avoid Hell
There are monsters in our midst
In our mind is where they sit
We must expel them together
Or we'll be exploding forever

Bonjour Mon Cher,
As the stars rise and the moon lights, I meld you deeply. The time we spent together is so fruitful, with explorations of nature and a friendly company.  You whisk my motivation , the very nature of warmth and strength.  There has been times when my willpower to be strong has been crushed and trampled; muddled in the muddiness of the overflowing pond.

As the duck glides on the rippled calm water, I picture your essence. As it strolls on the waters, deep in thoughts yet conscious and aware of its existence; there you are in the calmness, the stillness of the wavelet. As the duck sets to rise, it flutters. I sensed your edginess and the indecisiveness you have burdened all your life. Indeed, your life has been a challenge. Breath in,feel free and submerge in the depths of the ponds. Then rise again and explore the skies above, for brief moments escape in the dense freshness. Set your being  in the briefness of ecstasy, the succinctness of forever. For your essence is ambient and radiant.

My being is filled with warmth and a reminiscence of the great days. The times when the chariots with it’s magnificent horses would flow in the saccharine grounds. The time frame when the yellowish hue of the daffodils bloomed and shone their beauty to the world. The touch cascading the shivers from one neurone to the next in sequenced loops. The ever-condensed electric magnetism. My mind explodes with the synchronicity of the beauty sacrificed by yours. My soul has woken from it’s hibernation, its departing the doorway of the cave. The cave laid with layers of secrets, mystery and mystic existence.

The nip of the earlobe tip is a pleasure I pass. A chance to trace the resonance of my whispers. More so, a declaration of my naiveness. The statue poising on the plinth of the Romany windows in declaration that she does not understand many things. It’s in the whisper her beauty, my representation. The words that she wants to transpire but as such there is never enough time. Neither is there an eternity, but snippets of memories and moments.

Let me deep inside, to see every thought, to hear every dream to touch the breath of every sound. The existence of everyday living is absent and helpless. However, to love one is to embrace all. Someday, I wonder how we exist in such a dichotomy of life. I would like to hold you and touch you. To feel your oneness coursing in my blood and mind. I try and try to see above this existence. To touch and dream of the beauty, to collapse in the core of the humanness. My drug is ingested in the craziness of realness, an authenticity of the façade that we don day in and out.

Yet as the wind we fade in and out. When our insides are hollow and empty, drenching in lonely paths. But we stand un-fainted and feint. In the chaos of uncovering the curiosity and the depths awaiting to be exploded as the volcano boils. I want you to know that I am alive in your presence, I am real, I am me. This is one of the very rare connections I have had and I respect it. Hope not to whelm with my ambiguousness or eccentricity. I have no expectations and I am not wanting to be owned or own. Tis’ you giving the hungry eyes and Tis’ me who hope you can see beyond my interior.

In retrospection and introversion, welcome to the pleasures and treasures.

Be you,
SassyJ

Time to think
Of what is happening
Ambushed in my own head
The worst kind
Of planned pain

I'm deflated to the floor
Fixated down
Each whip
Hammering at my back
Tasting the wood
I start to count
Adding up the licks
Like electric shocks
Forming patterns in my head
Finding logic in numbers
When she will tire?
This session's termination
Seeking a hint of hope
In her shortness of breath
Whipping the same mark in consistency
Until my skin is tarnished
An obvious sequenced rule
Once my skin becomes raw
The sting takes a turn
To a sharpening burn
numbing quiets the scald
Pain I bare
Until I hear my
Little brother's screams
Punishing my core

My heart beats out
Through my shoulder blades
Begging for my mother to hear it
Our rhythm once connected
Now detached
Unable to hear it's plea

Captured by this creature
Who lives in solitude
Her rotten soul  
Living in her own reclkless world
Where no one belongs

It's over finally
As she wanders away
Ordering us to remove our mess
A collection of carnage
And sweaty weeps
Dehydrated in my cloth of depression
Erasing the abuse
Where I retreat
To my bed
And expel cries
For my ears alone
Protesting against my weakness
Refusing to show her
How much she hurts me

© Jl 2016

~


so obvious the mistake
the ordered disorganization

the summation of a man's life
in an ampersand -
a logogram connection
tween two words,  
finally, properly sequenced

error then trial, then error then trial

perception - my life is an endless trial
punctuated and worsened,
periodically pierced
by errors
made of your own free (not really) choosing

"whenever confronted by a fork in my road,
I always chose wrongly"

and aye, here's the rub
the same mistake made repeatedly

example prime:
falling in love is just another way of saying
gonna end badly

and you constant cravenly confess
to yourself the ending unbecoming cause
you can read the handwriting on the wall
for your specialty is


*only love poetry for dummies

"Sequenced"
                    
                    
                    
                    Little slice of piece of pie
                                             yellow tangerine sky
                                                               home to vagrant clouds
                                                of mist
                                        with names given to each
                            a noisome wind
                                                            together with
                       permission to subsist
                                               on beauty alone
                                                                  if need be
                               its yours
                                              for a price
                                   worth it though
                                                                   maybe
                       i don't know
                                                      you think
                                  granted
                                                     a long path
                                                                                treadles
                        come to light
                                            emerge
                                                        groaned
                                                                     ******
                           poignant rock
                                                              boulder
                                                 mountain
                                                                          now
                         it takes
                                           a gather
                                                             of compassion
                                                                                       to gentle
                                     the brindled
                                                                   principle
                          brain
                                            shouts
                                                              we do
                                              then
                                                                       we see
                        corporeal mobility

The light under the lampshade,
needs a sacrifice
The night under the skies,
needs a paradise

Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Tonight I am going to take it to the moonlight
I am going to take it to the x 2
Tonight I am going to shed it at the brookside
Tonight I am going to take it to the future

Mama sold me,
to the pirates of the vast seas
Mama hold my hands,
and cast me to the depths

Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Tonight I am going to take it to the moonlight
I am going to take it to the x 2
Tonight I am going to shed it at the brookside
Tonight I am going to take it to the future

When my heart breaks into two
one beat holds the other
When my breath is sequenced
the waves holds the other

Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Tonight I am going to take it to the moonlight
I am going to take it to the x 2
Tonight I am going to shed it at the brookside
Tonight I am going to take it to the future

Lifting my eyes from the book, from the tightly sequenced lines
to the full and perfect night:
Oh how like the stars my buried feelings break free,
as if a bouquet of wildflowers
had come untied:

The upswing of the light ones, the bowing sway of the heavy ones
and the delicate ones' timid curve.
Everywhere joy in relation and nowhere grasping;
world in abundance and earth enough.

                       Rainer Maria Rilke---Uncollected Poems

I chase the Scarab until the morning glows
With a winged friend I mistreat following a henchman's horse
To the Dunes we ride eyeing the night sky waning
The face of my child entreats for me to be weary.

A diamond in the raw, uncut was never the most valuable.
a board game logic parks upon the boardwalk of Santa Cruz
A friend would never charge for you to stay in a hotel they owned,
a game is a game only if one refrains from believing in consequence
as reality, that time is a space left between motions created by decision
evidenced by interaction precise a dreams manifested sequenced as love ever after.

A price is one custom we have all come to be adapted too, yet how are the best things in life free, if Jewels are the most expensive?

They go thru flow cells
and return a million read

Weekly poems sent
anonymously to be sequenced
in a massively parallel
batch job

The hits come back
in blinking dots,
ephemeral likes, individual
happy flashes from
bar-coded singlets.

But how to know
when a solitary spot
has read our entire
genome?

Have you binged
on the DNA
of our identity?

Can you tell us
who I are
and
where I are going?

I sensed your edginess
Clasped in my mind
Drawn with precision
Projection of tides forming
Then rising, falling in sequence
Followed by exhaustive exertions
A strain to calm the storms
All I have sensed in you..........

On the mountains of the unconditional fondness and tenderness, a flag is raised. The brightness of the skies is a continuum.In firm foundations, not withering, but thriving and yielding to the optimum. The connection was like the flickered light Einstein cocooned in. A stream from a dimension another. The  interconnection by the mind, the crown. Merging the locus of focus in consciousness and unconsciousness. A gateway that was beyond comprehension.

My antenna attuned and sequenced in synchronicity. A flow of perceptions vivid and broadcast with clarity. A feel of the web of the universe itself, the oneness of one to one to another. An augury unfolds  and foreseen precedents. The wavering, as you stagger from the solvents that imbue. Your trips suited with restraints of the thought and mind. A floodgate of inconclusiveness.

Why the sudden weigh?  You tremble in fear, wobbling with shilly-shally. Should I........ should I not? My turf lined up in cognisance. What happened to the cardinal we created? The winterly red bloom of explosive and attentive grenades. A silence of the dark permeates. Miles and miles of a mirage of gloomy inwardness.You wax and wane in surveillance. Just like the moon, you revolve in cycles.

Yet, I felt unconditioned and ecstatic. The aliveness in the nothingness. A light in the blackhole. For "romanticism" itself does not exist. It's a notion of owning, inquisition and imprisonment of another being..... never alluring. For you would know my stance of , "structure verses agency". An achievable liberation of autonomy and freedom. Whisper in my dreams as we uncover unseen dimensions.

Do become the presence of my walks. As I reflect alone be audible in the vibration of the air we breath. Trigger a magnetic feel of existence itself.Time and space is an illusion, one that does not exist. A trick of the light that acquiesces you comply. It hoovers with a whisper that 'you are getting older'...... 'you need to do this and that'. If you escape such hallucinations you can regurgitating on more responsibilities and succeed.

All puzzles in the human suffering have already been solved. Why can't you see them? Echoing your name, tapping your shoulder blade as if recognizable. One should never feel as if life is weary. There is always a need to want more, amass and make ones print. Or even depart. But being weary? Any being is able to chew as much, with pride and confidence. An interlude of imbalance will always be an interlude of imbalance.Through the century and ages this never changes. There is nothing to balance, you just need to search it deeper in yourself. Yourself is correcting. .

Irrationality often knocks my door. It seduces me, with sweet sensual word. Cajoling me to embrace normality. If only you knew what I know. A fading magical fantasy is not a fixated ideology. You are my inescapable tie and link.

Reach for your depths,
SassyJ

Parts of my body can be harvested to fix what has been missing all along
The same parts of my body that plot against me, even when I close my eyes
Are the ones they'll use to "fix me"

"Don't you want to be normal?"

Normality is more foreign than the word could even suggest
If "normal" fits into your story world then I suppose I'll tag along

My genes are sequenced against me, upside down and in reverse
I experience love through methadone filled mouth syringes
And a poisonous aftertaste that will not go away

7 little mason jars
in a sequenced line
filled with 7 spices
displayed much like a shrine

I thought I'd have a use for them
to steep myself some tea,
yet they have remained stagnant
on this wall, they stare at me

one contains dried rosebuds
pink and red and pale
confined within a little jar
their fragrance growing stale

another holds some cardamom
and one is filled with cloves
slowly drying on this shelf,
labeled and enclosed

someone picked these rosebuds,
and dried all of these leaves
so they could sit within a jar
with nothing to achieve

tonight these 7 mason jars
all look at me, so somber
their families enjoyed a breeze,
had sun-soaked days to squander

they've not reached expiration
yet soon, they'll be disposed
no longer trapped in bottles
in death, they'll be exposed.

Made right by them will be the cry heard,

make right by them and by us all is the flag draped over the heads and graves of all the victims of a world so cold.

Make right by them that have stood long and strong in you windows pane.

Make right by them who have suffered the manipulations, deceptions, accusations, and judgments for all the windows pains.

Make right by them that have tirelessly stood against the tyranny and reign of the braggart, ******, authoritarian wielded heavy handed.

make right by them that have revealed the horrors of a present and future which threatens the very soul of all mankind, all while they were held down, mislead, lied too, limited, edited, and called out for the very same deeds and means for which all mankind has indulged.

Make right by them that withstood the virtual casting couched parts and rolls, rolled out to play the thorny crown , the king Aurthur and Merlin round, as they rounded the round tables so roulette  and black jacked in their get it all but play this part tick for tat all without a fact offered or even a word of truth spoken back, nor the hand shaken in an eye to eye, hows my driving doing, **** son, he did **** fine and not claiming he was a god as was seemingly offered and even demanded at the time.

Make it right by them who forced themselves to walk the longest miles in all directions with conflicting directions of supported desire, all the while waking and gracing a smile and a nod to all with un shaken eye and bold *** soul to the core of the thing that was important in all.
To find a recourse, a show and tell of who or what the hell was killing so many soldiers and lost teenage and adult souls in these treacherously invasive windows.

Make it right by them who withstood the storms and the reign ( not to be confused with the covering rain ) of un tempered temptations of the harsh and hasty delegations of self pains, unanswered questions and self doubts that were as in all people there the whole way, and at the end of the day, while the moon was high, and even high and shinning in the sky, were bold in the face of things that cause kings to take a knee and sell their souls for the fear they have of those very unbelievable yet very real and indeed powerful things that also live and breath or so it sure as a man made hell be, they sure as hell seem to truly and without a doubt live and breath. for the game of "Go" is one that was being on the table of a field in a desert don't you know, houses full and yards of the laser light shows and lightning clouds rolling slow, where oh where did all those boastful men of opposition seem to go, did they not find these things so interesting a show as to stick around and introduce themselves to these folks or critters? Oh, by the way no offense though, the critter thing is a shifting shiftless thing of me as well , or as it is told.

Make right by them who under the longest of heroic hours pressing the pressed flesh of distress and bested half dead with no rest and the bank over drawings to paint a picture as best they could of the events and stirring as they withstood, for the chances and ****** amazing dances of switch backs and double meanings did they overcome the forceful pushing and the mental screaming.  They who showed the world all they could, of what had happened, what was possibly real, fake and misunderstood. They who walked the Moon and not as the dates and times of changed time and rhyme would have one believe, oh no dear child, did you not see? For this of them that walked the Moon as the claims were made that they walked him first, but lets not mistake, a mind c an recall a change of things, things you think are here first, they have on occasion caused a good eye to reverse and remember how it was not so, in a time that they recall in their mind, so. is there a complaint against the mental weapons and struggles that he had to wield, being the one thing they against him could not fell, the child and not the father, not the husband, not the man, not the trained operator or James Bond double oh seven of the real and fine *** gentle man, but that of the child he had inside, that rocked your heart from the darkest down and brought it to light?

Make it right by them who stand to this day, even in the stains and the judgments of mans simple and funny ways, they that cranked out the nights to get a handle on what had happened without a mere relief insight, without a truth been told, a fact or compensation for the games and losses and gains of others ever to them been told though they have been accused of their souls being bought and sold, as the offer and promises of wealth and freedom and all that they ever needed or wanted were to unfold, funny, they still never sold their souls nor their names, nor their right to stake a real and true claim to it all, yet no bank over filled with resources that spelled in their names make life  good to live and sure a **** never wanted your fame, yet framed they were, all along the way.

Make it right by them who asked for the proof of their wrongs, extraordinary accusations need extraordinary proof, and of these things, they provided the only proof to any and all as they walked the walk that you could not, would not and dare not walk for you know how bad we all do fall. Yes they fell, sure as hell they fell just the same as your *** would and if they not be made right by a short time sight, they are willing to bet , all bets are off for you ever finding freedom, free will, free your child from the enslavement that they witnessed in the darkest of nights. For what was seemingly missed  by all, I fear was the revealing of how bad and deep this sinister thing is.

Though they relied on all to record, document and notice the things wrong, as they walked and suffered for the benefit of all those in the world whom are not the wealthy, powerful or fortunate to not fall victim to these technologies and soul ****** methodologies to win a war so insidious that time and the perceptions of all mankind hang in the balance it seems, though indeed they were limited in what they could see, they kept pushing and pulling, they kept raising and falling, they kept failing to find the relief and justice for all victims and their families, nor for their own family nor their own sane mind to find and kind hand or word to say, honey he is coming back, don't forget you had a plan.... hang in their sister, he is a true and honest if not flawed man.... where just these sorts of words arranged in a sentence of sequenced alignment one could have saved the family future damage and embarrassment, yet, we did find, no play in the way of lets help them and save at least this one day for them to in the future say, .... what would they have said on that day. and meant it in every soulful way, ****, guess we may never know if it keeps going this way.
But then again, I never was a fan of John Dee, Jack parsons, Alister Crowley and Franchise Bacon, Shakespeare or what ever it is that is that ******* name, Nor were it I ever a fan of their "Great Work" that this seems to be in its fame and glory , or there the lack of, Son. wink

Make it right by them who with faith , hope, love, skill and at times dumb luck made this whole play for the nations heart and the enslavement of us all, a bit harder to pull off and maybe give the people what is needed to wake them to the horrors and the depth of how wronged we all have been wronged.  for if you disagree then surely you must be none to a friendly fan of the X of a man and his fam.

Make it right to them, is the battle cry that should be sounded from the hearts of the very souls that have been also wronged and held down.

Made it right by us all, this is the all in all, and all in all you bet your *** i;m all ******* in.

For Nat Lipstadt

In response to Nat's deeply moving poem that included me, I now dedicate this 2007 poem to Nat, who I am sure, knows exactly what it means.

               
She smiled as she
set her lips into
most agreeable motion -
her larynx flexing to
modulate the passing air.

The sequenced air waves
shook my auric drums
and journeyed to my soul.

Out of my reservoir
of ritual response
my lower face
turned a congenial curve.

Two puffs of air
pulsed my vocal folds,
were filtered
by my tongue and lips
and formed a sonic pattern
she was sure to know,

“Thank you.”

December, 2007

True Reflection
I saw him walking down the uneven concrete
He had a beat to his step, every move on count
Avoided slanted ladders and black cats on corners
Steel noose hung from his neck that resembled a cross
It dangled like an unsteady decoration
He had a long stride and I was on par with pace
Walked close but there was a wide gap in our bridge
Chicago wind pushed through us with cold shoulders  
It carried harsh fumes of a forest cremation  
Evergreen trees torched, leaves fall to the ground mourning
He enjoyed the smoke’s company, didn’t wave her off  
But she left as he heard chords of American horns
He bobbed his head to the sermons preached by beggars
Ran from synchronized fireworks between gangs
Glared at visual art of red and blue strobe lights
Treaded his fingers on chipped pale skin of town houses
And tasted the sweet sourness of a girl’s rain-check
His expression was content like the heart of a book
His smile fell in sequenced with the collapse of eyelids
I became aware that something was weighing his walk
Opaque bottles barely stood straight in his coat pockets
Staggered after each other like rows of dominos
Bottles fractured causing the cement to catch ripples
He couldn’t brake over broken glass he drove into me
Nose to Nose we touched as we were about to crash
I carved into the core of his eye and saw myself
Lying on the pavement with a blanket of fragments
And I realized I couldn’t remove the stained glass
Because what was there belonged from the beginning

Appetizing morsels of snack food leftovers, jammed down the throats of the gathering’s well-meaning occupants, trapped in place, paralyzed by purchasing power, co-mingling amongst a gossamer of plague ridden staff, exercising their right to a paltry sum, at the cost of worldly dignity.

Tupperware auctioned off at a silent word, while women with crow’s feet crevices compile layers of expensive, foundry concealer, birthing a new, more melancholic Pagliacci, only to be outdone by the next in line.

Sound equipment, purchased over market value, placed on the showroom floor, mechanically regurgitating a playlist of old hits as broken hips slaughter the concept of rhythm and cadence, dancing for their youth, embarrassed by their age.

Late husband’s life insurance, blown on a new make-up line tested on Lassie, bought for the sake of a cost-free gift, which would have the woman’s palm eaten out by a monetarily starved charlatan, rented out on an hourly basis.

Sprayed odors, mixing and merging as they meet on the undersides of veiny wrists, fumigating the stale air, weakening the legs of the participants, dropping them to the floor as sequenced lights illuminate in time with an ancient billboard tune.

Eight o’clock bedtime, difficult to impose, when giddy patrons stay drunk on the bliss of over-spending, knocking off to a land of nod in unmonitored broom closets, clutching at their purchases with the vigor of a lowly man in pursuit of his bottle.

The night slows, crawling in turn with a dead clock as it ticks in place, stalemated, flinching, but not forward, only in place.

Lights leave the room, and silence ensues, the visitors leave, weighted down to a lifeless crawl by their numerous, unnecessary purchases in overfilled, non-recyclable shopping bags.

God undoes everything
From interstellar crystalline
To keep a distance in between
Each fair feather
in gusting flocks
in shifting weaves
with sequenced wings
numbered bezels of the clock

ripples role in circles, serpentine
spilt in pools of synchrony
beneath the melt of icicles
drop by drop, a metronome
ticks echoes in the vacancy
and tocks within those secret spaces
of snowflakes falling
and that between
a billion stars reflected, all,
in separate eyes that
once had seen until
all light went out in unison
with one wincing blink,
so darkened skies.

Such well planned placement,
where all things converge
into the vacant.
Where all things converge,
Into the vacant.