IV. TO HERMES (582 lines)

(ll. 1-29) Muse, sing of Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia, lord
of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, the luck-bringing
messenger of the immortals whom Maia bare, the rich-tressed
nymph, when she was joined in love with Zeus, -- a shy goddess,
for she avoided the company of the blessed gods, and lived within
a deep, shady cave.  There the son of Cronos used to lie with the
rich-tressed nymph, unseen by deathless gods and mortal men, at
dead of night while sweet sleep should hold white-armed Hera
fast.  And when the purpose of great Zeus was fixed in heaven,
she was delivered and a notable thing was come to pass.  For then
she bare a son, of many shifts, blandly cunning, a robber, a
cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief
at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds
among the deathless gods.  Born with the dawning, at mid-day he
played on the lyre, and in the evening he stole the cattle of
far-shooting Apollo on the fourth day of the month; for on that
day queenly Maia bare him.  So soon as he had leaped from his
mother's heavenly womb, he lay not long waiting in his holy
cradle, but he sprang up and sought the oxen of Apollo.  But as
he stepped over the threshold of the high-roofed cave, he found a
tortoise there and gained endless delight.  For it was Hermes who
first made the tortoise a singer.  The creature fell in his way
at the courtyard gate, where it was feeding on the rich grass
before the dwelling, waddling along.  When be saw it, the luck-
bringing son of Zeus laughed and said:

(ll. 30-38) 'An omen of great luck for me so soon!  I do not
slight it.  Hail, comrade of the feast, lovely in shape, sounding
at the dance!  With joy I meet you!  Where got you that rich gaud
for covering, that spangled shell -- a tortoise living in the
mountains?  But I will take and carry you within: you shall help
me and I will do you no disgrace, though first of all you must
profit me.  It is better to be at home: harm may come out of
doors.  Living, you shall be a spell against mischievous
witchcraft (13); but if you die, then you shall make sweetest
song.

(ll. 39-61) Thus speaking, he took up the tortoise in both hands
and went back into the house carrying his charming toy.  Then he
cut off its limbs and scooped out the marrow of the mountain-
tortoise with a scoop of grey iron.  As a swift thought darts
through the heart of a man when thronging cares haunt him, or as
bright glances flash from the eye, so glorious Hermes planned
both thought and deed at once.  He cut stalks of reed to measure
and fixed them, fastening their ends across the back and through
the shell of the tortoise, and then stretched ox hide all over it
by his skill.  Also he put in the horns and fitted a cross-piece
upon the two of them, and stretched seven strings of sheep-gut.
But when he had made it he proved each string in turn with the
key, as he held the lovely thing.  At the touch of his hand it
sounded marvellously; and, as he tried it, the god sang sweet
random snatches, even as youths bandy taunts at festivals.  He
sang of Zeus the son of Cronos and neat-shod Maia, the converse
which they had before in the comradeship of love, telling all the
glorious tale of his own begetting.  He celebrated, too, the
handmaids of the nymph, and her bright home, and the tripods all
about the house, and the abundant cauldrons.

(ll. 62-67) But while he was singing of all these, his heart was
bent on other matters.  And he took the hollow lyre and laid it
in his sacred cradle, and sprang from the sweet-smelling hall to
a watch-place, pondering sheet trickery in his heart -- deeds
such as knavish folk pursue in the dark night-time; for he longed
to taste flesh.

(ll. 68-86) The Sun was going down beneath the earth towards
Ocean with his horses and chariot when Hermes came hurrying to
the shadowy mountains of Pieria, where the divine cattle of the
blessed gods had their steads and grazed the pleasant, unmown
meadows.  Of these the Son of Maia, the sharp-eyed slayer of
Argus then cut off from the herd fifty loud-lowing kine, and
drove them straggling-wise across a sandy place, turning their
hoof-prints aside.  Also, he bethought him of a crafty ruse and
reversed the marks of their hoofs, making the front behind and
the hind before, while he himself walked the other way (14).
Then he wove sandals with wicker-work by the sand of the sea,
wonderful things, unthought of, unimagined; for he mixed together
tamarisk and myrtle-twigs, fastening together an armful of their
fresh, young wood, and tied them, leaves and all securely under
his feet as light sandals.  The brushwood the glorious Slayer of
Argus plucked in Pieria as he was preparing for his journey,
making shift (15) as one making haste for a long journey.

(ll. 87-89) But an old man tilling his flowering vineyard saw him
as he was hurrying down the plain through grassy Onchestus.  So
the Son of Maia began and said to him:

(ll. 90-93) 'Old man, digging about your vines with bowed
shoulders, surely you shall have much wine when all these bear
fruit, if you obey me and strictly remember not to have seen what
you have seen, and not to have heard what you have heard, and to
keep silent when nothing of your own is harmed.'

(ll. 94-114) When he had said this much, he hurried the strong
cattle on together: through many shadowy mountains and echoing
gorges and flowery plains glorious Hermes drove them.  And now
the divine night, his dark ally, was mostly passed, and dawn that
sets folk to work was quickly coming on, while bright Selene,
daughter of the lord Pallas, Megamedes' son, had just climbed her
watch-post, when the strong Son of Zeus drove the wide-browed
cattle of Phoebus Apollo to the river Alpheus.  And they came
unwearied to the high-roofed byres and the drinking-troughs that
were before the noble meadow.  Then, after he had well-fed the
loud-bellowing cattle with fodder and driven them into the byre,
close-packed and chewing lotus and began to seek the art of fire.

He chose a stout laurel branch and trimmed it with the knife....
((LACUNA)) (16)
....held firmly in his hand: and the hot smoke rose up.  For it
was Hermes who first invented fire-sticks and fire.  Next he took
many dried sticks and piled them thick and plenty in a sunken
trench: and flame began to glow, spreading afar the blast of
fierce-burning fire.

(ll. 115-137) And while the strength of glorious Hephaestus was
beginning to kindle the fire, he dragged out two lowing, horned
cows close to the fire; for great strength was with him.  He
threw them both panting upon their backs on the ground, and
rolled them on their sides, bending their necks over (17), and
pierced their vital chord.  Then he went on from task to task:
first he cut up the rich, fatted meat, and pierced it with wooden
spits, and roasted flesh and the honourable chine and the paunch
full of dark blood all together.  He laid them there upon the
ground, and spread out the hides on a rugged rock: and so they
are still there many ages afterwards, a long, long time after all
this, and are continually (18).  Next glad-hearted Hermes dragged
the rich meats he had prepared and put them on a smooth, flat
stone, and divided them into twelve portions distributed by lot,
making each portion wholly honourable.  Then glorious Hermes
longed for the sacrificial meat, for the sweet savour wearied
him, god though he was; nevertheless his proud heart was not
prevailed upon to devour the flesh, although he greatly desired
(19).  But he put away the fat and all the flesh in the high-
roofed byre, placing them high up to be a token of his youthful
theft.  And after that he gathered dry sticks and utterly
destroyed with fire all the hoofs and all the heads.

(ll. 138-154) And when the god had duly finished all, he threw
his sandals into deep-eddying Alpheus, and quenched the embers,
covering the black ashes with sand, and so spent the night while
Selene's soft light shone down.  Then the god went straight back
again at dawn to the bright crests of Cyllene, and no one met him
on the long journey either of the blessed gods or mortal men, nor
did any dog bark.  And luck-bringing Hermes, the son of Zeus,
passed edgeways through the key-hole of the hall like the autumn
breeze, even as mist: straight through the cave he went and came
to the rich inner chamber, walking softly, and making no noise as
one might upon the floor.  Then glorious Hermes went hurriedly to
his cradle, wrapping his swaddling clothes about his shoulders as
though he were a feeble babe, and lay playing with the covering
about his knees; but at his left hand he kept close his sweet
lyre.

(ll. 155-161) But the god did not pass unseen by the goddess his
mother; but she said to him: 'How now, you rogue!  Whence come
you back so at night-time, you that wear shamelessness as a
garment?  And now I surely believe the son of Leto will soon have
you forth out of doors with unbreakable cords about your ribs, or
you will live a rogue's life in the glens robbing by whiles.  Go
to, then; your father got you to be a great worry to mortal men
and deathless gods.'

(ll. 162-181) Then Hermes answered her with crafty words:
'Mother, why do you seek to frighten me like a feeble child whose
heart knows few words of blame, a fearful babe that fears its
mother's scolding?  Nay, but I will try whatever plan is best,
and so feed myself and you continually.  We will not be content
to remain here, as you bid, alone of all the gods unfee'd with
offerings and prayers.  Better to live in fellowship with the
deathless gods continually, rich, wealthy, and enjoying stories
of grain, than to sit always in a gloomy cave: and, as regards
honour, I too will enter upon the rite that Apollo has.  If my
father will not give it to me, I will seek -- and I am able -- to
be a prince of robbers.  And if Leto's most glorious son shall
seek me out, I think another and a greater loss will befall him.
For I will go to Pytho to break into his great house, and will
plunder therefrom splendid tripods, and cauldrons, and gold, and
plenty of bright iron, and much apparel; and you shall see it if
you will.'

(ll. 182-189) With such words they spoke together, the son of
Zeus who holds the aegis, and the lady Maia.  Now Eros the early
born was rising from deep-flowing Ocean, bringing light to men,
when Apollo, as he went, came to Onchestus, the lovely grove and
sacred place of the loud-roaring Holder of the Earth.  There he
found an old man grazing his beast along the pathway from his
court-yard fence, and the all-glorious Son of Leto began and said
to him.

(ll. 190-200) 'Old man, weeder (20) of grassy Onchestus, I am
come here from Pieria seeking cattle, cows all of them, all with
curving horns, from my herd.  The black bull was grazing alone
away from the rest, but fierce-eyed hounds followed the cows,
four of them, all of one mind, like men.  These were left behind,
the dogs and the bull -- which is great marvel; but the cows
strayed out of the soft meadow, away from the pasture when the
sun was just going down.  Now tell me this, old man born long
ago: have you seen one passing along behind those cows?'

(ll. 201-211) Then the old man answered him and said: 'My son, it
is hard to tell all that one's eyes see; for many wayfarers pass
to and fro this way, some bent on much evil, and some on good: it
is difficult to know each one.  However, I was digging about my
plot of vineyard all day long until the sun went down, and I
thought, good sir, but I do not know for certain, that I marked a
child, whoever the child was, that followed long-horned cattle --
an infant who had a staff and kept walking from side to side: he
was driving them backwards way, with their heads toward him.'

(ll. 212-218) So said the old man.  And when Apollo heard this
report, he went yet more quickly on his way, and presently,
seeing a long-winged bird, he knew at once by that omen that
thief was the child of Zeus the son of Cronos.  So the lord
Apollo, son of Zeus, hurried on to goodly Pylos seeking his
shambling oxen, and he had his broad shoulders covered with a
dark cloud.  But when the Far-Shooter perceived the tracks, he
cried:

(ll. 219-226) 'Oh, oh!  Truly this is a great marvel that my eyes
behold!  These are indeed the tracks of straight-horned oxen, but
they are turned backwards towards the flowery meadow.  But these
others are not the footprints of man or woman or grey wolves or
bears or lions, nor do I think they are the tracks of a rough-
maned Centaur -- whoever it be that with swift feet makes such
monstrous footprints; wonderful are the tracks on this side of
the way, but yet more wonderfully are those on that.'

(ll. 227-234) When he had so said, the lord Apollo, the Son of
Zeus hastened on and came to the forest-clad mountain of Cyllene
and the deep-shadowed cave in the rock where the divine nymph
brought forth the child of Zeus who is the son of Cronos.  A
sweet odour spread over the lovely hill, and many thin-shanked
sheep were grazing on the grass.  Then far-shooting Apollo
himself stepped down in haste over the stone threshold into the
dusky cave.

(ll. 235-253) Now when the Son of Zeus and Maia saw Apollo in a
rage about his cattle, he snuggled down in his fragrant
swaddling-clothes; and as wood-ash covers over the deep embers of
tree-stumps, so Hermes cuddled himself up when he saw the Far-
Shooter.  He squeezed head and hands and feet together in a small
space, like a new born child seeking sweet sleep, though in truth
he was wide awake, and he kept his lyre under his armpit.  But
the Son of Leto was aware and failed not to perceive the
beautiful mountain-nymph and her dear son, albeit a little child
and swathed so craftily.  He peered in ever corner of the great
dwelling and, taking a bright key, he opened three closets full
of nectar and lovely ambrosia.  And much gold and silver was
stored in them, and many garments of the nymph, some purple and
some silvery white, such as are kept in the sacred houses of the
blessed gods.  Then, after the Son of Leto had searched out the
recesses of the great house, he spake to glorious Hermes:

(ll. 254-259) 'Child, lying in the cradle, make haste and tell me
of my cattle, or we two will soon fall out angrily.  For I will
take and cast you into dusty Tartarus and awful hopeless
darkness, and neither your mother nor your father shall free you
or bring you up again to the light, but you will wander under the
earth and be the leader amongst little folk.' (21)

(ll. 260-277) Then Hermes answered him with crafty words: 'Son of
Leto, what harsh words are these you have spoken?  And is it
cattle of the field you are come here to seek?  I have not seen
them: I have not heard of them: no one has told me of them.  I
cannot give news of them, nor win the reward for news.  Am I like
a cattle-liter, a stalwart person?  This is no task for me:
rather I care for other things: I care for sleep, and milk of my
mother's breast, and wrappings round my shoulders, and warm
baths.  Let no one hear the cause of this dispute; for this would
be a great marvel indeed among the deathless gods, that a child
newly born should pass in through the forepart of the house with
cattle of the field: herein you speak extravagantly.  I was born
yesterday, and my feet are soft and the ground beneath is rough;
nevertheless, if you will have it so, I will swear a great oath
by my father's head and vow that neither am I guilty myself,
neither have I seen any other who stole your cows -- whatever
cows may be; for I

Walls of silence,
Of guarded wariness.

Walls of hesitation,
Of experienced caution.

Walls of distrust,
Of practiced isolation.

Walls I put up intentionally.
Walls you tore down unknowingly.

Walls I found crumbled,
The door of my heart opened.

Walls I found breached,
And you were just sitting there.

Walls I had never lived without,
Suddenly seemingly unneeded.

Walls I was glad to let down,
Until you shanked my heart.

Walls I should have fortified
With anger and hate and experience.

Walls of "I know better."
Of "There are NO exceptions to the pattern."

Walls of protection,
Of much needed security.

Walls of insulation,
Of broken-heart bandaging.

Walls I won't let down again.
Thanks to you, I've learned my lesson.

I wouldn't write
Not a word, Nay one
Until she caught me in the corridor
A dark hallway for sure
And put her blade to me
Sharp and cold
To the hilt
One push
One twist
To make me feel the pain
So now
And only now
Do I sing

Alright fella, how’s you mate?
Just heard back from the hospital innit.
They got you that liver now?
Yeah man, sorted. Ahh yeah-
did I tell you ‘bout the other day?
There was this ******* mug
by the chippy and he mugged
me off. And I was like mate,
don’t mess - you’ve picked the wrong day
to be a *******, innit.
And he was all like, “Yeah?
*******, mate.” And right, now,
well, I’d had enough by now;
I wanted to teach this mug
a Life-Long Lesson, yeah?
So I said, “I’m not your mate,
and I will end you if you don’t *******, innit.”
Ah man – this was not his day.
You remember back on Tuesday,
when I got that knife that I still use now?
I had it on me, and I shanked him, innit!
Serves him right for being a mug;
sounds like one less ***** on the estate, mate.
Too right blud. Was well funny too, yeah –
cause he was just round the corner, yeah,
I just walked into the chippy like any normal day!
Just like, “Nah, no vinegar please mate.”
There’s never any filth around here now
so we can just shank mug after mug;
and we’ll make it a better place to live, innit.
Oh yeah, and I can get smashed now, innit!
We’ll get some pills and that, yeah?
Have us a party, but don’t invite Gaz, you mug –
he shagged Tracey the other day,
so it is gonna be well awkward now.
Ahh ****! I am well excited, mate.
And mate, make sure you bring some fit girls, innit.
You wanna come round now?* Nah, got a check-up. Yeah,
but it’s not gonna take all day! Shut up, you mug.

So here i write. In a parking lot outside CVS in a town in Virginia, I now sit holding a notepad and the cheapest mechanical pencil money can buy, ticking away. Here I write, though I'm not sure I am (I mean I'm unsure about my existence, not my current writing state) (Yes, Descartes, I think therefore I am, but what if I don't feel?)
At this point in a story, you'd start getting hints about my 'tragic past'. Well, in reality, it might sound pretty ******. It'd go like this;

"Polly Perks, born April 17, 1993 once deeply and profoundly felt. She held lust and envy, bounded in happiness and spun out thoughtfulness, wandering with curiosity, released lust, her body was a compendium of emotions (whatever that means). And sometimes she felt them one by one or glutted herself on many feels. Then, as per usual narrative style, came a boy who made her heart beat, her brain swoon and then her insides scream all within a school year. That boy was no good for her because he was, you see, deeply forbidden (translated to exclude melodrama, he was dating her best friend, that *******). Polly carved through that summer with whiskey, daydreams, and a quiet ripping noise coming from her chest as the emotions shanked their way out. Then her dad died. Then she went to college."

You see, after I watched my father's skin turn yellow and his eyes churn milky tears, after i left behind my life with shallow and fleeting throes of excitement for books and tests, after I was finally escaped from this man-child who pulled and pushed me like a yo-yo, i made a pact subconsciously, or maybe hallucinatory, or maybe completely aware-ly, but from that day on I abandoned emotion, and so I have lived for nigh on 279 days (I made that number up, but the gist is its been awhile since me and feelings have hopped into any kind of bed).

Well today, nearly one year later, Polly has had enough with emotionless-ness. Let's get back to narration, shall we?

"One day after work Polly finds herself shaking her head. Not in a manner of saying 'no' or conveying confusion, more like a 'wet dog shaking off the rain' shake. rain is what she wants, and like a fairytale rain is coming. She hears thunder and strikes up, leaves the house and enters rain. Inside, she feels (not emotionally but in a scientific way, as if she's taking inventory of her organs and thoughts and building blocks) movement, like her pulse is bracing to start. She's felt it before this year, while watching shooting stars with a cute, drug infested boy in college, and while witnessing the comedies of friends, and after telling the nightmarish apparition of her yellowed father he died and must leave her dreams alone. She feels she should feel."

So I run. I run and run and run in the rain, and God, I'm feeling like emotions might not ****. But then the rain starts slowing, and I start skimming, and soon I'm on a tree, a fallen fractured tree upon a metal playground (there's probably symbolism in that, so go ahead and rejoice, high school english teachers). I think 'i don't want to be empty' and then I whisper it and soon I find myself standing on this tree, yelling at empty clouds and the bricks and the metal climbing bars i don't, I Don't, I DON'T.
and then... a heart beat. a strong one. I feel it.  I feel the story, I feel colors, I feel inspired and man, I feel like ****. But I'm feeling something.

"Delirious with this re-discovered feeling, Polly decide to challenge the skies. She sees a flag pole with an shiny brass eagle on top sitting as a bright and proud beacon of America, home of the free and the brave and those who eat their feelings or starve them out.She sees the clouds, she hears the thunder, and the eagle speaks. 'So you feel now, Polly? Come put it to the test. Feel reckless. Come and feel my skin, cool metal, during a lightning storm.'

So she does. And she dies. And her feelings die with her. That, or she lives to write her odd, slapdash story in a frenzy in a parking lot outside CVS, to the pitter patter of mad rain.

Cold the day begins in earnest
Gathering the mist at sunrise
Magpie screams as thin beam strikes him
Keen of eye and black of feather
Crow in thicket calls his brethren
Mist arises deep in valley

Fallen petals lie in tumult
Beaten down by squall that shook them
Bramble, precious jewels wearing
Berries black that shine like glory
Blowing over endless hillsides
None may tell the north wind’s story
Dancing in the sighing branches
Casting leaves of oak and willow
Ash and beech and long-shanked rowan
Bough and twig and fallen acorn
Squirrel hoards for bitter future
Whispers tales of coming Winter

Green is now a fading memory
Leaves lie crimson, brown and golden
Ripe and awful apples moulder
Boar lies sleeping fat and sated
Mushroom blooms on rotting deadwood
Nightshade sways on tumbled walling
Fern grows dense by water running
Down by where the gravestones standing
Tell of those whose lives are ended

Clad in moss and superstition
Watching over generations
Bends the old and twisted yew tree
Shakes and laughs with storm-wracked holly
Waiting for the day of reckoning
Biding time through mankind’s folly
Hears All Hallows Eve a-beckoning

Intro:
I Signed A Contract
But I Ain't Get No Mansion
No Cars, No Boats
No Nada
Than What The **** Did I Exchange My Soul For?

Verse 1:
C-Rock Is The Ying
C-Mack Is The Yang
They Got The Business ****** Up
And Their Product Is Wack
They Sound Black
And They Exhibit They Back
But When They Get To The Pen
Its Guaranteed To Get Shanked
And The Crumbs That You Made
Off That Box Of Garbage
Got A Muthafuker Laughing
Cause Your Vehicle Salvage
I'm A Savage
That Means I Body Bag You
Out Of State In The Desert
Cause You Got No Value
Sabes - Holla
They Know To Fight The Pigs
Blue Rag State Of Mind
That Split Your Wig
So Take Heed
Or Become Ghostly
I Sleep With The Vest
And The AK Closely
You ******* know Me
For Drug Dealin' & Pimpin'
I Walk With The Cain
But A G Ain't Limpin
The Boy Trippin'
On Your Personnel
Homie Smacking Muthafuckas
In This Concrete Hell

Chorus:
Did I Sell My Soul?
I Shook Hands With The Devils
Is That The **** I Had To Do
To Reach This Level
Its My Endeavor
To Come This Strong
Enemies Try To Cross Me
And Do Me Wrong
I Must've Sold My Soul
While I was Fucken wasted
The Dragon In My Vein
And I Began To Chase It
Gave Me Methods
Then I Got In The Lab
With A Bag Of Narcotic
And A Writing Pad

Verse 2:
So Many Gimmicks Homie
And So Many Critics
That After Meditation
I Ain't Trying To Hear It
Saint Louise Fitted
I'm Sly, Slick & Wicked
This City Got Bricks
For A Lower Ticket
Shoot The Digits
You A Fabrication
So I Ain't Doin' ****
With Your Association
For Real Though
What The ******* Flippin'?
When My Boys Do The Shipment
Newspaper Clippin'
Gun Shots
From The Wesson Toys
And I Just Got Back
From Illinois
Its An Eye For An Eye
In The Windy City
Ese All Foreign Cars
And Big *** *******
Patrollin'
Looking For Taliban
Ese Afghan Style
No Pinching Plan
I'm The Medicine Man
Hear My Tribe
I Smoke Into The Plants
That Get You High

Chorus:
Did I Sell My Soul?
I Shook Hands With The Devils
Is That The **** I Had To Do
To Reach This Level
Its My Endeavor
To Become This Strong
Enemies Try To Cross Me
And Do Me Wrong
I Must've Sold My Soul
While I was Fucken wasted
The Dragon In My Vein
I Began To Chase It
Gave Me Methods
Then I Got In The Lab
With A Bag Of Narcotic
And A Writing Pad

Verse 3:
You Want This Throne?
In Your Fucken Dreams
Only ******* Slangers
Understand The Green
And Thats A Fact
You Wanna Conquer That
The **** That I Build
Fool My Clips Are Filled
So Place Your Gangstas
I'm A Fucken Magician
2-Story Crack House
Offer Exposition
You Already Dead
You A ***** Donor
Watching 20 TVs
I'm A New Club Owner
Another Day Another Dollar
Ask The File Clerk
I'm A Wait Till You Receive
Homie Get You For Work
I Sever Fingers
And I Heard You Would Finger
On A Stand Up In Court
Like An R&B; Singer
Singing Hooks To The Jury
The Judge Is Watching
There's A Bomb Under Your Seat
And The Clock Ain't Stoppin'
Booom!
Your *** Went Through The Ceilin'
But That's What You Get
For Your Punk *** Squealin'

Chorus:
Did I Sell My Soul?
I Shook Hands With The Devils
Is That The **** I Had To Do
To Reach This Level
Its My Endeavor
To Become This Strong
Enemies Try To Cross Me
And Do Me Wrong
I Must've Sold My Soul
While I was Fucken wasted
The Dragon In My Vein
I Began To Chase It
Gave Me Methods
Then I Got In The Lab
With A Bag Of Narcotic
And A Writing Pad

Outro:
You See
We Got All These Raggedy *** Muthafuckers
Trying To Be Hollywood
Walking Out The Swapmeet
Feeling Like A Million Bucks
But I'm Here Now
C - O - N
The Avenging Angel
Doing This **** For Everybody Out There
That Just Ain't Inspired
By The ******* Thats Out Right Now
Ha These Muthafuckas Is Wack

You know, there are so many definitions of the word love out there. You’re mine, I’m theirs, stuff like that is pretty common. I don’t consider that the love I feel right now. Considering you know, I don’t exactly have someone that I can call “mine”. Even if I was technically in a relationship, I don’t think I’d ever use that term. I don’t think love should be this possessive thing. The way that I feel when I’m in love is sort of an off the ground, light and airy sensation. I don’t want someone to be keeping my feet on the Earth telling me that I’m “theirs” when I want to be in the air. I want the person I love to take my hand and just fly with me so we can both be free and airy together. Hell, I’m not even that worried if that person is going to actually hold my hand or not or be with me that way in general. Just being around them is enough to get me floating. The love I feel isn’t one of those you see in a romance book. I’m not getting swept off of my feet by a perfect prince charming. In fact, there really isn’t anything romantic about this at all. It isn’t a sudden spark of chemistry that got me to feel this way, its years of friendship and little things done for each other. And maybe because he is so NOT a prince charming, that I savor those little moments of kindness I get from him. No, he’s not totally rude and mean but he is one of those guys that you couldn’t get to tell you how he felt if you shanked him. Some of my favorite memories include him. Like when we got drunk off of whiskey in his basement at his sister’s party and he danced with me. He’s such a bad dancer… Then we crashed on chairs and sofas around two in the morning and it was the first time I slept over his house and I just felt so happy. But my favorite time of all was when he asked me out of the blue if I wanted to go to a concert with him to see a local band. Not only was the band incredible, but that whole night was. He was flirting with me the entire time and being touchy-feely. I’m pretty sure he even gave me that “I want to kiss you" stare but I didn’t realize that until it was too late. Afterwards he wouldn’t even let me go home, he wanted me to sleep over. We were gonna sleep in the same bed, the other two friends that went got to sleep on the floor. It was me and him. I felt his hand on my thigh, and I then gave in. God it was the greatest feeling to feel loved back. I’m not sure if he really loves me that way. I don’t need him to. I just wanna keep feeling this warm fuzzy feeling for a long time.

Eyelash blinkered in hubris Rubik’s knight
Elevation of pogrom ennobled by triaged triumph minus the cynic summation of all light
Littoral swank bronzed like starlet fantasia with a Carey mountaintop jeer
Reichstag extinguished blaring sirens of cacophony capers to benumbed Linkin Park cheer
Knells intrepid by quakes of remonstrance staged in histrionic applause
Southern Colonies shifting in Charleston surgical in orderly slugabed dogged laws
Slipshod through ribbacles of rengall zenkidu among the sertivine poison ivy
Grimace at gamboled rivulets of a moribund Vanilla Sky for departed wiseacres of savvy dicey ICE toxic Harvey Dent slimy
A mannequin Marx Ralph alienated the truest alien by pioneering disdain of a hostage giraffe summiting a Swiss Alp
Master of time 12th bradycardia for Generator design parked beneath escarpments of base aphasia milquetoast in killjoy Strickland nickels away from a gubbertushed mouth
LOST legend enunciating the furor of epochs of egalitarian traipse
Trapped by the bootlick of a wrinkle of Van Winkle revolutionary agape
Curved by soliliquy master of belletrist prose
The vogue can’t help but bunt, balk, denounce the remembrance of Lady Madonna pose
We beat the muckrakers of rummaged lisp of culinary suns that the sons of privilege are emoluments to apolaustic zeal first known to transmogrified nuns, before the poppies made the few into many and the notion of an insuperable line of infinity into a spherical nullification of the concept of none
Estrapade engorges the fustilug magnet of the kitsch Kenosha Chicago Demolition drive-by-derbies “once read”
That two kings one Titanic by skin-color dashed dreams the other both the coins of tails eloped with heady dreams of head
Sacrifice shadow dancing with pettifoggery in slumps of aboriginal dances of marsupial rice
Native to extortion gouged blind as Samson exacts lachrymose cremations of Pikes Peak trick-or-treat aghast with fright
Temples raised in 46 years cemented never in the Mumbo Jumbo politics of those lacking the oceanic schadenfreude among queers
That by their exclusion the panmixia of fluid alchemy is dauntless scrabble limited by NORAD notions of Tears for Fears
Henpecked rooster awakens the serfdom of Ronald’s (sly spy) Drugs sailing with dovetails of elapse downtrodden in modern clubs
Drunken *** addict sell-out charlatans berated  by Ingram Angles sent by maleficence are the grubhub of Harriet Tubman torching promising tapestries with rugged rugs
Slinging the bait of fish-hook dimples on freckled effigies of ****** humiliation outmantled by Mickey weight
I thunder a fulgurant explosion against recrimination of white-collar criminals that philander saturnalia in pretense with facetious swarpollock freight
Crooks of tyranny exhort the paranoiacs of indemnity to sunken canned soup applause of a Warhol extortion
Berating my audience with drooling slavers of inelegant tortoise byzantine like an Istanbul dredged with intortion
Mr Deeds is not a champion of BRE Properties nor the pinnacles of inertia, a psychiatric squeeze
My orange juice is not a car chase against treecheese in terminal punitive disease
Soaring with the prosperous tongue against the walloped nativism of pounced impounds having too much fun
I let the other guardians of the order of salvation pivot vitriol in loaded dice against Orangutans of Swedish minted gum
Caesar died for the seizure of Anglican pride of a namesake percolating millenia for Brutus in the Washington Bullets of a conquered Ottawa on strike carnal with Chauvinism in regional divide
Never has there been a more hollow trope than the agency of deep state defamation of a scurrilous backbite of gnashing pride
Lost to pollster tricks of acquiescence and caricatures of a menacing personage Swift on the Riff but never the snarling Menace of a Blondie Biff
I tower above the anthills of conformity of luxury in Jamaican Bob Sled Teams testing the curiosity of enlightened “What Ifs”
Canada Dry for striking people enthused by Rye abides in the memory of reform that skulks the skunks that make every Scudworth cry
Because a Dental Dam damsel living in streets of peril fascinated by distance is the contortion of entreaty in the pasquinade of attempts at American Pie
May the city of a figurative crucifixion burn with the irony of a thousand suns as Wendy’s burgers unload on prejudice with albatrosses of winsome puns
Fixed data interpolated by convenient lies of serial killers who aim for blue skies shanked in Oswald infamy for the imposture of any flashbang revenge against cinematic guns
I blacklist the Zemeckis villainy as a trudge of travesty
Hedged lies blinkered by Batman and Robin puns redeemed by Dinosaurs of Amnesty
Obviously belittled by futures etched by a more honest infinity
Because 88 keys are not a stroke because the infinite bees know the parlance of divinity
Invited lissome taxidermies of Capone against teetotalers of parvanimity of vainglory overthrown
Showers the honest hominist reckoning of a world where neither crudity of know-nothing radical polarization owns every inept baritone
Crusading a secular war because the gubbertushed eccedentesiast spinsters of Santa Cruz deserve a gassy overtone
Torch the SC Pacific Avenue for peace
Let the world unite behind a singularity with purpose in ventilation of Speedman’s release
That antithetical Jacks of many names are wed with the progeny of enduring lists of NSA protection rather than rentgourge Denver PD eager to chaos decimated by the decimals of a region forever boycott and impeached
To the decisive curling of the frolicked Abandoned Pool servitude crass disasters are the sheol of impudent flagrant overreach
Regnant on the turmoil of invented throne
I scowl at the chicanery of Capone’s Chicago sweltering with Kenosha infamy tossing contortionist strippers a vulcanized bone in a DIA Diamond that even 11,500 years of knowledge is surpassed in condemnation of screaming E.T. calling the right home
Speak Now because the reach of forever is God appeased not by a kowtow but a mobilized ambition for Why? When? And How?
History will remember gentility as the kind steward rather than a Disco Demolition Derby of urbacity venerating a seasonal Golden Cow
Hipsters flock with folly to South African extortion for freebooters who bootlick the aceldama of war against the sublime currency of a winner surrounded by thugs
TOO MANY URBAN KIDS ARE TAUGHT BY REDUCTIVE TAUTOLOGY TO HATE The United States of America RATHER THAN NURTURING SYNCRETISM IN PATRIOTIC HUGS
Imperfect in design with disagreement in plainest sight
Sometimes libertarianism with a Democratic twinge is clearly in the right that should believe in reform even when the footloose girouettism is too tight
Yet forestalled for authentic grit the grisly rentgourge of venal abysses knows the countermand against Rand with hyperboles of the clearest *******
The true flock congregates around scepters built not with militant graft but a promenade of sultry dance for the defiant C.L.I.T.
Exercise with the Rock knowing school buses of dogmatism inferior are distraught
Dying dogmatism is a peacock of industry the yeggs can easily unlock rather than truckle with truculent Scottish Rites tasty with Connery Scotch
Defenders of the misleading staircase because of the carapace of Hovering pertinacity easily won and bought
Neither scary nor deliberate streets are rumpus of elevations of unbounded anarchy considerate but robbed by the illiterate
That the delegated mansion will be robbed by the cooperation of the remorseful idiot recognizing his snide mendaciloquence in destructive Roswell Records limerick
Scowls are on petrol and patrol hoping Tesla is a short of bravado too intrepid to sanction free-for-all profligacy in alleys that bowl
To the Emerald Street lie of hypes of perdition rather than merely a seasonal token embarrassment coal
The fossilized future is the irrevocable past because more respect is needed than the ***** of a maskirovka caste
Diamond Lightning in Bhagavad Gita prancing with the delusion of the everlasting mummification of Brawndo ash
Dinner with Egyptsy malingers on tomes etched flippant in integrity and all about the curated snare of kitsch cash
The cache valley of LASER tag shattered like Joseph Smith flagellating the confederate hayday with articulate gnash
Fast & Furious the amused by Suburban subway know the trailblazer trashes of The Stupids’ being Einstein about Boogie Dubs rather rash
Streaking through a Tucker rule the Buccaneers live for the SoulSeek of a riddled ruler benighted of prerogative of Roger Goodell bumping in his Ferrari the tucked serenade of Tool
Wrong band because they linger in the shadow dancing backpages of scandals of Norweigan hourglasses of shameful hush hush Vikings mining furloughs of pulverized anticipation sand
Humbled retinue shelves the ossified limpid droll drool
As the haze of submarines scouting pridefall galls of indolence betraying innocence becomes moral cigarettes of Menthol Kool
Reparations for chappy chapstick games of bowery riches
The urbane needs to read, discern and maneuver against whiplash found in Navi witches
Swapping homes with crack addict legalese an *** to a bronzed party crackling with cackles Home Alone
Knows a toiletry of escape gullible like Seahawks wishing they could contain a fumbled season by Mahomes
Jones methamphetamine paranoiac manure desiccated by folksy homilies of brimstone cremation deserts his flock to abide by a flagging wayward temptress
Decimated by the agency of time his Austin crenellation flounders in grimace of the untimely swoon his covert empress
Blinded by the light of darkness in subversion
Excoriated for the deeds of his permission to demote commotion into only an acquiescent dance with barbed etch-a-sketch conclusion- a half-baked *******
Quacksalver poetaster wrinkled with hatred simpering paranoia strangled by Hendrix abeyance of turgid delusion
Lurid underground Princeton gilds infested with defected dementia in cozens in the fritty of heralded mistress SHE appointed
Sandlot ravens cloistered the bravado of thirst for chosen words scrappy in clawed henpecks the pointless illegal sanctioned to brusque witticism anointed
Lamps of pathway sparkle with coruscated stargazer Winslet dreamy swank illustrious by providence
Engrenage of delopes of pettifoggery identity staggers the woozy dismal day of disjointed wounds on Native sons Denver can’t damage in a lonely campaign for the prodigal bends of Overlook Lorraine Motel bent
Intrepid in gallantry I swoop the scrivello tusked with might
Penetrating the vivid dreams of the serenade of alpenglow daylight
That love might rule over chance and probability above the specter of dynasty prodigy progeny tithing gravity in rent
Yet this taper of majestic poise will outfox even the careless gambles of the prodigal son Mr Sender already traipsed conquered and went
The mountaintop is so clear from the cloister of authenticity drinking Eminence Front of the WHO rather than the coherence of the near
Because titans shepherd the good flock without insult and not quavering with insuperable time flackey with tremulous fear
I dare this day to outlast benighted ignorance of the narrow gate of a persecution tsunami on a Lisbon tear
Because galloping ahead of the internecine sheds the serpentine craft of 3:1 Genesis met with the worst fleeced fleer
Not auctioned off like ******* vogue to the disfavor of poor taste
I am the true Royal Flush that can always count on the aced basic but mostly acidic flourish of a jest in bass predicated on the basis for Mozart pH
Today could be the summit of acclimated prodigy in startled degrees temerity could never bet against
Because you better bet the Bros and Cos of civilization are skilled in ostentation of Sterling Pound defense
Never offensive to the liturgy of triumph beckoning an apocalypse now tentative memory on a Manifest Destiny frontier rarely on wickers of extinguished cattle ranchers knowing the gamut of acumen to defend a fortress with the best fencing James Bond could dispense
Now is either a cordial joke of a flagrant anarchy balking at destiny
Or the sunrise majesty of the twelve tribes and beyond defeating the stingy bees of infamy
Your choice doesn’t defeat my voice
But your action heralds my loyalty with a triumphant Victoria of an age not for agelast geeks intimidated but living clairvoyance with fidelity to the right choice for the right time to swim in elegant rejoice
(1977 Words)

Tired and twisted
broken and listless
another day in prison ****** me off.
Last night was Christmas, and I
miss my kids so much,
it feels like I've been shanked.
I sell my desserts for coffee;
my one luxury in the joint.
The complexion of my day is
gray, and lonely as a
tea bag in the ocean.
Everything is gray:
The sky
the weights
the walls
the blood
the food
the fence
The mood, the soul, the yard, the heart
and the beat of the false dawn.
It's all tombstone gray.
Hate thickens the air.
And the light on the
horizon is a lie--razor wire sharp.

The poster read:

“Gone Missing”

The come-back-kid
has failed to show.
The Old Man saw him,
******* by the Rainbow Factory
wall, against the wind,
like a prayer no longer given
to the prism-surfing life.

He said,

“The come-back-kid, might
Not come back”..

He wrung his
swindled heathen, left
with haversack and Macintosh,
hummed ballad in a Sea-King crown,
the colloquy of shepherd lore.
head far too full to sing,

Caught riding
in a burnt out car of
rude December archetypes,
an engine feathered Westerling,
to think.

He went
to where they bury boats,

Where mud larks perk
for potsherd farthings,
red-shanked in the gallon slob
oblivious...

Far off the Ness
He’ll watch them go..

... on meteoric dawn patrols,
a contrast to his built-in
obsolescence.

In provinces
of platitude
He’ll form no evanescent tie,
invoke his tattooed waxwing
back against their lactic
saccharine, to beg
the notion die...

But leavened light may carry,

A bold ceramic dialect
that skitters off
the short-sun marsh

dissipates in linnet banter
winnowed from the winter barley
crossing out the county lines..


The come-back-kid
will not return,
a blue-eyed, fell, Promethean.

Disfigured by the absolute
He’ll beat his way
unrecognised.

I came to see an alligator, lizard or a toad,
Drove along the waters to the Tamiami Road.
We took our time to see the myths all about the park,
But still I wanted desperately,
To hear the gators bark.

Watched the dawning day arrive
Above the mossy trees,
Watched the night herald morn,
Tasted the salty breeze.
We lived a captive life
Along the shell shod shores;
Traded time for trinkets,
Shopped the main street stores.

We oiled our bodies near
The alligator swamp;
Waited bated near
The large tortoise hole;
We didn't see the turtle,
Didn't see the shell;
So looking for the gators,
Remained our only goal.

We heard one lived in the lake,
Invisible in his lair;
Eating shanked golf *****,
Go on look, if you so dare.
We watched from a distant bank,
With each kerplunk,
Our odyssey sunk.

We searched further down
The TamiamiTrail;
Studied bees in their hives,
Awed by the order we saw there,
Made us more alive.

We wandered lost in orange groves
Perfuming winding trails;
But we never saw a gator,
We never saw a tail.

So, if you want to see some gators,
Skip the Tamiami Trail.

I live between church and society
never entering either entirely
I go to church and sing with God in me
but each memorable melodic monody
sounds increasingly odd to me
when there are only flaws I see.

Last night I had a horrid dream
I was with my worship team
when their worship scheme
resembled war ship steam.

It seemed like a normal service
but tonight we had special guests
the kind that can afford to purchase
every bell and whistle, nothing less.

I was to be their guide on tonight's spiritual ride
I trailed them like their extravagant robes
wishing to be someone people flock to in droves
but all I have are my words
and the Holy Spirit
so I sing like a bird
with radio interference.

Despite my best intentions of making a good impression
the service was a disaster in need of a master
unchecked videos wouldn't work
preplanned cues were missed
responsibilities were shirked
and I was ******.

My worship team started complaining
in a manner I found to be draining
because my must-see team of trusty steeds
had morphed into prima donna demon llamas
passing the buck and saying "that *****".

Under our Jesus painting
a sight has shanked me
a fire breaking
through our mistaking.
When the fire is small
it's no big deal
but once it grows tall
it becomes real.

We all had to evacuate
for firefighting to actuate
our realization of facts too late
that we'd failed a task too great.
I take my family to the church attic
away from all the stampede traffic
I think up there we can hack it
and look at the area impacted.

The sanctuary is a giant ember
yet dripping wet
I want to return to sender
fire grips me best
and grows at my behest
an emerging inferno infects
the sanctuary's rest.

Understanding danger
I escape with my family
outside with strangers
who all stand with me
we cry over spilt ilk
and brick that wilts.

But people toned down their tears
and stifled their sobs
like silencing fear
was their only job
so as the church was mourned
a makeshift line was formed
to consign Satan's scorn
and be alive and born.

They lined down the street
a church without seats
they still needed to speak
and seek out the meek.
They started praying together
praying for healing
not for the church to be better
but each other's feelings
their friends that were reeling
still needed the word so appealing.

I look back at the church
but I don't see it there
I don't lament its worth
or complain it's unfair
I save my despair
for those that need care.
A humble abode has replaced the opulent cathedral
where the ****** of the masses once found its needle
now there's a house that's meek like the women inside
could this be the house by which God wants me to abide?
I open the doors
and walk right in
I can feel in my core
the removal of sin.

I discovered a spider lurking in the corner
of my room. Yes, lurking--a word implying
criminal intent. These creatures are a clear and
present danger to my peace and well-being.
This is my room, **** it. Why can't
it just go back to where it came?

I read somewhere once, probably on the internet,
that Australia has something like eight million species
of spider; and most, if not all, are
so venomous that they can **** you with
just one glance. They just stalk in bushes,
in your shoes, and under the toilet seat.
Now, I've never befriended a spider, don't know
enough about them to dispute this information. But,
anything that looks like that can't be anything
except a threat to me and society.
I am extraordinarily uncomfortable. While I realize this
is not Australia and there is plenty open
earth between here are there, aren't they all
related? Aren't they all the same by blood?

Honestly, my first reaction to finding this trespasser
is to reach for a shoe, or hammer,
a gun, or a match and a gallon
of gasoline. Yes, that's right--gas and flame.
Light it all up, burn it all down.
I wouldn't call this arachnophobia; instead, a valid
response to a perceived threat. I love living
here but I can't let my room stand
to further the spider agenda now, can I?

However, lately I've been trying to be more
present, to practice this radical idea where I
think before acting. So, I'm trying to not
react so harshly to things that scare me,
to things I don't understand... like spiders.
Why should I be afraid, anyway? I know
what I've read but are they that dangerous?
No spider ever confronted me in the streets
and beat, or shanked, shot, or robbed me.
In fact, I can't even verify as to
whether even one has even bitten me. Maybe
mosquitoes are just giving them a bad rap.
And no spider certainly ever threatened to take
my job. Let's be honest. I would never
spin web. Have you seen how hard
they toil at that? And for minimum wage?

I still want to reach for some tool
of destruction; but to stay my hand,
I devise stories about my intruder. Humanize it.

Maybe he doesn't even want to be here.
Maybe he really wants to reside on the soil
of his birth, but civil war sent him
fleeing. Or he had to abandon home before
some bigger, scarier creatures knocked on his web.

Maybe he lost his job and he's out
looking for work but no one is hiring
and he needed to just stop and cry
because his web is just days from foreclosure.

Maybe he just has nowhere else to go
because his staunchly religious parents kicked him out
upon tragically discovering he's atheist; or worse, gay.

Maybe he is not even he. Maybe she
was born he but now identifies as she
and has been holding her bladder for hours
looking for a bathroom to use without all
of her spider kin going crazy over it.

Maybe she made a wrong turn while heading
to a march against an over-reaching patriarchy
or is look for an open Planned Parenthood.

Maybe she's vegan. Maybe I'm not in danger.
Maybe I'm not as desirable as I thought.

The possibilities are endless. Even if I don't
like spiders, even if I think they're monsters,
it's a lot harder to harm something when
you know it has a story. Maybe they
can be dangerous; but can't we all be
when threatened? This may just be a silly
poem about a spider, but I hope there's
a metaphor about something much bigger here somewhere.

The Zombie apocryphal that though there is no glitch to
presume a monger of disease, the play on terms for
shield and sword have arcing facts that drugs and
slipshod characters are applied.
Avalon your saints have soup of slanderous
punishment beset for the assuming deformity of these
******* rugs.
We've walked upon the shallow grave; but none so concerned
as the mighty caress of defiled weathered Zombie fleshes.
Angst a pitiless flaunting that bore filthy teeth,
as sharded deathly axes, make grinding with defacto skivy
of a clawing weapon.
And the prosperous call to human tears in the plump
juicy prey, shams on the syntax of writ, for a Zombie
lunch and evening snack from a romping day.
A ***** in the fence of those disastrous metaphors for
making death, a chemical attribute the nuclear winter
isn't uncharming of shores with sluffs, that as death
barges, can take to the sea.
These Demons, begotten, our Zombie creators; infuriate
a place for safety not to hold away the needs of the
greater monetary disarming.
The path is a child's free road, and friends and fiends
soon can only make it a passage to Hell's domain.
How destructive we shall consume of our ways; the blood
dribulets floating as hazy morning complimented pond
lilies until,... scratch the rebirth houses, of which we can
do no other than, be the undead who live.
Flooding sun prancing awakening miracles are these
killing field's seductions for executions that only the
unholy fighter Zombies dare to defy, for the
transformation calamity warning at us does not apply.
Aching rotting foul intrepid... what subtle needs the
cosmic school of thought; that Idju of the corpses
shanked about, for a slaughterhouse, is thunderous yet
almost not, a good feeling.
The tracing slashes go skitch skatch and felons of the
theory of life's rivers of blood: they are that
aforementioned not that of which was once which there
they stood.
Amidst a plastered riot, screaming dove tails.
Femmes with fancy attractions and ingots.
The shoulders are a girth of armies that should break
down any visage of hope as humans counter the terror
neither nor... the one time patterns of flesh are Zombie
thoughts now of a canvas painted with; as death's own
mutiny; the prey afore!

I'm willing to pay on the marge. Don't be tricked, shanked, banked and skirted. I need plutonium and I need it badly. Help me help myself before life abandons me! I'm yours; you're mine! Together let's pan the creeks and snare the shores that need parting. Let's lap at the beach and delve or irrigate. I'll look yonder as you shape the horizon. Can we not **** time, dress each other's wounds, and recount our brave service in Nam without Op.-Phoenix, Schlesinger, Clifford & Westmoreland?