Of death
the barber
the barber
talked to me

cutting my
life with
sleep to trim
my hair—

It’s just
a moment
he said, we die
every night—

And of
the newest
ways to grow
hair on

bald death—
I told him
of the quartz
lamp

and of old men
with third
sets of teeth
to the cue

of an old man
who said
at the door—
Sunshine today!

for which
death shaves
him twice
a week

if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass throughout,
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)...
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
                  more...
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.

V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon,
Washes, shaves and very soon
Is at the lab; he reads his mail,
Swings a tadpole by the tail,
Undoes his coat, removes his hat,

Dips a spider in a vat
Of alkaline, phones the press,
Tells them he is F.R.S.,
Subdivides six protocells,
Kills a rat by ringing bells,

Writes a treatise, edits two
Symposia on "Will man do?,"
Gives a lecture, audits three,
Has the ***** club in for tea,
Pensions off an ageing spore,

Cracks a test tube, takes some pure
Science and applies it, finds,
His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds,
Instructs the jellyfish to spawn,
And, by one o'clock, is gone.

A razor is my nemesis, because the blades do not behave
Gouging cuts into my skin, that is the path they pave
But it is unavoidable, I have become a bathroom slave
To rid myself of excess hair, from a shave that I don't crave

Ever since the birth of man, it goes back many years
A growth around your lip and chin, extending to your ears
It may go down particularly well, among the bents and queers !
I'd rather have a smoother face, to avoid Ducky's and Dears

Why do men want ****** hair, why do they want a beard
Bits of stubble sticking out, a design that's rough and weird
A Goatee isn't very good, it's cattle that's not reared
You wouldn't get tickled or scratched, if beards had not appeared

Okay some guys might look alright, when they are neat and trim
Scruffy ones they just look bad, and some are rather grim
I don't want hairs growing on my legs, or any other limb
Nice smooth skin is my preference, and it's not a passing whim

There is just one problem, something I would love to ditch
Hair removal is a pain, and it's an evolution glitch
When the morning comes along, I have that same old itch
Having to shave is immanent, and a *******

How many ****** shaves, does a man have to endure
Eventually your skin goes dry, from this old daily chore
You get cut far too often, I don't want it anymore
Razor blades no longer work, and that's a shaving flaw

Girls complain about their periods, it must be so frustrating
With all that blood just seeping out, when you are menstruating
You wouldn't like it daily, there is a period of waiting
It only happens once a month, so it's not as irritating

I'd rather shave twelve times a year, without anymore hair traces
No cuts and grazes for a month, in many different places
Unscrupulous razor companies, would have no more hairs and graces
Hairy smiles would be wiped off, from their stupid corporate faces

A close shave does not exist, I think it's a fare bet
That manufactures cut your throat, with electric dry and wet
All the claims of the best, that a man can get
Sharp shavers are a fabrication, and that includes Gillette

The cheaper brands are just as bad, shops own brand or BIC
You may as well tape a knife, to a piece of stick
Are potato peelers any sharper, would they be a valid pick
Would chipped skin be as bad, or just get on your wick

One shave is not sufficient, you have to do it twice
There's always bits left behind, which isn't very nice
I would've tried the No No, an expensive hair device
Razor blades and shavers, have such a high tagged price

It makes me cross and angry, because there is no reward
When buying beauty products, which they say you can afford
Why cant you have a body switch, or a desired level cord
So you can turn of your hair, and sod Wilkinson Sword

Excess hair I do not want, except for on my head
Is stress the cause of going thin, when it begins to shed
Would it not be better, coming of your face instead
Shaving would then be reduced, and not something to dread

Many men go through the curse, of losing it on top
The older that you become, your head hairs for the chop
A full crown is all I want, why take away my mop
I didn't want a bad harvest, by losing half my crop

The only place I wanted it, I've lost my style and flair
Why does a bald patch appear, why does your bonce go bare
Is it my comeuppance, with the creation of a glare
All I want from follicles, is my head full of hair

If you want to have a beard, then that is fare enough
Don't be mistaken for a *****, by looking like a scruff
I don't want a hairy face, or stubble that is rough
Or a weird beard with scraggy parts, or any yuk *** fluff

Some men just let beards grow, and maybe that's just crazy
It's not as though they look sweet, or as pretty as a daisy
Personal hygiene may not count, if they are always lazy
To me it isn't fashionable, it makes you look old and hazy

Who wants to be a yeti, but perhaps it is too late
And wild men roaming in the woods, is evolutions own cruel fate
No matter how much I shave, it's the scratchy bits I hate
Wasted shaves when hair returns, why does it lay in wait

How much has man evolved, how much as man progressed
Personally I think the state of hair, has radically regressed
It's based on my own experience, so perhaps I am obsessed ?
Who wants a hairy monkey, when your naked and undressed ?

There is a smooth advantage, when you are misbehaving
A kiss feels much more sensual, without the crazy paving
This is all that drives me, although it is enslaving
Even with the nice things, I'm not craving for a shaving

Bonkers? BONKERS?! Bonkers you say?!
I'll be completely wonkers for it is written upon my grave.
Until the moon turns to sun and the bearded woman shaves
Bonkers and wonkers until my final day.

Loud? LOUD?! Loud you say?!
I'll be forever loud for being quiet is a shame.
To whisper is to keep secrets and secrets shouldn't be said!
If not loud, then silence! Silent like the dead. 

Stay loud, and bonkers, and wonkers, and silent
Be afraid to be public and amusingly private
Stay creepy, and hushed, and awkward, and such
I promise you'll like it.
Very, very much.

This delusional concept of dressing up in your finest threads just to sit in some quiet, ridiculously-named, fancy establishment that has four walls and a few toilets and neatly-folded napkins, spotless silverware, and an overly-priced menu just to talk about some ******* that you pulled out of your *** when your arm was being stretched to the max trying to reach for the stack of crisp twenties that the ATM viciously spat at you is simply ****** up.

Yeah… that’s what I thought until I met her.

You know, “the one.”

The one that all the guys say you’re ***** whipped about.

That one.

She has her **** together. She is driven, goal-oriented, smart, funny, and **** in that hippie/bohemian kinda way, except that she wears deodorant and shaves her legs.

She even shaves….ha! I’ll stop. I’m just toying with ya. But she does shave.

She even has dimples, man.

Dimples.

And guess who the lucky ******* is that has the best table in the house sitting directly across from her, staring into those brown, puppy eyes??

My ***.

Then, without warning, this horrible, invasive, mood-altering, uncanny, uncouth, *******-of-a-question barges right in.  It asks, “How did you end up with her??”

Suddenly I find myself in a western movie, and this bow-legged ******* walks in asking for me.  The double doors behind him swing back and forth in rapid motion.  I don’t want to cause a ruckus, so I do what any real gentleman does: take it outside and settle it High Noon style.  I stare into his eyes (they’re brown too, but not like hers), and his eye lids begin to slightly twitch.  I draw my pistol from my hip and shoot him right between those eyes; blow the smoke away from the heated barrel; spin my pistol around a few times; and in the holster it goes.

Problem solved.

She and I start jawing after the waiter with the long rod lodged in his *** goes to fetch our excessively-priced wine.
I swear he said his name is Skip or Kip or… ah who cares?
I continue staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world.
She begins to tell me about her bittersweet day, so I cross my arms and lean in a little. All my focus is on her and of course her **** mouth too.
God, she has beautiful lips….
She’s telling me about her day at work – at the vet, that is.
She’s a veterinarian.
Anyway, there’s this little black-and-white, speckled miniature dachshund named Teagan that has been staying at the vet for a few months now, and it’s made a full recovery.
She’s telling me this story with such great passion and zeal, but she’s frowning.
This wealthy, elderly couple adopted it today, and Teagan is gone.
She grabs my hand and apologizes for being such a “downer”.

“I sorry,” she says in one of those baby voices.

Is that a pouty lip???

**** Me...

Did I really just witness a pouty lip form before my very eyes??

Did she actually just talk like a baby???

Plain and simple, I don’t stand for that cutesy, baby *******, that pathetic material pedaled by those chumps who pull that “good guys come last” crap.  

She’s awkwardly staring at me.

Before she can utter a single word, I bolt out of my chair, telling her that I’m suddenly feeling ill and need to use the restroom.

I whip around without looking and bump into our waiter who is bringing us our wine.  It spills all over his pearly, white jacket.

He grabs my arm to break his fall, but we both hit the ground hard, right on our backs too.  

All eyes are on me.

It’s dead, ******* silent. You could hear a mouse ****.

What do I say?  

I can’t just make a dash for the door without saying anything.

My mind is completely frozen, and I lie here, trembling.

Suddenly, my lips begin to part.

The words wiggle their way out of that tiny space between my lips.

“I sorry.”

…

. . .

.  .  .

.   .   .  

**** me.

She don't like her eggs all runny
she thinks crossin' her legs is funny
she looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter bunny
she's my baby
I'm her honey
Never Gonna Let Her Go

He ain't got laid in a
Month of Sundays
I caught him once
and he was sniffin' my ******
he ain't too sharp but he gets things done drinks beer like it's oxygen
and he's my baby
I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go

In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sitting on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
We're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothin'
but a big ol'  Hearts
dancin' in our eyes

she thinks all my jokes are corny
convict movies make her *****
she likes ketchup with her scrambled eggs swears like a sailor when
she shaves her legs
she takes a lickin'
she keeps on tickin'
I'm never going to let her go

He's got more ***** than
A Big Brass Monkey
he's a whacked-out ******
and a love bug ******
Sly as a fox
crazy as a loon
when payday comes
he's howlin' at the moon
he is my baby
and I don't mean maybe
I'm never going to let him go

In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sittin' on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
we're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothing
but big ol' Hearts
dancin' in our eyes

In Spite of Ourselves

Written by John Prime
Cherie Nolan- A favorite wedding tune

everybody shaves
so Warren Buffet invests in Gillette;
and every country drinks
so he also buys Coke shares -
which leads me to my own investment strategy

Every human sheds forty thousand
skin cells an hour
That’s forty thousand cells times 7 billion humans
each hour–
you listening? -
now that’s a lot of dust;
and not to forget the many cultures and nations
that cremate rather than bury
and that releases from each body in the barbecue
1.6 trillion cells of dust -
it’s a ****** dusty world, isn’t it?
so…I’ve got it all worked out…
*I’m investing in vacuum cleaners…

~~~

The unsung heroes
They work every day
Without complaint
At a job with low pay.

There are not many are out there
Who place their laurels
On the person who's right
But ends a quarrel.

It takes a person
Internally strong
To accept a defeat
And say they were wrong!

Those little things matter!
But don't get much ink
Like the husband who shaves
And cleans up the sink!

The mother who picks up
The toys from the stairs
The wife who cleans drains
And removes the hair.

The child who sees
That grandma is old
And therefore replaces
The toilet roll!

The boyfriend who remembers
The day of first date
A girl who pays dutch
To help out her mate.

Remember that you
Are needed and wanted!
So many small tasks
Are taken for granted.

At last the bell
Is taken and rung
For the persons who do this...

... *the heroes unsung.

I miss my old hair clippers
I had them since before I got sober.
at the rehab near Philly, I would trade rollies for head shaves
until I learned that I could shave my own head without a mirror.
that was ok with me,
I saved on tobacco but I still had my cup and bowl out.
like an anchorite begging for alms by the road side.
some 3000 shaves of the head later and I don’t need a mirror
for much anymore.
I set the old clippers aside and I don't know where they went to.

When I wake up the sun is going down.
I do my shopping beneath the cold chalice of the moonlight,
cold glistening, somehow still reflecting of the Sun
even though
I said goodbye from
my window to the early evening dawn
9 hours before the burning
of the midnight oil.
I chant and ring my bells
so I don’t drift back to sleep.
but I can still smell sulfur so I
Aum and pray and ring the bells a little louder.

I found God on the carpet once.
It only took me 14 hours to pick through
every crystalline crumb that glistened in the kitchen light.
the next morning I had a half soup spoon full of the Almighty
but the hook and the plunger swallowed Him whole
and with haste turned me back to dust.

sometimes I’ll make a to-do list
with every strike of the pen another performance for
the bushels and the bones,
I like grocery shopping at night.
normally there are only a few souls and
old drifters wandering about and
they usually keep their eyes pointed down.
sometimes I practice small talk
with the clerk,
endeavoring to exchange appropriate
amounts of eye contact throughout.
personalities and performances and
I am so tired of caring.

when I’m waking up the sun is going down
but monica gave me a hand full of vitamin D and
a fire in the hearth and
sometimes the world
Is like a seven pointed centrifuge.
the heavy particles are all hitting the
chalice walls and I’m spinning so fast
all I can do is look up and breathe.

The swallows are singing swooping for the
Black Madonna and the Popes of the white smoke.  

God jumps from the sky to the spoon to the corkscrew
and L/L research put up a new tweet:
more from Hatonn about the bitter wine, and
this being quite a dense illusion for the thickness of the veiling,
and the chakras being tuned like strings on a harp
to be plucked by the Hands of the Creator.

This isn’t the density of knowing
as faith is the evidence for things unseen.
I’m still half blind but I can hear them chanting and
I’m just this side of single pointed thought but
facebook keeps breaking my ****** attention.
so I stand here
awoken to  the sun going down over the highway
and the snakes winding up my spine
and a mouth full of Vitamin D.

Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.

Electra-girl squeals,
“**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,

shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.

Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,

Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,

Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.

Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.

Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.

Sixth Mass Extinction

Earth's sixth mass extinction event under way, scientists warn

-The Guardian

The headmaster has shaved his head egg-smooth
Shifted his hair to the point of his chin
And his sunshades to the top of his scalp
His petrol-station SAS sunshades

He often boasts he doesn’t even own a tie
And hasn’t read a book since Upper-Sixth
Something transgender post-colonial
About Guevara (who is on his tee)

Not a form master, but a master of forms
A way-cool disciple of Ofsted norms


Variant for the American Market

Sixth Mass Extinction

Earth's sixth mass extinction event under way, scientists warn

-The Guardian


Like, you know, the principal shaves his head

Like, absolutely, ***

Got him a goatee, like, actually

Cheap gas-station Official USA Navy Seals™® shades, mannnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Not cool, ***, actually

I had to help him with the big words in Goodnight, Moon

Absolutely, like

Yosemite Sam™® on his faunky ol’ tee

His office has, like, stuffed fish and, like, football pictures, like, and his Dallas Cowboys™® baseball cap, like, actually

i swear, the biggest anti-ageist
comeback missing
from the script of we **** the old way
lies with the scriptwriter's
phobia of o.c.d.,
                 i'm guessing he experienced
it personally,
              i wish he experienced dementia
clearer of his granddad
   succumbing: o.c.d. in old age?
it's not big deal... it's no big deal...
             enough botox and soon all that glamour
and paying your respects soon fades,
fattens up and chokes on the artistic
rubric: you need rich artists to
satire rich people... stop nagging
at Katy... be, *******, thankful,
you little cat-whiskers for a ******
moustache kitty-fiddler...
           ever **** at a girl taking a selfie?
let's say it's a blank canvas, and
you're working on it...
        how can this girl can become a
crown or the abhorred fling with
missing Welsh fetishes of excess
           ****** dangle-bits?
                       i have few entry points
i like i consider...
                 before she shaves the *****,
but did you know my godmother
           is a doctor and she doesn't shave
her legs?
                     i joked at that,
i joked for the simplicity:
              why do i have to don mine
and the theory of Darwinism is never
complete? because of aesthetics,
there's a natural instinct, a natural bound
contraband that IS NEVER, EVER TINGED WITH
CHRISTIANITY... **** Radio Maria and
Priest Rydzyk too along with
                John Paul the Tarmac Kissing Saint...
popes like pop-stars: the world's a stage:
better look the prettiest...
             thank Katy... she got cool and rich
enough to covert any criticism of wealthy kids
of Las Vegas...
                          if she wasn't here i'd be dead:
i don't love her like a girl might love
the next best: never-left high school bestseller
for young girls...
                                     my black horse is
quirky and still working on working smug
rather than donning a thong at a cat-walk...
                 but my point?
the comeback the gangsters should have served up
those ****** lips?
                                rapper movie
fakes never taught you how to shoot...
                the gun goes linear: shoot, vertical...
not cool-sly horizontal...
                         you're shooting with a blind spot...
rich girls' songs for poor girls to
cat-fight over who's the better gimmick
of impersonator...
                      but the old Hackney farts still
don't have the quick-snap-comeback...
                  the colts keep referring to E2...
a postcode...
                       the old ladies should have said:
i better move there, seems like a hot-spot
for the postcode lottery!
                           the colts keep referring
to the E2 club....
                             the crew, the gang...
i'm still thinking about these pensioners
nailing them to chairs and drilling through their
bones to the marrow for the Moscow ladies
acting out the faint in the hands  
                       of chevaliers of her retirement plans...
E2? is that a postcode lottery for
                 the losers?
and the "sad" story is? in Poland we all came from
a Communist housing estate...
            only peasants in semi-detached housing...
i guess all these smart-*** young folks
are pretending to be gangsters when all they're
all aspiring to is own a pair of shoes with hay sticking
out of them: and i.t.v. come november...
               well, the casting was smart,
the accents 10 out of 10...
                   but the final point of the accents
in talk?              slow math...
                            is      E2 designated as
the case for a joke about postcode lottery?
                 one thing they're loudmouths...
another that they're also foul-mouths...
                             can't be one and the other...
                  if you're going to be a prop'ah
foul-mouth, better be a slow-mouth
               or a shush-mouth...
                                  and if you're going to
be a loud-mouth, i'd prescribe you Southampton's
away-support choir: oh when the saints...
oh when the saints come marching in...
                                no wonder gang culture
never picked up from loud-mouth birthrights of
the suggested History X...
                               borrowing from History ***:
flash news! there are more things on
my head than just hair to play toothpicks with concerning
self-doubts and the easiest solution:
            a man was crucified...
                               some say we never perfected
democracy as the civilised peoples of the world
as the Jews never perfected plebiscites as the
              "backward" peoples of the desert...
           if race coordination can't be joked about
but getting offended at:
           i'd love the Irish potato diet and the
dates served for breakfast lunch and dinner in Israel...
or in better representation?
the Pig of God... Jesus stinking like a pig
                 before the perfumes of Pilate...
skew: north-by-northwest: a good Hitch reminder:
sheep up toward Scotland...
                           but pigs that north and east...
well: pigs...
                         or how to make words
holy and meaningless when talking about the price
of butter...
                     but that's beside the case for
a quick comeback about the postcode lottery...
           or the grit of Bronson - the film,
esp. the nurse scene...
                       no spoilers... you never know when
it's happening...
                                 the greater the film,
the more monologue orientated...
                                    claustrophilic -
                                                   so you wonder
shoving that **** into the craniums of little boys:
why are they making them do it...
                        and at what point is it legal in
the social realm of guessing at all the rainbow possibilities?
   my theory? most paedophiles had failed
relationships in their teens...
                                  and they never wanted to
experience the complexities of a woman who finally
realised: ****! daddy died! i'm not a princess!
                   it's not a fear of being inadequate,
it's the fear of an inadequate woman...
                  the most adequate woman is a woman
who still resolves to the idealistic world,
rather than the realistic world -
                                   i never understood the
criminal hierarchy...
                                       in the criminal ring it would
appear no moral superiority is akin
   to bullying in school...
                                              choose the easiest
loss of moral judgement and bash it into the head...
    or what Marquis de Sade taught me...
               for most men it's the pink elephant in
the room...
                              or a light-bulb...
****** and theft is still all Robin Hood, the instilled
   heroism: moral ambiguity...
               i don't see how the other crime isn't also
an ambiguity...
                              the *** of man is already displaced
from the *** of woman...
                      why wouldn't age by that ****** ambiguity
not be squared? and doubly unfathomable?
   what made me write this?
               standing at a bus stop...
a girl coming back from school...
                                                 what?
this is a cognitive ping-pong...
                                     what?
                                                   what?!
               i'd dare David the Naturalist come out
from his comfort environment of
                 two monkeys *******, gorillas
with harems and all that easy gesture...
                   man and woman? eyes.
     all the limbs and bones captured by the eyes...
it's not that i don't spend enough time among people
to start imagining these quirks...
                 it's that i spend enough time
                 among people to not start imagining
quirks.

Smooth and sure,
like he shaves with Ockham's razor,
he's knocking on her door
at 2 AM.

What's more
is you'd think that it would phase her,
but she walks right down the stairs
to let him in.

Death!
seems y've won;
body's resistance,
all worn down.
  
Flirted in Oberlin ('68):
frozen in headlights;
jump left --
or right?
  
West Virginia.
Kinda teased ya:
One-brake bike on
truck-filled highway ('71).
  
Asleep at wheel
('77, Tennessee),
drove off road --
pillar or cliff . . .
woulda been dead.
  
Suicidal,
love-hope lost.
Asking for
oblivious embrace --
you scorned me
('79, Illinois).
  
Full of cancer
(hospital, now).
Ready for cold kiss,
end-pain.
You're a knockout!
Let's dance.

I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.

Like the chef who hates to eat
The playwright who cannot act,
The clothing designer, a nudist,
The brave hero, so shy, a stammerer,
The musician, a deaf mute,
The architect, who live in a tent,
I am a writer who hates to type, for his fingers disconnect his eyes, his brain his insane

I am the father, who knows not his own children,

I am the man who hates to shave, and shaves twice daily,

The man who knows nothing of nature, but writes
in and of it constantly.                                                      ­

The man beset by endless money worries,
Who gives his capital away to charity in increments of thousands,

I am the man that never passes a street beggar,
Even the obvious frauds,
Without giving them a bill, and a god bless you,

I am the man that would gladly die young whose
Mother lived to ninty eight and gene'd up him good,

I don't know what you want from me.

I write to please. But I seem incapable of
Giving, paving streets with words you what u want to hear.

Moon, June, pill, ****, me me me be crap on this

I am the chef who cannot cook
The nudist ashamed of his body
The stammered into silence
The mute who screams inside till deaf with frustration
I writer of thin air, the unfair. I know not what
You want of me.

But I weep with frustration at the paucity of my expression,
Good god my final destination not close enough

In the hands of strangers, rejection
In mine own, verbal strangulation
Even

Whatever

Is
Insufficiently
Disdainful

Painful
I cannot give you enough of/if me to satisfy

What is it you want from me

I will write to displease

Why not do
What I do best
Anyway
Secure that this voice
Is lost among the voices
Answering

*whatever

CLOSE SHAVE

Always her fascination
with me

shaving.

This her early morning ritual
observing each action

as if it were
holy.

I hide my face
in foam.

“Santa Claus! Santa Claus! ”
she chants

winces with delight
as the razor

(she gulps)

goes over my bump
without slicing it off.

The shaving uncovers the me she knows.

“Soft…soft! ”

“Mr. Daddy Soft Soft! ”

she gurgles
in a lather of laughter.

“Me now…now me! ”
she pleads with me.

I take the brush
coat her reflection with foam.

I shave her
with the tip of my little finger.

Her reflection sniggers &
she sniggers too.

Later, in the early evening
she appears
bearded in fresh cream.

She shaves herself
with a lollipop stick.

“Me... Daddy now...see! ”

I cha cha cha her
on the tips of my toes

as she clings to my
fingertips

dancing around
the living room.

One delighted
half shaved little girl.

One delighted
soft soft Mr. Daddy.

peanut butter and jelly


smooth crunch,
dilapidated layers,
crushed into,
nuts and margarine,
it seems those screams,
in dreams are clarity,
in reality,
whispers of margins,
so close,
shaves and wavy days,
charging in %’s in head rests,
pieces left in indents of you,
on the mattress.
The fact is,
subjective to the
context of sparks,
ignited by espionage,
rubber gloves,
the ****** scope,
from afar,
how did we cope
before they put us together,
in jars.
The antithesis,
of all we can be.
Weak at the knees.
Peanut butter and jelly,
ready to eat.

She drains me of words
Like at the end of a bath,
And I'm left with the stopper
Dry as a prune
Until I can
Once again
Replenish my thoughts,
Come again
Under my shower
But I'm just a mist
Lightly saturating
Her once more
Like the moisturizer after
But she shaves and dries
It all off,
What of it all
Has she absorbed?
I can't be coke
Left to go flat
Crushed soda pop can
In the sun
Unable to redeem myself,
Won't you give me a nickel
For my love?

APAD13 - 131 © okpoet

(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him

The one who’s behind you is the one you love.
Something else calls you’re name, tickles your ear.
But what happened to the intuition of what was and is so true?
Ticks on your shoulders, did they wait for you?
Left you in corruption, an unsound view.

The trade is so strong, kills your brawn but what can you do? The pain never ends, when no one wins, you can only die in this life. The paper god on your tongue melts you into glue.

It’s agonizing as you bind the world.
Nothing splits you but your pulled by all.
Reality stretches your skin, your mind loses sight and you’re paranoid. It will never end.

And it never ends
And it never ends
And it never ends

A woman evolves from the colors on the wall.
Strange and hairy, lament grows as her fur.
Scintillating messages of life and death they call.
Who am I, and who are you?
I’m speaking in tenses contradictory to a single point of view.
I can hear her scream, as she shaves her pits.
So beautiful it serenades my mind and scars my eyes.

I’ll never have her, and she dissolves into the bars of this cell again. I’m coming down or I’m blasting off, so hard to tell when god digests so well. Release my mind. It will never end.

And it never ends
And it never ends
And it never ends

Pierced skin, stained skin, ripped skin, all over her.
She’s broken and odd, but so close to me, I can’t help but connect.
The cover of her book is blank and new.
Pages are torn and ******, nothing to awe but still novel inside.

It drains me as it’s end never finds an end.
I can’t belong here when I’m rinsed of life and I dry as glue.
Bound and confound I can’t decide what voice to choose.
You’re on the right and I’m on the left, in the middle is me and we are you.
The nurse draws a bath and I am rinsed.
Drooling in comatose they wipe your lip.
Who new god had a price and came in a sheet.
That little square is the key to become like me.
So free from what’s contrived when you can’t decide the difference in truth.

The days go by and the years turn to seconds.
The nurse whispers in our ear, your mother is here and we start to cry. She holds our hand.
And it ends.

And it ends
And it ends

It ends.

i


zowie doodles
maisie may
mali the bad
lily lu lu
and tommy tune..

ii

i recall thursday
in cold blowy bushes
hopeless
and late victorian

chairs..

a rather shoddy future
which got worse
helpless
victorian morals

and worse

and what then
a succession of
error
a word a curse!
woe to us!

silver platters..

but upon
my hairy shoulder
youth laughed
but a aways
harsh

wastrels!

and you think
and you think
timeless ways
and suddenly
i was 30..

jesus..

an elephant in
glass
unemployable ant
boats and stoats
and factory
malaise..

wish..

work in progress..
the seconds digress
like love and stars
not even a war

go fish!

a dance with a
great magical
door
called wishes..

and then 40..!

son,beware the
cat lady
beware
the graceful

smiles..and
whipped 20
by
or be

since..

and strange things
like comets
come and go
by

which

if character been
fate
is
typical..

of me..

as forecast by
teachers and towns
but unknown
music

grin down..

and by golly
close shaves
around corners
stuff and poetry..

some round..

lithe plain
and of course
why
not made a million

yet

but all
is
still
a sweet card..

a great winding
returning
empty while
of some

shiny circle..

Dripping sweat, from the days slaving away
Carving, the blood and frustration into a mask

Each chip, which shaves and thins, is paid in flesh
This facade can capture many faces, or no face at all

But when placed upon the brow, the craftsman disappears
For in this tribute to false faces, the true being surfaces

I have never known myself, until I dawned this mask
I breathe air which has never been my own, I am alive.

for Beginners*

imagine a disposable razor
on the oldest face you know,
deteriorated and dropped,
the sun's shadow in the cropped crowd

               we forget he's there sometimes, they'll say.
               he always shaves on a Sunday, they'll pray.
               the dog died not long back, some'll whisper.

imagine a week's worth of beard
down a plug hole, some bits black
some bits gray,
some bits there 'cos he pressed a little hard that day

                              we forgot he was there, they'll say.
                              he always shaved on a Sunday, they'll pray.
                              only a week ago he went, some'll whisper.

imagine no one holding your hand
down the stairs, across the road, into
cheap 24 hour corner shops,
imagine no one holding your hand when it matters,

                                               or mattered.

Boneless city
How did I never see you waver in my youth?
Ignorant of the tilt and the blows dealt on day-to-day walks
Stepping into bruises, slamming into ****** grit

Boneless street
You bring my head all the closer to the ground
All the further from the clouds
From all your round about; circular, ocean mouth
Shark-toothed belly ache
You find yourself insatiate

Quaint, the flesh of a dying city
The concrete simmer, the metallic retreat
The dust in lieu of blanket smog
No fractures with all struts gone
Only a once inflation, reduced flat
A stranger finding himself within
Wading liquid glass that shaves off chunks
Of everything, but the lack

THIS MUSIC HEALS THE WORLD

LIKE THERE ARE PEOPLE STABBING ONE ANOTHER

THAT IS SO ****** WRONG

THERE ARE PEOPLE BUYING GUNS TO TORTURE CAFES

THERE ARE PROBLEMS PEOPLE HAVE WITH OTHER PEOPLE IN THE MALL

THERE ARE SO MANY SCHOOLS BEING RAMRAIDED AND KIDS LOSING
THEIR LIVES

HEAL THE WORLD, MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE

WE DON'T WANT FACTORIES GETTING BURNT

OR PEOPLE FIGHTING IN BARS, OR GOING INTO CAFES

OR BLASTED, TERRORIST ATTACKS, NO ASSONISTS

HEAL THE WORLD BETTER FOR YOU AND FOR ME

TO MEND EACJ BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS

OH YEAH I WANT PEOPLE TO RESPECT AS BUDDHA TELLS YA

YA SEE, PEOPLE BLAME THE PROBLEMS ON RELIGION

BUT BUDDHISM ISN'T A RELIGION, IT'S A WAY OF SAYING

MEND OUR BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS TO MEND EACH BLADE OF GRASS

TOO MANY WRONGDOERS

PEOPLE KILLING INNOCENT CHILDREN, CAUSE THEY HAVE ***
AND CAN'T CONTROL THEM, SO THEY **** THEM

THAT IS SO WRONG,

HEAL THE WORLD, PLEASE BUDDHA, MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE
FOR EARTH AND THE COSMIC WORLD, YEAH THE ENTIRE

HUMAN RACE, DEAD OR ALIVE

PEOPLE DIE, BUT THEY DON'T END THEIR LIFE

THE SUFFERING HAS LEFT THEIR BODY, MAN FOR ME AND FOR YOU

UMMMMMM   STOP PEOPLE TORTURING FACTORIES

UMMMMMM STOP PEOPLE GETTING ******* WITH PEOPLE BY STABBING EACH OTHER




UMMMMMMMM  HELP PEOPLE UNDERSTAND PEACE NOT WAR IN ANY RELIGION

UMMMMMMMM SEND RAIN TO ANY FIRE IN EACH CONTINENT ON EARTH

UMMMMMMM   LET PEOPLE UNDERSTAND BEING NICE CAN COME AT A PRICE
CAUSE UNFORTUNATELY NICE COMES AT A PRICE OF LOSING LOVED ONES

HERE'S TO YOU MR BARRY ALLAN, YOU WERE A GOOD FATHER
SO CRONUS WHO IS ME, MADE JIMMY BARNES YOUR GRANDFATHER
UMMMMMMM TAKE DADS OLD FOGIE OFF THE STREETS, UNLESS, IT IS
THE NICE LOVING OLD FOGIE THAT DAD WAS

CAUSE THE WORLD NEEDS

HEAL THE WORLD, MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE
FOR YOU AND ME AND THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE
DON'T WORRY ABOUT PEOPLE TEASING
JUST TAKE IT LIKE A MAN, BUDDY
HEAL THE WORLD FOR YOU AND FOR ME

BRIGHT EYES, BURNING LIKE FIRE
WAS A SCHOOL CHUMS FAVE SONG, GIVES ME MEMORIES OF SCHOOL
I TEASED PETER MACLACHLAN CAUSE HE LISTENED TO THE
TEACHERS SAYING HIT SECONG
HITTING SECOND CAN GET YOU INTO HOT WATER
I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT
BUT HE LIKED THE SONG BRIGHT EYES, NOTHING WRONG
THAT'S WHY I KNOW I AM GREAME THORNE AND PATRICK DUNBAR
BOTH KILLED AT 8, I ALWAYS KNEW THAT I HAD TO BE CAREFUL
BUT TEASING PETER MACLACHLAN ABOUT LISTENING TO TEACHERS
WAS FUN, BUT HE LIKED BRIGHT EYES, I LIKE THAT SONG TOO
BUT HE WAS A REAL REAL GEEK

I AM A COMPUTER GEEK, THAT IS MY ONLY GEEK
I AM AN ARTIST AND WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

I BELIEVE IN BUDDHISM AND REINCARNATION

HEAL THE WORLD STOP ALL THE VIOLENCE YEAH
AND MAKE EVERYONE A VERY HAPPY SOUL
HEAL THE WORLD
UNLEASH THE PEACE
GET RID OF RIGHT WING GOVERNMENTS WHO INFLICT VIOLENCE
WITHOUT KNOWING,
MAKE THE EARTH A PEACEFUL PLACE FOR YOU AND FOR ME

I DON'T WANNA END UP IN A GRAVE,
I WANNA BE A MAN WHO VERY SELDOM SHAVES

GO WITH THAT WORLD

A cool breeze
shaves the contours
of my face
in a night lit
by a thousand warm
stars.

This is for the old brother...
the seasoned brother... who made it
(you made it baby)
to have pretty much gone everywhere he had to go and
did every thing he had to do
for every body he had to do it for and
now rises each day and shaves and dresses and
dons his hat to gather down to the
barbershop or general store or shade tree or park to
play checkers or chess or bones or spades...
tell tall tales and short lies...
about how and when and with whom it was back then...
but stops
as i walk by and
breathes deeply as if to
enjoy a whiff of womanly me... and tips his hat and
holds the door and smiles a smile that even now
under the ravages of
time and being black in america
is still **** and kinda sweet..
while the others softly co-sign...
"ump, ump UMP!" or
"my, my, my.." or
"Miss Butterworth!"
and makes a well-rounded old girl like me
smile her own kinda sweet smile....
and thats enuf
this age old ritual
is enuf somehow
for now…

And this,
Is of all and anything...

Little girls wear too much makeup
Pre-teens, children
Everyone shaves or waxes their genitals
**** and **** "jobs"
Are commonalities
The fridge repair man came today
Cash, or *******?
I'm not sure,
***** stamped,
on makeup
My five year old worries about her hair,
Style and colour
She asks questions
I can't answer
My therapist
Charges too much,
Feeling too much
Six figure income,
And paying only less,
Than five dollars a day,
In child support
Husbands, locking up wives
And getting by,
Mothers, stripping
To make ends meet
No judgement here
Not that I could,
Nor, that I ever would
Thinking about,
In trash cans
Where real souls dwell
Infections of the uninsured,
All's well
I swear.....
This is
Of ALL and EVERYTHING.

in my dreams i'm in a car
and i'm driven like a star
the crowds yell their adulation
elated i soak in the adoration

in my dreams nothing is impossible
and everything is just so possible
the hapless ones whine their malice
undeterred i rinse the silver chalice

in my dreams the prize of my longing
is the open door through which i'm going
though my goal is a starry distance away
i trudge on and do not mind the drudgery

in my dreams i cling to the elusive sweetness
of a myriad near-misses and close shaves
and time like a dream keeps on flying,flying
into ethereal worlds unknown in fancy blue

in my dreams  the sun's always shining bright
the clouds are always fleeing life's warm breath
and i'm like the messenger that never arrived
with the good news of life for all who labour

in my dreams the sound track is melancholic
it is played in low dignified notes that mourn
a past that has become the miserable present
and cry about a future that is temperamental

in my dreams everyone has a dream come true
and everyone weeps till they can weep no more
the silence is spiced with occasional sighs
and deep words that never die ride the wind

Once a day I get a visitor
occasionally its twice
Its a guy who looks just like me
he seems troubled but quite nice

He shaves his face and brushes his teeth
spits and has a rinse
Tries to flatten that wayward hair
he's not a frog but not quite a prince

And the he looks me in the eyes
and I see the thoughts go round
Eventually he lowers his gaze
and looks down to the ground

He looks to me like someone lost
uncertain of his way
I can see so much inside him
that he has yet to say.

In time I'm sure he'll find his way
better things will come to pass
But I have no way to let him know
for I am his looking glass.