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Matt Lautar Jan 2012
These swords leave scores
of sores of course.
And scars that rise by and by .
Beat out lines in Braille and Morse,
to that overwhelming force.
Of fine on coarse
then coarse on fine,
and in the wind
all fine, all time.
Though we wine and dine
And polish til shine,
it ain't all Shinola.
So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.
We are the fine cut...line cut..
..potatoe face on Irish lace.
We are the here..we are the place.
And just in case
You fail to understand.
We have become the wall art..the new start..
..the baby grand has grown.
We are the music you've never known but you know it now.
The anyway we can be anyhow.
This is the step that walks out on the street
Get out and meet it...it's something you cannot ignore
Not something you buy in a la de da store
But the free in your ears and the world in your eyes.

Prise yourself away from the dusty thoughts of yesterday and look
This is today and a new kind of book has evolved.
That talks as it turns and revolves as it burns and the ash of the script..
..strips layers off your skin..and should you want to dive in..
..Go ahead.
The start of a thread of whatever you've ever read disappears
And the years drip away.
This here is the place and today it's your face on the pack
Get up on the stage and attack..
Lay them flat on their back with a salvo of sound
Bring it down to the ground.

A penny buys a pound..we'll be outlawed
They'll call us flawed characters..
..embarrassing chapters.

But let's capture that thought..write stuff and not like you've been taught..
..but be brazen and ***** to the 'Man' who tells you.."OH NO"
He just ain't got the rollocks to be in the show.
Let it go and you're lost
You'll be reading shinola that you bought at cost from the stall in the mall.

Be a pal..break the mould..don't do as you're told but do as you do
Look inside of the you..and bang it out..put it down on a sheet
Spill out your words to those people you meet..you've got one chance..
..which is no chance if you don't take it.
Get out there and
Make it
Happen.
weinburglar Sep 2016
I can write like Don DeLillo in Americana.

I'll show you your personal Patrick Bateman. How childish Palahniuk is. I'll show you advertising matters. Brands. My brands. Shinola. Dire Straights. Colour TVs. Refrigerators. Blisters on your thumb.

I'll show you my shoes, this shirt. These pants. My hair.

Fist over knife. Forks over food. Jerking off into a wishing well with next month's bonus.

I'll show you when enough is enough. I'll show you what it means to be hungry. Thirst. Blood. Sweat.

I'll give you an idea and take it out of reach.

I'll find your consumer segment. I'll find your scalpel too. I'll show you who you should really be.
JB Claywell May 2019
My mother is a password,
my father is a desk.

I am a pen that moves across
the blue lines of this page
or
the clatter of the keyboard
on which these words are typed,
transmitting their collective zeros
and ones into the blue-black light of
the text that appears unabashedly unmonitored
on the monitor, the screen, the scene
of this machine
that wages wars on my melancholy,
destroys the depressive states,
guerilla tactics,
computer-guided, cruise missile
ordinance.

Ordinary?
No.
A one-man Civil War.
An opinion-piece, op-ed
megaphone manifesto.

Rights?

Rites?

Writes?

I’ve got ‘em all,
down the the most
microscopic minutia,
a miasma of Most-Holy
**** or Shinola.

My mother is a password
my father is a desk.
I am a pen,
the mightiest of swords,
a war within a warrior,
no better
or
worse,
just different
from the
rest.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
dZang Roller Jun 2021
Sometimes your friends
Get it all wrong
That's why I wrote this song
About what they said
They can't tell ****
I promise you,
I'm a shinola head
Cedric McClester Mar 2017
By: Cedric McClester

Under the AHCA
Once it gets unstuck
Wise people say
The poor get ******
In the usual way
But the president says
We’re gonna be okay
Because he’s the prez

We’re being sold ****
Like it was Shinola
The rich will be okay
The poor - like I told ya
As they point the way
We’re gonna need a shoulder
For us to cry on
As they move that boulder

If they repeal Obamacare
With no concern
How the sick will fare
I’m warning them
They better beware
Cos’ we’re gonna rise up
And give ‘em
Quite a scare

As I write this
They’re counting votes
If they make it
According to the quotes
They have to know
They’ll be rockin’ boats
And taking on water
Until nothing floats











Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017.  All rights reserved.
our ****-ups
even reek

of meant-to-be

it's all so
I can't even...

but
I will find
a way to say

how our
dominoes tripped
over each other

flicked from
the synchronic fated one's
luminous middle fingers

yours, left
mine, right

colliding in
the in-between

I've been knowing
for quite some time

and yet,
my brain still
tries to deny
it's all so...

no ******' way

but
yes way
it

- truly -

sure-as-Shinola'd-****
did

go down
like so
for no other reason than it sounds good
and should I need another one?

The day promises everything
delivers nothing
a bit like a crap politician
all sun and shinola
but
am I dismayed?
No!
I have it made
a great life
a beautiful
wife
family surround me
Jesus
hasn't found me
yet,
I bet 6/4 on
that
he or she
or both
won't
find me today.

I am restored
nearly new,
classed as
second hand
but a hand up
will do


me,
antique
unique
repeat after me,

free advice,
don't tiptoe through
anyone's life
make as much noise
as you can.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
Procrastination on reaching
destination
national
notional global
we,
the people, the species joined
by virtue, the power in/of/for life, of
truth, the oomph that fixes first trys,

so oft ging awry, ai ai ai
so we suffer
woe is me
I am so lonely I could die robby robot voice

ping. Time to imagine reality from thought
through thoroughly thundering herds
headed el otro l'ow
wow
allowance, we bit o' flex, stop the flow, oh,
no
prop-blem-blame, right, a real bullet in a real gun did that,
when we were kids, three times,
none of those killed me, so
one more big bang.
DID it, a gain for the whole gang.
And the whole team sorts the peace from chaos.
Masks on, filters set to AlphaGo rules of longest game
ever
imagined, as now,
with one of us watching this written,
with one of us reading this written,
and all of us, the unity denominator, we
- focus, slow, finer detail one, mind
as fine as
ever
imagined, as now,
breathe and think how I wished this could be,
imagine being, long ago,
me, uh-oh slipped,double mind-error, nospace
fine tuned enough to learn of the hope
this is we manifest in /as vessels full from his
faith in the effort to accumulate all we ever knew
ever learning, the art of discerning soul from spirit
-- effort to think this was given to us long ago by
the unsung
second son of The Admiral of the Ocean Seas.

{in the realm of bubbling reality, where ******* is more
a character arc than char'cter trai t or trade, give ya this
for that… this is not what you thought was real, this is
the deal. We all think we make it with ourselves,
imagine-ing as we are wont, we actively think,
we be lieve we leave no trace, gone gone gone
yet words
surface, as stones on unsold desert lots scraped
by Patten's Tank's, then by the future home,
of the rebuilt London Bridge, said to have
fallen for this one line of reasoning alone to know
that bit
of all we think we know, avowt Lawn'dbridtches
fallen down fallen down fallen down

oh did we become corroded, yet we be, still eh, slow
reader
slow writer ride on…

first time in the temple, kid?
have you no id-east being in you, knowing, growing
as it occurs, id have donithadiknown
groan-ing ping, pragnanz, several days misinterpt, but
here's the now trick.

I live in Hernando Colon's actual functional imaginary
library, and I have developed an untimely urge
to fake the leaking dam, flash, rec- current or creational
flow
I have no wish to know.
So, on we go. Where were we?

Colon is the Columbus family name, in Spain,
all over, not only on the plain, or even
mainly there,
this stream of science used as knowing being
knowing where answers may
be found.
London Bridge,
mind map says the humming bird intaglio
has cousins here
scarred from wars of we and them,
all locked in unalienable rights to hide lies.

Site Six, magic fish caught on worms,
imagine that…
one single summer in all the ever summers,
this seed first spat.

Treasures hid in serpentine winding tales
of pattern forming
on surface of bubbles that survive the rise
in the ever watched *** that seldom,
but does, some times,
moments
instants
in contemplation
boil
over the top and sizzzzle on
the tongue a fire four times hotter
ai ai ai the spice from hell

says the actual signal accept-slot set in the thought
this hot
at this particular set
of sensors tongue to taste tell if we can or not,

if you swallow there will be grumbles
from below, takes half an hour to burn in the end.
..
spit it out, be the fool. Ever a role any pup can play.

-- dark inside

I am the emissary, aware am I, of certainty
in certain future wedoms,
when each sensitive bit is accounted worthy, eh,
pay attention
to how hot these peppers really are,
and why
in ever was such pain endured and acquired,
as a taste,
of what's t'come kid, fresh man can did, ate it, didn't I, wink
; didn't we all
think you can handle it. That is not a question
this is it,
this thought is thinking we can take it through to sane,

or settle in the first unfilled-in peace valley we find, hell,
we could build on any refuse pile, 'ernando did.
- dis associate sigs scramble cipher it through
- read on, make it make sane, not mad, push

Did not know but now do, there exists in my library,
a book, new,
a compilation of a trove found in the leavings of
a harmless second son of Christopher Columbus,
herein known as 'erna'do, ern-ado, ern-ator, old
Ern,
TV character, yes, reincarnation of id- the arranger alone
sorting **** from shinola, and loving the effect of Brasso
on buckles, vestigal symbols
bucklers, ala WWWhatever bouts of dance-viol-ent-ities
we imagine,
as bears once were baited and dogs bred to ****,
angels wrestled with, naked,
as apes.
Eh, Socrates imitator, asks the imitator of anointed gnosis
refusing the sign of the serpent stood tippy toe pointed west

with a swirl into the realm of his magi-ist existancy, ah, me
see, qwerty key aware, stories
so often as mousemade plans can, due to sudden constant cut off
telomeres, mere word effectuality, wanes,

as voices of the dead in Later do. S.King novel reference, for
future cultural harvest.\
wait. see. now, as the reader, we steer the story through
the straits of Magellan, as one of the final 18, into
rest, safe harbor
home for real
feel
right at home, taste these peppers we brought back
boom
AND we are from a culture who laughed goodheart laugh
of I did that, spitting image,
I did exactly that, I spat it out and said
to hell with this,
yes, been there done that come visit say, some
visitation day,
pay the preacher for the story was the story preacher told
don't tell,
it's the business side of things, the paperwork you know,
art informing actual imagining aiming am-ping right
at artistic intuition
ai ai ai
next, time you visit the temple, plan ahead.

Wait, contemplation is momentarily
on instance access only,
one instance per new book discovery, acknowledged
we haf enough no to find the remains of
wasted time thinging wron thinks

The Catalog of Shipwrecked Books,
and touched on
just in time

settled dust
exist-dance in the anonymous peace past understanding
or caring if you do, I slipped
om u dodo doodot doo doah, yeah
jazzy after hours clickity click
sig sent, see
see me se-ing open open open outside the whole damnedmall

personally we is an offensive pronoun to me, I feel we
as intimate-permanancy, the outer shell
of ever,
where the math goes kerouac and ****** if ginzberg
had no secretmeaning of shirtshatsatin, some dope
some hope howls
some day may
be as good as any man can make up his mind to be, and if
that mind be evil in intention, we arise

to twist it otherwise, the filters, to now from then,
instant speed of fingers on keys,
and soon, very soon, Elon says,
think
and the finding of the answer is done, boom. So die.

Then is is believed no error of double mind striving for balance,
balance is not how we roll at all,

this is still the same novel found on the diamond farm

the longest game, keeps Sisyphus happy,

see Camus gave some old guy I knew as a mind meld event
once, in a book I think I read as if it were being written
by my friend, Ben, from Ben and me, yes,
early evidence of Disneyifity activated sooner than Later.

The fading voices of the dead, that adds urgency, right
to know,
gotta know, gotta pass through-t the penetralium

thought through thoroughly, roughly any sense of knowing how
to find the answer to any question that comes to mind,
locked in, same as dead? nah, why try to live,
otherwise, try
as an alienated mind, mass accessible.

Tune-in, drop-out, some did,
some said they did, then the judge
mental
we begin to sort ourselves from first nibble, first taste, first
snakey lick, with a kick, whoa
this is too too too hot to just
give
away, go, shoo fly, you bother me, I have no rich and famous wish,
I waited to see why we ever get old,
see.
Ever is ever not every e-very e-ver-y ai ai ai hot wire signal to the sun
start my fire
I come to offer up another day in a paradaise I imagined after
the fact.
It is a knack included in the greater works than these clause,
if you find the time to imagine that, after all
is
said and done, my side won, and this is what I do for the rest
I earned by enduring to the end, let go, lose loose ends,
trust the knowledge, constantly forming information
conforming to the spirit of peace in knowing
everything
has been thought, and all the enjoyment we can imagine
is used through knowing grown all this time one root, you
think
you can know by kindness, all things, faster now,
faster thinking
taking time, to think more faster ab
rupturous break through

and, *******, life ***** the life right, right, fight right
good fight
semper, simperingwisherypuke, fi

del- phi-delit, it's us,
we lost the temple but brought the fire
from the alter,
?
what does that pretend to mean, you think,
JFK eternal flame, boom
we know you know, run, fustus wit 'd mostus make us
think war was glories once,
oh, yeah, don't we all know, the glory and honor of war,
bestowed on a nation
?
a nation of unalienable rights,
right things one pledging must believe,
pledged, owed. Dues as debt, must be paid,
- we-owe we,
- we- owe- we, clink chanting hammer ringinh'
- we- owe we, marching as to war appear
to cut the muster,
not the mustard, we must only make it through the morning
call to arms, we remain
ready, read-up, prayed up, writers
of the purple sage sayings saying each
time
write this, stroke, this jot,
this tittle, write it a little off
on the whole
no big deal, endless paper endless ink ever learning yet all the truth
holds, who can know,
as you hold certain truths your own self,
proper, eh ly or ty, own properly property
self, you, reader, me writer, they
the unknown NPCs
on the journey named
for a genuine mad man with a plan,
gone awry, as oft we do, on the name of a fool,
remembered from a history test
to determine earthling status
ai aye, yes, a fool is
a man who says in his heart,
there is no god,
there is a friend in truth, a love
in knowledge formed as caverns
formed to be as beautiful as any seer can imagine,
these walls of all our marvel dc sony wonder world
of utter global disineyification allows in
ABC- text in context, seeing

we visited the pilgrim stories, speed of thought, bits of citixery stick
think. We ought pay the reader,
but I am the reader, so we think together flocking,
feather-wise alienated mind
flock.
DIP switch set to master. Set D and E to slave.
Remember the last 26 terrabytes.

Now. This has been a Hissing humming tail of a long story,
warning, it has been told as many times as you may imagine,
ever being as it is, changing,
and all.

Mere words. All mere word pairs, can be re searched, this is 2021,
but you may think you knowit,
knowing wrong does not **** you if you can make it right,
in the end you must swallow the tiny pepper whole.

That is the secret, chose the smallest pepper, do not chew
do not spit, swallow the tale, tell it true, each telling lengthens

the attention span of a very rare we. Who make the discerned
soul and spirit function as a good, we know, is hard to get.
But easy to make from bits of idle cultural refuse
piled higher all the time.
A pass time that keeps me ready to die happy I got to the bowels of courage,
on the old stories told by masked men,
Ken Pepiton Dec 2021
What is right, for me,
may be
not right for you, see.

You rightly may be a nut

existing essentially alienated LH cross threaded

and waiting,
(if you do not wait, what good may come?)
and waiting to find a *****
or a bolt that might
tighten you the wrong way, just right. Relearn a thing
• The six great simple machines are
• the *****,
• the inclined plane,
• the lever,
• the pulley,
• the wedge and
• the wheel and axle.

From <http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2014/09/decided-screws-turn-clockwise/>

• Mnemonics (devices to aid memory)
• date back to the 5th century BC and
• Simonides of Ceos, {Key-os, almost chaos}
• who developed the method
• of loci (locations), later used
• by Roman orators
• to remember long speeches.

• ssstopthedots
With loci,
a series of locations are memorized,
then an object is associated with part
of the speech.
Next a visual image is created
with one
of the objects
in each location, and
during the speech, the orator simply needs
to visualize each location.
Are we on the same page, this is where  portions of hope
sorta
• bubble

list listen cut and gluonic sniffit ifit bleeds, it leads
this is readyreadergnoshitstor re
solved, remember, the landmarks hold old stories.
- of course you know them- the idea is to ever know them\
- unbelieve the lies those storys matured under to endure
- to now when riddle spoilers loosed that FTA spell,
- donchaknow we learned ***** from shinola pretty soon
and
acronyms,
numbing error ringer dinger sounds,
associations and catchy-phrases.
server ; err
Angels flew over the daffodils
I took the pills, but the doc, he
said take some
more,
and me, the dinosaur,
waiting for the light
saw only
a comet
and
I knew
we were ******.

Luck would have it
that ****'s just Shinola
and
I got over the shock of it.

Saturday and
all signs pointed that way
so
that is the way that I went.
Someone and probably nearly everyone
is or are being fooled by the old
school tie brigade,
how long can a debate last?
well
that's debatable,

I liken it to,
how many pigs dinners does it take
to make a pigs dinner of it?

This is turning into a debacle,
but did you see the sparkle in
Boris's eyes?
reminds me of some loony
I once knew.

Meanwhile,
Jonathan Pie is
getting high as a kite
shining on all the shinola
they've shoveled.
Don't get too excited
that shower of Shinola
may be on the way out
but
they've taken everything
with them,
we've been done
ripped orf
that ***** rotten lot
have had the lot
and we ain't got
a ***
to **** in.

So it's back to
mudlarking
parking our arses in the park,
and begging for scraps
cooking the ducks
as opposed to
cooking the books,

where's a friggin yacht when
you need one?

funny thing is
we wore the masks
but it was them
that robbed us.
Complications
have a habit of arising
and we buy in
to that shinola,

Corona,
a drink from my youth,
orange,
but not as orange as the
mad yankee,

Now, a virus and we ask
why us?

a virus has no axe to grind
it just finds a host and the most
we can do is to
protect ourselves

— The End —