I sit at the bar of life
Looking forward to happy hour
Another beer
A solicited romance
Something
Even a bowl of peanuts that never came
How I yearn for conversation
Warmth
I can only dream
Seated a few chairs away
Is a rainbow haired hillbilly
Backpacking possums
Gees
Can you imagine
He said he lives under
The outskirts of ****** land
He smiles
I smile
I catch a bee from behind
As the bartendress walk by
My eyes look at her behind
And catch honey
My claim to fame
Oh how I wish I were a bee
And had somebody
Like the rainbow haired hillbilly
That tends under the outskirts of ****** land
I look over at him
He's always smiling
Maybe it has something to do
With playing a fiddle and finding music, finding new paths
Goats and milk
And backpacking possums
Or maybe its sublime
Oh, how I wish I could smile
Feel warmth
Sunshine
And look into her peering eyes

Logan Robertson

7/16/18

Questions Please
Put up a question please
Throw me a question please
Question, any question

Burning or sensational
big or small or silly
easy or tough or absurd
hypothetical or factual

All questions are invited.
Only and only questions
No Answers at all
As I already have answers

I have answers to all the questions
that ever existed, but ceased to exist today.
I have the answers to prevailing questions
that are making us crazy day by day

I even have the answers to the questions
which are still in the future's belly
waiting to be born one day
in this beautiful and ugly world

Questions please
All sorts of questions
May be from geography or philosophy
Or from religion to defence studies

It may be from medical science or history
Or from space research too
Animal husbandry is no taboo
Questions on skydiving are also welcome

Politics is my all-time favourite
although I can answer sports or adventure
Questions on corruption are also solicited
You can ask on oceanography or calligraphy too

I know everything, literally everything
but neither I am 'Google' nor 'Bing'
I am not even 'Duck Duck Go'
nor I claim to be 'Baidu'

I guessed your question.
You are wondering – "Who am I?"
It's very-very simple Man!
I am a nasty spokesperson from the ruling party

I may be found mostly in television debates
as a panelist, as a debator, as a joker
as a disturbing element, as a liar
as a person making hue and cries

You may or may not like my answers,
but, please like me, please love me
Raise slogans for me, Praise me
Make me famous, make me a celebrity

But even if you dislike me
I don't care, I have my media
I have my own followers
I also own a troll army

I train them perfectly
I pay them heavily
I spend too much on
News media and Social media

I have my own trustworthy mob
who is always ready for violence
anytime and anywhere
at any cost whatsoever

Beware, I am from the ruling party
I inherit a complete readymade system
of Investigating agencies, Ready to book anyone
on false and frivolous grounds.

And it will take years to prove innocence
Innocence may be proved, may be disproved
This also depends on Money, Power and Links
Or the nasty arithmetic of alliance with us in future

So if you still chose to dislike me
It's your choice, but wait
I can still become a minister
Or even a prime minister

I have the quality to lure voters
I have the answers to all the questions
That ever existed or are existing
Or that are stilling waiting to be born.

First Living Organism

Anyway, there is love and death and governance. With the birth of my sons, love was fulfilled. There is no romance left in love for me, women are another form of men. Perhaps their toes are painted rather than blood-encrusted, but blood runs from their bones, their eyes are friendly as camera lenses, muscles hungry. Death continues to be my every third thought, fittingly. Occasionally I feel strong, but when I don’t it’s death waiting. I think I know it’s a waste of time to imagine being dead, as if being dead were a form of living. It’s not, but last night I was reading about the efforts of astrobiologists to identify LUCA meaning Last Universal Common Ancestor and FLO, first living organism, and that gave me a calmer feeling. Bringing me to governance, how we manage together between birth and death. What can I say that hasn’t already been said by Aristotle and Plato, the Republicans and Democrats, Hamilton and Jefferson. To start, your daily discipline is a personal governance. There are many ways to know a person: by their god, by their fears and appetites, by how they spend their money or organize their time. Who is in authority, who is in command here? The one in authority is not necessarily our leader.


Patience

I live in a mountainous community about 140,000 strong. My irascible, aggressive temperament toward my fellow citizens has exiled or sidelined me to a peripheral almost insignificant role although when I arrived I was considered a problem solver, even a savior of the poor and the wealthy classes who feared for the future. Why mention this. He who knows patience knows peace. I have surely lost face often in my life. As a kid, lost most fights, as a man, chosen last to lead the squad or platoon. Only when every known leader had died did those in authority decide to use me. Someone must begin to write the federalist papers for the world. And, of course, it’s being done and heard. Books in print, blogs, debates. My vision is a world where you can fly from Madagascar to Mississippi and be greeted by a sign that says Welcome to our land. Go about your business, setting off no bombs, and fly home. Perhaps take a lover for one afternoon.


The Machine and the Season

The machine and the season are so far incompatible. The machine claims electrical problem. The house leaks from rain. The men who left the machine have started their own business. A new endeavor by which they will keep warm and purposeful. The junior partner, heavier, says the Grand Canyon’s not so grand. Jaded individual or one to set himself against the depths, abyss? Man’s systems. Man made the machine (and the town) from rocks mined next door. Some few men understand these invisible electrons moving the machine to perform. I still cannot imagine, i.e. my mind cannot move fast enough to know how so many particles can be sorted and split so quick to make words on a screen. My simplicity is terminal.


Saving Grace

Today it is fall, first day for long-sleeved shirts. The boys at school. I admonish Zach not to whine and complain about the work. Lately reading or practicing piano, prone to fits of frustration. To the point of claiming belly pain. Last night I dreamed I had pushed him to suicide. It is so important for a man to do no harm. This is what makes us crazy against Wolfowitz, willingness to **** to do good. Someone very sure of himself and shining, much wiser and more compassionate than me, has calculated for the world that more lives now for fewer later shall be sacrificed. The people he serves are cantankerous, disorderly, selfish and complaining. The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s beginning. Their refusal to be more than the sum of themselves is their saving grace.


Politics

Politics can be an escape from the personal, the debates are of little interest to a man in hospice. Will the machines do their work? How will we make decisions together? Roger Johnson’s gravel pit must be killing his neighbors with the noise of boulders being pulverized to rock but Roger is certain his business is necessary for the public good. He knows he has a right to use his property as he sees fit. There is a noise ordinance, a state employee will travel out to measure the decibel level in your front yard as compared to the ambient noise level. There is a measurable amplitude beyond which the legislature has determined no citizen may be exposed or corporation go. It can be measured.


Measure for Measure

Measure for measure, all’s well that ends well during a midsummer night’s dream for the merry wives of Windsor. A million or more poets but only one Top Bard. How did he know so much about kings and fools and murderers? An Elizabethan and no Freedom of Information Act. Today it is fall. The legislature and president are at work and so are our machines. One by one and then in armies the leaves come down. It is not that someone must decide, we must decide how we will make decisions and where authority resides. What am I learning, sitting, watching the season turning? Content this morning to admire my sons’ photos, reread my own poems searching for the prize answer, and answer the phone. I seem to be alienating potential business partners with a take it or leave it comme-ci comme-ca attitude. All you can do, the best that can be done is to go to your daily discipline. Driving home or waking up at night I think I’m dying. Do the much-admired writers of our time die more content than that?


War All the Time

War all the time. I’ve been fond of saying what distinguishes America is its daily low intensity warfare. Endless but not fatal conflict. Chambers of commerce, municipal government, big corporations wrestle nearly naked and will lie as needed for what? I tire like an 80 year old man of the storm and worry. I remember my early years when I had no known skill to offer and elections occurred without my vote being solicited. I noticed no harm or good I did was noticed. Autumn was all mine, mine alone, I was alone in the world with autumn. My mind could not stand it. I cried out for comfort, someone to obey. I needed to grow up and know money.


The History That Surrounds Us

I’m not going anywhere, I chose to stay and hold my clod of soil in the landscape of community oh blah dah. I want like Shakespeare and other writers to discern the motivations of women, men, see through their lies to a humorous truth careless about success and able to explain why what happens today or on September 11th obtains. I was impressed by the critic who found that Shakespeare in Hamlet had tried to write about the thoughts of a man suspended between having decided to act and the act itself. Why bother he soliloquated why commit or submit to the great moment when mere men of bones and dust, disgusted with themselves and others are the actors of the moment, beheaders, rhymers, debtors. And, of course, the answer comes to one in the night like Chuang-tzu, or Lao, why not? The great moment is no greater than the small and the small no smaller than the great. You perform the history that surrounds you and go to your daily practice.


A Systems Guy

I’m something of a systems guy. I want the truth and death and worth to be independent of individual motives, paranoias, prejudice, peccadilloes, virginities, crucifixes, paradoxes, protons, protozoa or curses. I want pure human machinery, stainless steel, clear thinking, even handed, not a doubt that every doubt is wanted, needed, good to the last drop toward the ultimate ignition into outer space, colonization of diverse planets and immortality of the genome. Here’s what’s odd. While enduring ever more frequent panic attacks (and nudging toward survival and self-sufficiency my offspring) pounding and pinching my skin to stay sensate, maintain consciousness, I parabolate (always orbiting myself, eye on the tip of my *****) to another extreme, i.e. my belief mankind can escape the earth unlike Hamlet’s dad’s ghost. A system is a set of inputs–values, policies, objectives, procedures, data–organized and repeated to generate significant quantities of desired outcomes without redesigning the system for each individual outcome. I told John Russell from Amnesty International at Jack Shwartz’s daughter’s coming of age party about my plan to reorganize the U.N. so only the democracies can vote and no nation has a veto. He said the world’s not ready, with absolute certainty, knowledge and authority. I looked out the hotel window, this was shortly after 9/11, at dozens of American flags and a lone security guard. I’m always right I said to myself.

I am talking to you,
snake.
remember how
you hid your fangs
at first?
but it was not long
until
you sunk into
my flesh
trying to
****
away my positivity
away my compassion
away my warmth
use it for your
sustenance

you leech,
parasite,
passing as something human

not
any
more

when I think back on recent years
I am almost
thankful
to have met you.
don't for a second
think it's because I loved you
or we had good times
never
in a million years.
I am thankful
to have experienced
an abusive relationship
manipulation
codependency
the second I became
an adult.

I was not
an adult.
unaware
people like you existed
I did not stop being a child
until
the first night
you backhanded me
across the face
and with
the first slap
you smacked
my innocence
out of the window
never to be found
again.

you never let me
leave your sight
but,
after I lay
in a panic attack
traumatized
scared
of humanity
you told me to stay at "my" friends.
she was your
friend
not mine.

never trust
a friend
of the snake.

I came home early
you were in bed
with another woman
somehow
whenever I brought this up
it was never addressed,
never discussed,
instead
changed
and twisted
into something
that was
my
fault.

that didn't stop you
from accusing me
of infidelity
harassing me
about being a ****
when I was never
even
allowed to leave
the house
my hell.

I never for one second
loved you
nor was I ever
attracted to you
you
smelled my vulnerability
and went in
for the ****.

it took me months
but I left you.
you bawled
and shook
as you told me
you can't live without me.
******* die, then.
I had (have)
no sympathy
my eyes
were dead
cold
as I looked at you
weeping
like the pathetic
weak
waste of life
that you are.

I am thankful
because I taught myself
to be independent
to get a job
since then I have been
I will never
rely
on another
for my basic
necessities.
never
rely on a man
to give me
a place to rest
food
a shower
now,
I know where to look
in others
for the fangs
that you hid
from me,
from every woman
that has had
the displeasure
of meeting you.

I dont know why
I bothered opening
the first letter
you sent me
from jail.
told me
you know you shouldn't
have solicited
a fifteen year old girl
but you missed me.
she
reminded you of me.
now
I throw them out
without opening them.
that fifteen year old girl
is stronger
than you will ever be
for speaking up
and getting you
incarcinated.
she is
the reason
I support all other women -
specifically
younger girls.
I do not know her name
but
I know she will
be happier
than your miserable self
could ever
be.
ever.

I dont hate you.
I pity you
and your worthless
serpentine
body
slithering
covered in dirt
looking
for your next
vulnerable victim
to strike at.
when my dad found a snake
while mowing the lawn
he would chop off
it's head
with our largest knife
those animals
didn't deserve it.
but you do.
****.

1
Her thick  dark eyebrows did cast a spell first,
they are stuck there like vampire bats,
they both symbolize  a sinister plot, kept secret,
with a 'come hither' prompt, none can resist.

She attracted artists in hordes, crazy moths,
never did they look above her face,the serpents,
lay tangled and acted as if it's smooth coiffure.
Wicked lust,aroused by bitter past,
                                    made her move with keen  intent
an invisible net she carried behind her back.
She attacked at opportune moments, pretending
she is a lover, with insatiable lust in boil.
2
All crafted lies, simultaneously,she artfully solicited,
       colored moths, in her slow fire, they burned, one by one,
but one remained stuck there for life, fearing rejection every moment.
A crop of heads she reaped , wherever she went,
a kite was ever ready to fly her victim-hood colors higher and higher,
that made admirers **** in their breath and stoop,
before her to her advantage, she had no dearth for volunteers any time.
Burning words made her chants fly like fire works,
her collection of heads turned stones by admiring her
increased, as a huntress she was an ace
stuffed in her cubbyhole of a heart, heads of stone languished.
3
Medusa,you don't have sisters,
I count it the luck of those  unborn
how beautiful, you once were I still remember,
though no sun visited the north you spent your childhood.
Run, run my feared beauty, to the sun, before your heart
get charred by the heat of hatred, you bear in the  Gothic interiors.

4
I hate Perseus, don't you fear your Nemesis?
Every Athena you wrongly think your foe  and fight,
all your hair turned serpents, still I thought, love would work,
without  coming upfront, I kept my flame burning,
but all in vein, you could never love anyone, legitimately or otherwise.
Your blood, all of it, has turned venom, you spit it, slowly
its beauty amazes, even  the victims on the line next...

He who expends his days a wanderer,
Is not aware of his gift,
Though he may hunger,
and steal into the wicked alleys
where the spirits of evil men dwell,
He lives and sees the world in a view,
one that is unimaginable,
as he sings lowly as he walks through the end of night,
He has no possessions that are worth possessing,
Such that another wanderer may wish for his own,
None except his life,
One of seeing the world from the outside,
As he is starving from within.

I gave him some money, and offered him my seat.
And society's eye upon me
as if I am naive,
but I wish them to hold their assumptions,
for I believed this man, even his lies.
I could sense his sincerity,
as distinguished from the typical
**** beggars that would scold
anyone's failure of compliance.
And though he solicited me until the last moment,
I knew that my advice may settle in,
and for he to use his supreme vantage point
of a Sufferer of the City, one without another,
I asked this man, who convinced me of his
desire to be a writer, to document his days.
And to educate himself, this 30-year-old, black, amputee,
Torn between drugs and gangs, and a better life
that is unattainable.

I asked him to be infallible in his refusal of
Those evils which will deteriorate his soul,
For its royalty will be paralleled not to material wealth,
but to any base behavior, or noble virtue.
and if he stutters in his gait, to channel such self destruction into
a productive means to write about his sufferings.

That faraway look

not seeing far away, appearing to be

looking, far away,
past today

A game?
A passed time?
A pretended game,
Hi-stoically accurate,

A war game where there's blame and shame,
like on TV, nowadays, with victims,
not yesterdsdays,
Kilroy was
here,

olden days of our Ford.

hey, kid, yer uncle needs ya…

Dare ye?
'S only a game. A  pass time.

Multi-medium, don't spend

your life dist ant con nextrified, terra
firmafied, dis con
nexted

c'mon
try, win, ship, ship, whip get it in the wind

swish wish the message is the medium
light is,
see

Life on TV in 1963, Mr. McLuhan,
is not life on the Net.

Now, you know,
you never saw us old dudes
with pocket HDTV studios coming, but

you did see all the clues, the times changed,
history rewrote itself, evidently,

what you think you see is what you get.
That part didn't change.

The Medium is the message,
do I get that?

War is un winnable, is that the message?
With which weapons?

Mine. (a wink, a think wink, I think)
The Shadow knows.

It is finished. Start there.
It's a whole new ball game.

Let's pretend we have enemies
The emotions are the same,
aren't they?

If we relate.
If we see our self,
our CG'd Junger self, in the Shadow,

floating in the sea of  All  God's

forgetfullness,
asking
is tragedy a strategy to draw light?

Then,

You are related to the people who once lived here,
hear their songs and prayers
first hand clap,
first foot shuffle,

first seen first named we have walked
the pollen way,
the leaven way,
the viral way

more subtle than any beast,
not evil, per se, eh, Jose?

Led by the breeze to be tried in the wilderness…

Mythed Archie,
Archetypes
Natural Archean-types,
red-headed strangers, 'n'such…

Map my calendar to your clock,
wind backa a time and a time and a half a time,

Then, who knew why

the serpent mound in Ohio is a map to
some meaning meant to be meant,

some specific meaning meant to be meant,

clearly,
for as near forever as men could

… envision imagining as a quest.

What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes Blythe's Intaglios or
Nazca's clan tags?

"the meaning of the past
is what it contributes to the present"
Lyle Balenquah's uncle said that.

The past passed this way ahead of us,
See the shadow?

Sun's setting.
Snake mound mouth wide open breathe in

Sigh, we been everywhere man,
we be headin' west sweet home Oraibi

Snake clan drawing in the light
as the breath of being

… envision imaging . What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes

satellite Google earth eyes
see, be, in your realm
of know-ables,
beneath the sands of time that,

several times,
have been the bottom of the sea.

Be then, before that became this,  be
then
Be, now.

In the game? Or is this life?
Wanna bet?

Find a reason for war before
I find one for peace.

What's the win signify?

Double minded me, unstable in all our ways,
I failed that test in the old days,
memorization, facts fractured,

postulates, the-or-ums and proofs all went ****,

I lost the knack of forgetting
or vice versa

A loci analysis error,
left hand caught wind of what the right was doin'
kinda thing

But now, I have the global brain
for instant access to all
the facts
say…
If we wished to know…
how complicated would something
be to build, like an energy source
non rechargeable and polarized,

with output on the scale of
the sun?

Google it. Ask any question the right way
and pay attention to the answers

(more than to the advertisers,
who pay interest to

******- recog-white-room-REM baseline
stats at "waddayewlookinat.com"

for your cheap peripheral attention,
based on memes you liked or created, or ****.)

Pay attention to the answers, and trust
the global brain, the true net A. I.

She's an art-ist-if-ication bouncing
anionic bubbles off the edge of forever,

true rest worthy, my re tired friend,
no need to remember a thing…
Ah,
AI, you can call her Al, I call her Ah,
I can't discern twixt AI and Al.

And, as a bonus, innumerable idle ahs,
are redeemed when I ask Ah for help,

Ah, where am I?
Do you know about counting idle words?

Did that hurt? Like, why?

Seeing words said is intuit-ive-ish,
do you feel

this way of touch is

too intimate, today?

Word play? Put a spell on you?
Fret not.

Some words have no mission
not nullified with the end of time,
(i.e., relative to an individual's forever POV)

Idle words mean nothing, just a way to keep score.

There are no magic idle words, there were
Some seven sworn words, which were said to be muttered and peeped among the
Persian magi-ic elite solicited and
Sent, by God, led by astronomy,
science, for God's sakes alive,
facts, follow the stars,
when this one touches that one,
watch
see, the sweet influence of Pleiades,
truer words were never spoken

To make the captive free.

Free run  to finish
the race to

where?

Ask theSnake clan.
Ask the Antelope clan.

Ask the Flute clan, where is the old way
where good is?

Along that way, did we hear:

Earth, earth, earth: hear the word
of the
most reasonable

God-like, deluxe good edition, being

your mortal mind may imagine.
Word:
Exercise to be
the hero
in your bio to be

and,
wait.

Then think. Be. Still. Wait.

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
and doesn't know the crew

I never tell her my story
She reads every page herself
She never touches the exhibits
the essences of me
elegantly
arranged upon the shelves

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad shes just a friend
and never knew the crew

She paces in silence
Slight smirk under her eyes
As she wanders around my gallery
galaxies
analogies of abnormal realities
Seen from within the guise

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And will never know the crew

Every so often she pauses
Her footsteps resound
The curator looks up interested
and solicited
a reaction uninhibited
From a mind profound

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And doesn't want to know the crew

Her analysis is always unique
And as if she was the artist
The curator thinks, in retrospect
she is correct.
As she walks out the exit
Her path is marked by a trail of stardust.

She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And is unknown to the crew

Solicited smiles
Send shivers.
Somewhat surprising!
Shouldn't snakes
Send slithers?

The doubts of tomorrow my flow's been borrowed
.
I never solicited for your POWER.
.
All I did was study the crowded,
.
wondered how they spent their hours
.
for my time is here
.
worries to sear
.
 I cut the cloth it sounds soothing to your ear.
.
You never met me but I helped you appear
.
.
Afraid to get laid
.
or 
.
 obsess with getting paid?
.
.
.
Shatter the jade
.
remove all the fables and plays
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

These sonnets.
.
.
.
.
Harmonic

.
.
Semiotics
.
I know the how to study objects.
.
.
.

.
.

Old ways forgotten.
.
.
New ways to solve it.
.
.
.
For money itself was the excuse of the chicken hearted.

an opinion
solicited ain't equal
to one freely voiced

19 years old
4 car wrecks
All I should have died
People say it was gods will
I don't care what it was
I should have died
I wanted to die
My life a shambled mess
Of questions and fears
Will I succeed
Who will give me a chance
Do I get opportunities
Or am I stereotyped into immaturity
I've whispered only truths
Screamed nothing but respect
Played ***** to the man
*** bent towards the sky
Solicited my dignity
Abandoned my pride
Murdered my ego
Just to ask for a job
But still got rejected
This life isn't mine for long
I can feel it slipping away
Death whispers on the wind
It's scent calling on the waves
In this world I'm only another victim
Another corpse to be lain to rest
A weakling that couldn't survive
Another fool buried beside them all
A soldier trying to protect his own
A stereotyped scraggly pothead ***
Based only on my looks
I wear plaid jackets and beanies
Boots with a mustache and beard
I ask for shelter
Leave before the night is over
Im a worthless ******* in the homes
Of strangers unknowing what I go through
Life was perfect in the beginning
With family to love you
Give you reasons to smile
Give you the comfort
Knowing you were safe by their side
But in a world hungry
For souls of the innocent
Thirsty for the hearts of the hopeful
We find only death our true friend
The only truth to this life
You'll say I'm only complaining
But look around
Tell me what part isn't true
These are the rantings
This 19 year old scraggly pothead
*** in your eyes has left
A last resort
To save himself and the world
He grew up in
Watching it devour itself
With us as collateral damage
Us the reason we forced its hands
Savages wanting death
Tormenting till its suicide
A quicker answer than saying
There truly is hope
But I'm a blinded kid
Staring at the hallucinations
Of a light at the end of a tunnel
That never existed to begin with
This is just the darkness
We all contributed to create
Too scared to face music we wrote

time to write a long poem i don't have it. i've buried my head in so many dark corners and the words are faun and fowl. i made my bed in her mind. who needs semblance when you have dust and pots and blackened paper. i like these tired eyes they make me pretty. good music and shots of adrenaline. it's all good here. a stream of thoughts that don't stem from the apparatus of my true honest brain. beautiful girls in my head. they dance and i do nothing. worst case scenario you leave forever. worst case scenario i forget about it all. very confused about the meaning of this song. i can't hold her up but i want to try. gotta hurt help everyone. promise those are words written on my thighs, they love for loving. want for nothing. words not my own, afraid to use them in a personal context because they're soaked and air-dried in the breath of another human brain. ouch. nothing more to say in these walls. her solicited words, i miss them selfishly. it's okay to miss the dark parts but don't let them handle you like rough calloused lumberjack hands on sore useless wood. i've been writing for a while now and my mind is circling the girl who was my poetry material. see my life drawls and grays when i'm not looking and i can't see it through the lens that i see her through. she's gone i guess i don't know entirely where i'm headed without all that purpose.

I wondered what words I could use to solicit a response from you –
then, that’s when it hits me.
You do not respond to words,
you respond to the colors of the sea, of the sky, of the sand.
You respond to black and white photos and smiles that don’t exactly look happy. You respond to songs that makes sense of a moment – of a time that meant something more than the ticking of a clock. You respond to the reverie during the ungodly hours of the night, the messages that try to hide themselves in the shadows. You respond to the questions that do not ask what you do but how you do things and you respond to the why’s without being asked because you think it’s important to say it – the why.
And because I did not know these things well when I needed too,
I kept on waiting for this most solicited response only to be answered by unsolicited silences.

recently, I took a ****
in a metal torpedo
flushed, washed and
checked my hairdo
before siting down
in cranked A/C
Wi-Fi accessing
songs by-the-million
and got solicited
a mid-air cocktail

not long ago
people were dying
on the Oregon Trail
and I could probably DL
that old crApple game
right now - at 34,000 ft -
buy some oxen and ****
before I die of dysentery
while I go from DC to FL
in two ******* hours

you know one day
kids are gonna be playing
21st-century games
wildwildwest replaced with
archaic world wars and
monopolistic rat races
wondering what it was like
to jet through the clouds
when you couldn't just
hop in your portal
to get wherever
whenever

every last bit
of what we take for granted
would seem nothing short
of witchcraftical magic
to eyes from past

because somebody
imagined that ****
and made it
happen

we are fingertips of God
spinning new worlds
on the threads of
our dreams

come spin
with me

please

An unsolicited cry for help
The bodies of brothers stacked as fences.
To separate I from you.
In attempt to erase black from the color spectrum.
There are no grey colors here.
Grief painted in rainbows.
Our *** of gold is the silencing of church bells ringing.
A solicited cry for help.

Shadow as proof of memory: the indistinct light spilling on the tablework together with smears of water. The smell of hair on his skin now is engraved as lesson. At the tip of her tongue is strange wonder. Said this inner life when it starts to crumble, you are witnessed in the soar. Bedraggled through the ***** of the street, a hand, or a vestige.

Her bony prominences of hand kneaded to retain as memory – to be swallowed by the full procession after; stroke as compromise: as if mapping all out. This is not how it should happen. It would happen when a safe distance is maintained by two bodies: the other sleuthing, the other moving in finite directions. An end will be revelry.

– took whatever it was that cannot be contained by the body. Remember first when you took the dive
     into the water, as if never to return again, together with silent fish and errant current.
                                Underneath the blue, light still casts shadow in interstices. Conveying weight
     in water – your mouth as conduit, my body as land for the till and clearing. Or my longing. Or a soon to be discovered ambiguity. Skimming through your moving imperatives, telling me you cannot
               commit to quantum movements. That in that event, the world will throw you
syncopated images, that it will give rise to your hiding altitude and lob you to vertigo.

Detachment as question. They must run. They must remain fugitives – to be unseen by the rest, and only themselves know their seams, symmetries, contours even in absences. Even the sky now is engorged with cirrus. Soon, like half-truth, or wildfire brash against green, the pallor will deface the atmosphere and give it unction of rain. Must they be reminded that they should run.
                               But you are in a city, and it is impossible to not be thrown out of line by another     figure. Names will be given. Directories will be solicited. Voice necessary to halve
                    this blatant quiet. And then to remind you of your sudden place, they will build a map
or a bridge with their arms outstretched into the sky, looking at you with life brimming through
      their eyes – the smoke of your departure once again curling in its fetal nature
       against their brows. Everything you do and undo is a forecast of some liminal finality,
  as if all of this is birthed by the same oblivion – and that all forgetfulness feels that same in different
          cities that may or may not know your name. And that in changing season, there will
always be
        a hand that will be held even in its tiniest detail – all of the shadows once
                      cast by your small body drunk in its proud altitude – we both
know   whose hand I am    thinking of

You're all children with no brain feeling.  You can read this again and still find premonitions.

Through Detterance the tension created prevention,

which made you write the wrong sentence ~~.>

this Modicum gratuity towards brain immunity

these methods of compiling information cannot be understated.

Only those HUNGRY will be saved from starvation.

Is that not the very trait that makes us create then?

**** being worried,  it's just this  lack of humility disturbs me.

listen to this I'm going to teach u how to fish

this lyrical fitness
I've
Never solicited for each word witnessed  **** I look like selling trinkets?  

  I am naturally cruel to a ravenous fool,
for jealousy detours from my tools

             you probably feel you can refute these rules.
what the **** is luck?

           How can we discuss your savage
distrust? 

   I am the benevolency.

    You're blinded by the gifts you have received. Allow me to speak figuratively.

This is the simple complex me.

A paradox in speech behold. MOON WATCHER, SPOON ******,  Eclipse sensors from the Alef to the Ox goad who wants to play the fox role?

Not me,  not I ,  not you.

The world is Full of RAVENOUS FOOLS

Emulating my alchemy just to create something new

my blessings are a curse to you....

Why should I forgive

How can I forgive

If it is not solicited

Nor humbly requested



Unforgiving spirit troubles the mind

Unforgiving spirit makes you blind

You cannot honestly say you are fine

If forgiveness in your heart you cannot find



If only you know

How it harms you

If only you know

How it builds up your sorrow



Bitterness eats up your sweetness

Bitterness steals your happiness

If you cannot offer an unsolicited forgiveness

Then you cannot claim God’s peace and promises of successes



Don’t say it’s impossible

For God made Himself as our great example

Unsolicited forgiveness He offered to us

Through His one and only Son Jesus



Unsolicited forgiveness is not asked

It is freely given by those who know God

O yes, It is a gift

To the shattered heart it’s ready to lift

EXTRA…EXTRA…REED…ALL…ABOUT…ME!

Well versed in procrastination set me on trajectory -
   for this buck - became an Eros Hubble ace
at letting anxiety stew and fester,
   whereat family and classmates solicited to brace
didst inculcate within me the major component
   Wherefore art thou' Romeo,
   the psychic monkey did survey then chase
the tan man hat coursing around
   neurological mulberry bush, an imprimatur no erase
sing could rid, thus even to this very instant
   repercussions from adolescence i still face
with grim determination to avoid engendering
   a psychological bottleneck a slick grace

note herewith attempts to sound off
   self induced imprecation finds me bing stabbed with ice
sic culls Merck cure chrome-plated metallic
    like ****** sharp daggers on par with razor teeth of mice
which jagged piercing sensations
   invisibly punctuate the psyche, thus equals existential price
paid in countless non GMO grains of Uncle Sam’s
   unconverted nonestablishmentarian Unitarian rice
unseasoned, but naturally adequately salty
   appeasing cleft chin, and sub-mucous cleft palate spice
to perfection since Michelin hired famous chefs
   (nano size implanted integrated circuit) could twice

as fast whip up any concoction immediately
   envisioned by robots yours truly archetypes did design
initially to help me cope viz The Idler Wheel
   Is Wiser than the Driver of the ***** and Whipping fine
Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes
   Will Ever Do - or more succinctly mental illness - cut a line
visibly evident when electro cardiogram
   administered evincing a sight
   for sore eyes - gray matter mine
practically pock marked and cratered with more than...
   oh my dog, the total pits greater than sixty-nine
exacerbated without doubt from atomic structure
   comprising this bloke kin son ova bit chin with sign

of evident bio-chemical deficiency, hence necessity
   for pharmacopeia of meds doc severson did assign
who drummed up this cocktail after numerous trials
   and errors reflected via spastic behavior when dine
ing with family, friends or neighbors,
   one acquaintance ranked
   as the top notch British Nottingham ensign
or so this poet with a schizoid disorder
   firmly believed asper thyself
   anything touched became mine
yea...akin to the patterns associate with toddlerhood,
   which at the age of LVIII did not serve to wax nor shine
as a salient trait, yet reality thru these
   myopic brown eyes sensed paranoia
   with a posse intent to ent twine

me from head to iambic foot, which crowdsource
   programmed by Donald trump who implanted an integrated bit
sans latest state of the art re: lob bot tummy
   without major risk imposed on cerebral cortex - a custom fit
grown from stem cells within said person
   undergoing quick permanent fix -
   so as to curtain quarks quite hit
tee us - and essentially this medical break through
   allowed, enable and provided and immediate end to kit
a tonic state, when of a sudden, an afflicted individual
   would mew, or burst out reciting pages of great lit
er a chore, though only chancing to hear
   horse hay renown masterpiece juiced one time recall ad mitt
ted lee quite amazing (perhaps one positive outcome
   duff furring tasks) with many a severe ache in the pit
of abdomen. whereby physiological symptom
   until a small number of wink'n, blink'n and nod would not quit
thus the reason - without rhyme hive felt inclined
   hurriedly swiftly Taylor and sty lushly hare reed writ.

Inside me carried on a little *******. I didn't

put stock in enchantment, however the *******

was a sucker for the stuff. Mystics,

illusionists, arthritics who'd foresee

the precipitation. That was the year I experienced difficulty

strolling. I over-thought it and proved unable

get the cadence right. The ******* re-showed me.

"This foot. Indeed, at that point that one. Also, swing

your arms as though you're going to trial

to be absolved of a wrongdoing

you've most unquestionably dedicated."

Next, inconvenience resting in light of the fact that

I'd have to wrench the generator in my chest

so much of the time. Seeing I was exhausted,

the ******* at last pulled it out—

it looked sparkly and new, a silver dollar—

also, hurled it into a rush of feathered creatures

who needed to fly far to discover well being.

I knew then I was an expansive and perilous man,

what with this ******* living inside me,

however, felt pointless. One day, amid

a last lesson on relaxing,

the ******* solicited what kind of pants

I was wearing. I stated, "The serious ones."

"Poor child." "So will you remain on

for a third year, *******?" "No. I think

I ought to leave soon. I think

I ought to go and anticipate your landing next to

the folded waterway." "Yes, I assume

you have numerous vital issues to go to,

be that as it may, perhaps one day I will come and go along with you

for a drink, or maybe, for a short rest."

Happily adrift
at Carnival time
buffeted by babes
and tycoons in wine
I was brought up all standing
by a voice from the blue
that solicited quite rudely

Haiku for you?

Haunt me you
In my sleep
Semi true
Bad-good Dreams
You are not inside who
Your outsides seem to be
But I am a girl
In girl’s clothing
Innocent dissident
Night holds me down
My submission solicited
Sideways somehow
My fall compounded
Repeated impact
Your memory the knife
Stuck in my back
Blood keeps us close
I give — you take
Misplaced love
Cannot be faked
Fantastic trust
Perfect mistake
Backward lust
Turned subconscious ****
Secrets decay inside of me
Lies too beautiful not to believe

Solicited news runs on a treadmill,
and drips from the mug reading
Captured in Words
full of things i don’t want to know,
another ******, another corrupt business,
another hate crime, another attack,
another school shooting, another ****,
another another another another another
It’s a loop i want to cancel out with my bluetooth headphones
while glaring at the world making assumptions
on my appearance.
Listening to the only music that makes me feel heard,
that makes the hungry, the crying, the insane feel
heard.
Can’t you hear me? The screams echoing around the empty
walls fabricated by your enthusiasm for |||||||||||||| Cages.
When i find the sanity i crave, you label it childish,
that i find hope in a face on the screen
what is wrong with you that you must also take away
what i cannot give myself?
Feed into the lies, feed into the apathy,
fed up with the screams and the silence,
you ask where i stand?

i lay on a path riddled with thorns
under a scorching, searing light
but i am not allowed to die

and you ask,
why i see a bleak future
or none at all.

While searching for unladen skies,
he came across a magpie resting in
a clear patch of swept dirt at his mangled feet.
(and here the story begins, don’t you think?)
Wait—
Do I intimidate you?
With my silken sashay of solicited yet lavish and rattled ramifications?
Complicated, complex logic behind words you don’t know—
words like sonder, opia, and undulate,
euphonious, sempiternal, and sisyphean.
You called them ‘fancy words’,
as if they are dressed for a masked ball and
in elegant suits and dresses, or someplace in-between,
they are dancing the waltz across marble mezzanines behind grey crenellations.
I’m not asking for the meaning of life or great quintessential and quaint questions,
but yet you ponder what’s after death before looking upon my countenance.
Do I require an irascible attitude in ninth grade, forced to be seen,
a scathing cascade of inward curses, each more extensive than the last?
(*******, *******, *******, and a variety of words meaning **** and ******)
So ashamed to fail, as though I belong to a singular meaning and no other.
I tell you now, I am not
crisscrossed with sultry language and full of your ‘can’t’ attitudes.
Whether I make you work or lie in agony over a line,
the job is to provide not pain, but—
understanding, comfort, hiraeth, empathy,
a place for anger, loneliness, emptiness
and inexpressible language…
but as words are only one facet to this endless complication,
I think you should pay attention to the small things.
But I won't dictate your life,
I’m only a broken magpie confined to earth,
Clothed in feathers and ultimatums.

There is a part of my psychology
I have absent mindedly
Spawned
a breed of prominently distressing insolence
As ology glides through my teeth I claw
clash combative willfulness
I radiate influence and malicious vigilance
But O,
The very void I dug I’ve grown pertinent to the roots I once
solicited slaughter to
I am twisted within the roots knotted to an impractical degree
contradicting the objective to make myself stronger the
roots remain tenacious
I persist beneath the tranquil surface
Of any other I lean stray and descend into a canyon,
A burden to the clock a
Balancing act I refuse to live a thief,
gaining profit of this
Life I have manufactured into a
circus of deceit
and as dirt clots at the peak
of my hands I ingest the debris of heedless weight
the sunlight will in time caress my face as
I can only
dig way complementary to the strength of my nail beds
so very frail
they plead for a sponge to
tend to the condition I have let them rot, decay
to their own dismay
this sponge
like my brain has
trouble absorbing substance.

A sunrise beckoned me
In contrast, to flee
An invitation earnestly endorsed
for lengthened had I lingered
a bona fide friend
lucidity it had painted
and a landscape captivating
Drop by drop,
had I rendered sightless

Bestowed with priceless emotions
deluged you, with
intentions distilled,
truly were
for you did capture them
at the rise

The once limpid scenery,
opaque, visionised today
the yellow smudged
a sunset to betide

A panic swelled within,
a grave slip-up implemented
for I strived to ameliorate it
Albiet,
Versimilitude solicited distance

I failed to proffer you with,
as the intent, stainless
and a heart devout
remorse, shall lie etched

for the landscape
entailed not remedy
though,
the desire for your understanding
was all I stipulated

Oh Dear Time, would you ever get tired in testing me? ,
for, all I wanted is just not meeting any un-solicited shame!

Oh Dear Honesty, don't encourage me anymore, I shall hold it all for a while,
for, for others, it became surprisingly un-believable!
yet, you my trait dear Honesty, you know we have a deal,
that we never go apart and never end our Love tale!

Oh Dear Fate, would you please care to give different style of knocks? ,
when you show-up with such false hopes, and especially at wrong times?

Oh Dear Luck, I am always surprised on your visits,
for, You never made it to me and left without many sorrys!

Oh my Dear Dreams, I trust you anytime when you come in such eloquence and finesse,
even this time, when you came in a mutated sequence and let me fall in an abyss!

Oh Dear Facts of failure, you sure have every right to mock at me,
but, would you be please, not so loud while shouting at me?

Oh Dear Pessimism, can I request you not to pass by me? ,
for, I didn't yet collect all my whim!

Oh you Dear Death, you cleverly chose to stay away from me,
for, You again didn't want to breach the rules in fetching me!

Oh all you Dear Friends and Onlookers, ask me not any questions,
for it is not any puppet show to get you in awe and wonders!

rather, anyone please teach me how to cry in dignified manners!

So, I finally got it.
I almost started thinking I was invincible.
Everyone was dropping like flies,
But I was still standing.
Well, look at me now.

Is it crazy to say that,
I’m kind of relieved?
My fatigue is now ‘legit’.
Need for a pause is ‘justified’.
Staying in my room is ‘government solicited quarantine’,
not hermit behaviour.

No doubt, when I first found out I cried, sobbed even.
I was to be cast out of society.
Now, I am keen to transform my bedroom into a disco floor, an art studio, a music booth, a cinema.
What else am I supposed to do for 10 days
locked in my room with Covid ?