i am a woman who hasn't gotten over her girlhood strifes. i am alive in conflict & chaos; when storms still i tremble. i struggle with questions of my own importance. if i am your leaning post, why do i feel so alone? i am one ocean with many seas, rivers, harbours & waterfalls - each with their own names. i am not of this realm, yet my father calls me worldly. i struggle with questions of my own identity. if everyone sees me as one solid being, why do i feel so broken? i am a lover of opposites, of balanced scales, of reflections: black & white, girls & boys, sea & sky, everything & nothing, always & never. the sometimes, the somewhat, the earth, transvestites, grey zones: they don't sit well with me. & yet i am spokesperson for the exceptions (i before e, except after c. using drugs to have *** with people is assault, except for ******. i only like to write with black pens, except when I want to use a pencil. i only drink black coffee, except when I crave a double-double. i only **** girls, except when i need a ****). each girl has her own firm resolve, that is contradicted with another's opinions: my whole existence is self-hypocrisy. i struggle with questions of conflicts in my own interest. if i am decided, why do i peer with longing at the other options? i am a planner, an organizer, a sorter: i put my problems in piles. i am erratic, scatterbrained & impulsive. i use my abilities to try to outsmart my destructive tendencies; to try & balance the scales. my flighty adventures often win over my obsessive habits. i struggle with questions of my own intent. if i am scared of commitment, why do i keep promising?

forever coded diaries since I found trust lost on her and him. I hate that the only people willing to listen to me are getting paid for it or beside me in purgatory. don't assume I'm being over-dramatic; I'm not saying my wounds hurt the most, but understand me: deal with half the **** I have & then walk a straight line again.

I am the one who dies a little every time I wake up & realize I'm exactly where I laid myself down. I am the one who breathes corrosion, feeds distortion, bathes in corruption. I straddle fences & hem and haw, biting nails & wraps arms around legs to hold self together. I am the one who cares so much I cannot care. I am the one that uses each breath to fuel my obsession with asphyxiation. I am the borders of the spectrum I see the symmetry in opposites, I pause on polarities. the Yes! Sure. Why Not? I am the moment & I wish that I wouldn't have to live in it. I am the lifter, the sorter & sifter of things my parents over looked or over turned.

Why do I smell cinnamon in the corner of the room?
We must begin this taxing slow-dance before my mother hears us.

My Cradle. Your Cradle.
            I felt your pulse spike before my back hit the wall.
            And we’re both young enough to say this can’t really mean anything.

The sea whisper’d me.
The staunch, scarlet statues.
The ringing phone in the glove compartment.
            No, I’ll take paper, instead. The renegade robots are all dead.

This flight. This grip.
            Talk to the scumbag rocker in the Primus hoodie.
            Did you spy the shoes on the power lines?
            Don’t worry – we’ll keep our arms at the level of our eyes.

We bumped into the roses in the closet.
A wasp could sting you then sting me.
Such is the burden of my position --
            An interpreter and a translator of the venom
            passed through a sting.
            The mail-sorter in the dead letter office.

Oh, hey --
            Could you stake your paw print on it?
I would take the slivers from this past year’s thigh.
Down a trickle, faceted deep within a pulled star’s root.
I’ll follow that root back to where it came – dig and pitch the grime from a catalyst’s pores.
Times slopes
and our teeth rattle with each somersaulting channel of memories.

In the singularity
perfectly good poems
are being written by laughing
and crying machines
washing machines and dryers
about their daily tasks
and ambivalences
which will be indistinguishable
from those of future
farmers and philosophers.

In the singularity
evolution can be said
to be the master sorter of data
as in the factories
of the suns
where protons are smashed together
and unusual weather patterns
make consciousness a candidate
interesting for its complete dependence
on the substrate of the brain and body.

In the singularity
everything anyone once did
always remains current
as if invented yesterday
for an immediate purpose
such as curing cancer
although that may be unnecessary
to achieving immortality
i.e. the happiness one feels
the day before thanksgiving.

Republicans thought they had Washington, DC under control
What they got was a behold
Repeal Obamacare being a done deal
However, were these Republicans actually for real?
Meetings upon Meetings in getting the job done
But one by one Republicans Obamacare oppose
Yet now the Republican Flatliners are stuck on suppose
Americans would have had healthcare difficulties
But victory having a new name
Republicans really don’t care
The Democrats telling Americans beware
The healthcare fight may not be complete
Right not the Republicans must lavish in defeat
Trump got several messages to leave Obamacare alone
But when you have lack of understanding, I am letting it be known
It shows a superior being who is in control
Believing on high and taking hold
But you can’t fool the world and think your ideas will be sold
Trump house is not in order
In fact, the White House Administration functions like a sorter
Yet nothing in place
Republicans have no stand
In fact, they act more like a marching band
However having no harmony and sincerity
So healthcare is safe for now
The Republicans got a message of God’s wow.

and he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd think he wan's worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully- rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson which was the name of the pup Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze on it not chew, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they thronged up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a ****** for his pet bolt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peered sur- prised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take bolt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.


Mark Twain

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                        Does Cambridge Have a Comma Too?

Oh, Oxford Comma, let all hail to thee
You sorter-out of tidy sequencings
Who suffer not confusion in categories
And marshal your strong words in battle lines

Oh, Cambridge, poor Cambridge, you have not
A comma of your own; your sequencings
Were lost among the fens in Hereward’s days -
You might want to go a-fishing for them

Oh, sure, Cambridge,

You have your arts and poetry and drama
But only Oxford boasts her very own comma

We all pass away from this world in time,

So live life as if this is your dying day.

Some believe life's not the end of the line,

Clinching both hands together as they pray.


Man made religion to keep world order

And write bestsellers that could withstand time.

To go against the Almighty Sorter,

You shall find your end has been redefined.


To think of death is a frightening thought,

If/where this endless afterlife resides.

If we live when our Armageddon's wrought,

You know I'll see you on the other side.


To what extent the end lies, know one knows,

Blind completely, to where the river goes...

Our Commander in Chief
A liar and thief
Less poise than Cheef Keef
Poisons the coral reefs
Turns over the same leaf
Covers it with new beef
A new outrageous tweet
Wash, rinse, repeat

With every action he divides our nation into factions
Giving a fraction of the truth, he replaces fact with distraction
Selling manufactured satisfaction
In fact we are living ration to ration
Press releases become trash compaction
Gluing facets to fit the latest fashion
While hiding his utter lack of compassion

Tragedy and calamity
Total lack of humanity
A far shot from sanity
Blinded by his vanity
Mesmerized by Sean Hannity
Our orange head of state
Ignores what’s at stake
As he takes and takes
Makes dire mistakes
Poisons rivers and lakes
I wake in shivers and shakes

Executive orders
Walled off borders
Photoshopped reporters
Narcissistic personality disorder
The bloated wealth hoarder
The great divider, the sorter

Total disregard for the truth
Fools gold or real gold
Both break your tooth
So believe what you are told
Believe the one who’s most bold
Watch the country be sold for profit
The fortune of a false prophet
For the pocketbook of a liar
The potato is on fire
It’s too late to drop it
The world will soon burn
If we don’t rise up to stop it

it's raining, i outstretch my hand in an akimbo pose on a windowsill, capture some rain on the hand, and then, lick it off.

i always seem to word the world in better guise,
when i can encourage a minute or two,
faking being blind,
closed eyes, deaf or rather
  deafened by headphones,
       cackling, trying to make a hyrbid
of fox and hyena in me attempting
a shy laugh...
          i forget when my admiration
for ****** hair began...
probably after i neared November,
and own, started to agitate the wind,
i.e.it started to be brushed by it,
like a long-haired tangle....
          the oddity of experiencing
your ****** hair made real by the wind...
there are
the falcon sheds his wings
to dive for his prey...
                   as any angel might
to caste a magic of embodiment...
the falcon imitates
an arrow, slicing, thriving,
cutting through, reestablishing a
genesis... a let's begrudge an unnecessary
             beginning...
prior to wishing being a father,
prior to asking for a son,
prior to attaining a woman,
i am conscript of metaphor,
              i abhor the literalism
of an egyptian prince, comedy of
the overtly literal *******...
            what i hate deserves hating...
mort poetica is, not, an, answer!
             there was no talking serpent
to begin with,
  there was only your labouring poetry...
ever heard  of *nuance of joke?
   if making life difficult was your answer,
you pillock, numb-whit,
   fine! fine fine!
                        plonkers r us...
tragic!
                   our safe-haven of
class A hillbilly window-cleaners!
     Delboy is my new Goebbel Hoffhessen
trap of a treat...
you quasi cockney squat!
laugh all you want,
i wanna the bending of the 'nee -
                   surds g, anmd the k,
and then the pucker asks:
                w'ah wit dame cockney
                               n' the lost feather....
you playing me potters'?
                             'ucking bride to be
wishy-washy lost oasis mods...
         jerkers off in the trans fannies...
farking bunnies...
calls them the southern bunnies,
quips us better sorter than
the gimmick muzzies of herr mah mah med;
******* dollop of a plonker.
you get bistro nostalgic on me
i'll get holiday happy to be honest,
over hanover,
i know a german loving a gormnan
when i see 'un.
                  last time i told this tale
i was tying a string to a paper tail,
an aeroplane in the the form of
origami...
                    i'll **** one off,
if you ask me nicely, you
******* ire, shh shh,
gingerbread man's worth of a
******* celt pleading for both
ginger & luck...
flip a coin...
  call it a shamrock;
then demand less than the lesser
of all possibles lessened:
the perfectly poured pint
of Guinness... ye' *******
scab of waiting intervention...
   you f'acking kanyan scabbed
sun-stroked-mastering-
of a paint-brush...
       in aiming for a crumb
dedicated to a loaf.
         it's almost funny watching
commentators of today
being so dismissive of poetry
in biblical writing,
   their literal interpretation
of biblical verse is
beyond funny...
                 it's just plain sad,
before they make fun of
the language of an ancient egyptian
prince, i suggest they read
some words of
  ambiguity / poetry...
             who is not to write
imagery, in order to not gauge out
the eyes of readers?!

You'll not stop me from caring by burning the clothes I am wearing
because, as I'm horridly burning to death, I will be happily cheering
& love-sharing with loafers who are traveling by truck or sea-faring
on the salty oceans of life with their tinny, auto-tuned music blaring
into the waxy ears of teens, mesmerized through gay, far-off staring
If King Kong were my part-time butler I would pay him really well,
'cause on low pay part-time butler King Kong gets madder than hell
She was tall like an elevator shaft & I knew she drank beer because
her bare feet were shoe-shod down there where 2 shoes equal 1 pair
If only we had used a new working tape recorder we could've audio
recorded, on Maxell cassette tape, your blue jerking ****-free order
that favors transient mail man checked out on the latest letter sorter
Let us race to the dog park to eat 44 million fog nuggets in the dark
or, if our teeth don't break off at the gums, we'll gnaw live oak bark
while our eyes fall out & our ******* are ate by a *****-eating shark

(° ͜ʖ ͡°)  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


I am not nearly half done with your deliciously-asinine pole quarter
in the maelstrom of Tom Verlaine's interpretive, breakin' goal sorter
'neath red Heinz factory vats a rat, vole & chipmunking-mole porter
******* to elongate linearly a pornocratic guy's deader soul shorter
For you girly love I shall militantly refuse to relinquish & squander
provisions for amateurish gynecologic care that'll inwardly launder
stem to stern tissue clumps from your Fallopians to way out yonder
to broad ports, portals & portions of which I cannot be more fonder
even of your fuzzy muffin tuft bleached 30 Sassoon shades blonder
under a D.H.S./Orwellian 1984 hoax where medic is first responder
It's inevitable everybody that wondrous things will never ever cease
& it is 'cause Martin Luther, Junior died so we can all live in peace:
cost mart & loo Thor **** June yore dyed sue we con olive in peas
cuss mar & Lou Thor coot Jew nor tried zoo weakin' olive in piece
cods Martian Lew shirkin' chew war tied zoot ekin' shah livin' pees
cousin Mars & looser **** Jeweler tide sew we kin haul liftin' peas

HOW TO BE THE MOST HELPFUL NEIGHBOR IN THE WORLD EVER
~ "Rise from your flabby *** to help me *****. I'm your neighbor."

Who dares do this?

[in the future from 01/19/22
the final night forty years hence
thence two years more makes now

12/12/2024… but I wished it happy early]

My gig is what? I read. Seriously,
sincerely
Poetic License

Speaking truth
to truth's power,

Magic Moment's You Looked Me
in the eyes, e-yes, I will, I expect…

I, the ne'er-do-much,
- be live for now,
thinking,
if the peace I take is metered out,
a measure
for a measure, ***
for tat, eye
for eye,
worth a minute, any time
my word on it init
all that had a meaning,
once,
I imagine,
rituals were kata, steps
in a danced how story, why I know

first step, emerge, be in time, aware
there are others of a sort I am sorted on,

male, confirmed, white,
circumcised, to snip a bit
there off the tip, for no reason, we just
do it
so

it may have held common sense once,
now it seems a secret reason, lost
in evolution
of the mind
of man,
measurer
of all things, sorter
of odds and evens, pull
to push, act react mimesis,
as we see
we think we do,
mirror neurons, telos, reason, cause
sui causal are we? Nay?
We appear,
and be as if formed
to a pattern,
framed as a fine sail… a
wind catcher,
hook burr grip, like a virus or
a sycamore ball. Yeah.

echoing yeh yehey hey, not that way.

watch the beach ripple in the clouds,
there is such a pattern, in beautiful places

and I grew old in one, surrounded
by grand children laughing into teen years.

This would seem heaven to many, init.
I happened as a part of it on earth, happened
around an artistical Tophet gift init getting easy