******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
knowaddamean.
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.


Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
---
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

---
Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Freud, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
quite similar to Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
---
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck,
light m'fire witcha spark and see
a light in the night when the noises pending terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong
and a sleeping giant in a child may dream
of other ways to see.
New windows on new word worlds expressed in
HD Quad-processed reality
simulations. You know,
child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe
you are expert enough to try doing than is evil.
Read it again.
This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns,
stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil.
Be good.

We know from conception,
we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world,
provided for me, the kid.
\
The son, a first-man son,
some several thousand generations removed.
Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true,
as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free!

See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong,

long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
---
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas(Romanconcept)>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace?
Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied.
Their lies remain lies,
evil knowns
good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle
oaths of loyalty to memes mad
from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.

I was painting a portrait the other night,
    when I figured this out; so let me paint you a picture now.
See I’m a writer, and not a very good artist, and I’m overly clumsy
    and far too bulky for my own good.
I have a boxers’ hands to go with a boxers’ grip which is the worst
    way to grab a paint brush unless you want to tip over your paints.
And that’s exactly what I did.
I tipped over that tray thing with the little slots for all the different
   colors of paint to keep them separated.
They went tumbling to the floor and they all mixed together and
   became one, and there was no more white, no more purple, no
       more yellow or red.
There were no lines to color in or outside of cause the paint was
     everywhere and I left it to dry instead of calling it a
                      “mess that needs to be cleaned up.”
I gave it a chance to become its own thing.
And it didn’t.
It just remained sprawling on the floor.
But at LEAST it was given a chance.
And then I turned on the TV to see that cowboy has-been from Gran
     Torino talking about how this is a “***** generation” and how  
             everyone is too Politically Correct.
He said we used to not be afraid of words like '******' and '****'
    and we walked around proudly in our own neighborhoods,
         and I immediately turned that ******* off.
Not to ignore it, but because I couldn’t respond to it.
I’ve been screaming at the TV for 32 years now and have determined
     that either they can’t hear me or they just don’t give a ****.  
It may be both.
But I want to scream.
I want to tell him that people still aren’t afraid to use those Words; they just choose not to.
I want to tell him that they still walk around proudly in their own neighborhoods, and they are even more proud that he doesn't live here.
But all that’ll lead to,
is an Us vs. Them mentality,
which eventually leads to wars.
We can’t have a war.
Not based on this.
And there are people out there who want that, and there are a
   lot of them.
And they are using those words and they are walking those
      neighborhoods, and they are posting on Alt-Right Message Boards
           and talking about how the White Man is going extinct and how
                   they are the minority.
They white-wash phrases like “White Supremacist” to become
   “Racial Purists” and I realized that they just gave us the answer.
We need to spill the paint.
We need to fall in love with people of color.
Any color.
Every color.
We need to spill the paint and mix it together and make new colors.
And it’ll take a long time, but anything worth doing is worth doing
     right.
And there will be no more primary colors and secondary colors,
    there will only be people.
But its not enough to mix the colors, we have to clean up the act too.
We have to raise our children of all colors right.
We have to tell them that no color is better than another, and that you  
    can draw a painting with just one color, Because that IS a choice!
You can surround yourself with just one color, and only use just one
       color your entire life, but what kind of a life is that?
You walk down the street and the Roses are grey. And the trees are
     grey. And the grey men at the bar are hitting on grey women
          outside and the bartender is pouring grey goose for everyone
               trying to wash down the fact that something is definitely
                      wrong.
We need Red roses and green trees and black men with white women,
      and Asian women with white men, and everyone needs to just start
           mixing and loving, and loving to mix until there is nothing left to
                 stereotype.
Nothing left to minimize, undermine, or scrutinize.
And if we don’t do this soon,
I fear there may be nothing left to scrutinize at all.

60 sunshines, 59 nightfalls till I face the day
40 topics held in to regurgitate,
**** and span for the marker man to give a brother a break.

Wait, I ain't done
Got anxiety about two more chores in head
Not to ***** and moan but *******
Getting tired of this ****
What's the point to push if you don't know where to go
Blindful blissful ignorance?

They say, and you go.
What subject?
What ever is most respected.
What job?
What ever brings financial comfort.
What about this?
Nah, you ain't good at that.

And so you sulk ever so distracted
Hearing the drip drop taps, splat on to the sink.
The metallic ting of the radiator reverberates as dormant inner silence sings.
Forever more.
A didactic sore for the ears,
Apologies in advance,
Though regardless you must hear it.

Never run to please others
Rather, focus and listen to the deep.

When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.

With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.

To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television  was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.

And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him '****', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.

Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.

The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.

Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.

Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.

I'll keep pushing.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.
Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

Please take this as truth
That this is how it is done
If you see someone as enemy
You cease to see a human.
The fact that they are armed
And don’t like who you like
Is enough to create words like
****, ****, ****** and ****.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.

Line up the opposition forces
Against a bullet-riddled wall
And shoot them many times
And see how many will fall.
The ones who do not die
Must be minions of the devil.
They are the enemy, you see.
That’s all. That’s on the level.

Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

And those people that don’t
Believe in your own form of Jesus,
Like Aerabbs and Jews and such,
Shoot them as much as it pleases.
Because they won’t go to heaven,
And are just heathens anyway
Like them Buddhist dingdongs
Like them ****** lesbians and gays.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.

And people in foreign countries
Well, you can guess how that goes;
Take a look and easily compare
Canadanians to them from Mexico.
The French are Frogs, Spanish spics.
None as good as us Americans.
And nothing good can come out
Of any **** place that is African.

Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

Now if you find some of this offensive
And if this is revving up your motors,
Just bear in mind, this is what goes on
In the mind of the average voter.
Want to change this, make life better?
Drop your representatives a letter.
Tell them you are on to their villainy
And see them as supporting the REAL enemy.

My Shoes

Someone once said, “Walk a mile in my shoes”
If you asked me to indeed I’d refuse
They protect me from bruise, respect me to choose
Which pair to prepare me to win or to lose
If footprints are clues, mine would be *****
Some shoes leave tracks, some shoes are flirty
If my shoes could talk, you be they’d be wordy
And here is what they would say:

“we protect you from weather, we’re always together
You cannot survive with just one
We provide you with style and last for a while
Until our job is done

Some of us new, but most of us old
We’re essential to everyday life
We’re there on the stairs, the court, in the car,
And even to marry your wife

We’re red, or tan, we’re **** and span
And proud ‘til the day we retire
‘til we say our goodbyes in the shoebox in the sky
Or perhaps the ol’ telephone wire”

Someone once said “walk a mile in my shoes”
If you asked me to indeed I’d refuse
For my shoes are unique, with every lace and squeak
They speak, oh yes they speak
Until they sing the telephone wire blues

They were like two peas in a pod
Holding hands
Exchanging tongues
Being prissy and laughing at those
Who long before saw their act
Though those two queers, they don’t see at all
They are midgets, and little, and erectly small
With puffed up chests
Stroking hens of the Cornish variety
All of them dregs of a social society


Slum lords and criminal minds
Under the sheets where no one sees
Which one is giving the other the shaft
**** and span they use after, oh so daft
One erotically whispered to the other
A Pain in the ***
As they kissed over their biblical wine glass
Seeking solace in each others arms
Licking their wounds with grammars charm


Grown men, committing sin after sin
Then blaming others for saying
God wants you to begin
Acting like men
And not emancipated boys
Stop diddling and twiddling
Leave alone your petite toys

One day Jehovah will make clear
Belittle others is worse than Queer
Little queens swallowing their own vile
While Ladies and Gentleman laugh
At the ****** and the Clown
In their lingerie and gown

God decried, let those two drown
Even Lucifer laughed under his frown

Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
  wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
   a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
  to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
   feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
  The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
  collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
  itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
      available for the world to break once again.

A great many people cross the Liffey and dance on the shore,
At Ringsend the Pigeon House falls to earth, the dust settles,
Cuchulain leaps from Bull to Bull and retreats into the mountains.  
I linger for some time watching the waters pass beneath ha’penny bridge.
I’ll find me a garret, and in that garret,
Curse in undertones Windows Vista,
******* to the **** stanzas of Homer,
Drink cold coffee with the blood of a nation,
Finally, say with surety,
Here is a poem which has taken everything, and given nothing,
Here is everything that meant something to somebody at some time.

You say freedom of speech
But not for me as things be
I breath heavy with scenes
See things as a minority

As a young Latino male
I see lots of myself in jail
Traps are set and on sell
Equal blood color is spilled

Martial law across the hall
Racial wars coming along
Rest in peace to Trayvon
Another young man gone

Contributions are all illusions
Spreading through confusion
Relations between contusions
Love for those who abuse them

One of my best friends is black
One of my best friends is white
One of my friends is masculine
One of my friends is feminine
One of which was a criminal
One of which was a clinical
Both of my friends are humans
Finding out life is so typical  

Two of my jewels were blue
Two of my girls shared hue
Two of my schools loved me
Two of my enemies cut me
Two of my mothers cried
Two of my brothers died
Both of which had big futures
Before hate took their lives

Three of my peers are my equal
Three of my peers make new evil
Three of my tears stained the paper
Three of my years were endangered
Three of my hearts broke in time
Three of my guardians declined
All three rose up against me
And began to belittle my mind

Replies depend on the victims
And the symptoms felt in them
To fight back or stop living
To keep going or be bed ridden

Is the valley to deep to dip in
Are the times increasing division
Humans beings have hurt vision
Blind to a philosophy holistic

The clocks are going tic tic
I've been called a young ****
My friends ancestry exist
My friends ignorance is bliss

He holds onto passive racism
He doesn't notice the shifting
He says, "I have black friends
But... ," Just to avoid friction

So you say freedoms of speech
But you don't really know me
As a majority with a minority
How can you experience things
That your culture brought to me
Left my people ***** and hurting
And I'm not from genes of slavery

So think before you speak.

**** and Span
Stopped by last night
Boy, are they clean!

This spoken word.
I want to talk.
Folks'll put you
In a box.
It has six sides.
There's lots in stock.
Works just like a
Broken clock.
It fits in life
Two times a day.
Once the cradle.
Once the grave.
Then they'll fix
A label, TOO.
Once it's on it

STICKS LIKE GLUE.

There's a man
Down on the street.
Not someone you'd
Want to meet.
Drinks his meals
So he won't eat.
Shuffles 'round
Sits on the curb.
He's a "mumbler".
He's "disturbed".
Talks to self
Because he's shunned.
Got a label...

He's a ***.

There's a woman
Has no phone.
Has twenty cats
'Coz she's alone.
She talks to them
When in the mood.
She's so poor
She eats their food.
Yup. She has an
Attitude.
Has no husband
Who'd get paid.
On HER there are
Labels laid...

She's a SPINSTER.
An OLD MAID.

There's a teen
Who is arrested.
He's a menace.
It's attested.
Nope. He's not
Very nice.
He is into drugs & vice.
Is this "DELINQUENT"
Past retrieval?
Is he past knowing
'Coz he's evil?

Tie die. Peace sign.
Kinda trippy.
He's a "LONGHAIR"
He's a "HIPPIE".

Is she lovely?
Or "STUCK UP"
He's a "DOG"
The laughter's ****.

[chorus]
They aren't "NORMAL".
They're "unstable".
Slap 'em with a
POST-IT LABEL.

There's a girl
Who eats her pain.
Downs her food
Unrestrained.
She's bulimic
So she's "CRAZY"
She may be "FAT"
So she is "LAZY"
Another on the
"crazy" list...
His anger's inward,
He's depressed.
He may drink
So he's a "******".
Here's another label...

"LOSER"

Then there's the boy
Who lashes out.
Beats kids up.
He's a lout.
He is wild and
He is wooly.
He is labeled as a
"BULLY".
There's another
Kid who's shy.
So he gets the
Blackened eye.
He is "sraight"
He don't get high.
Nose in book,
He goes unheard.
What's his label?

He's a "NERD".

[chorus]

There's a one
We ALL know's BAD.
She was *****
By her own dad.
At age thirteen
She's "knocked up".
We ALL know her...

She's a "****".

There's a man
Who wears tattoos.
Labels he will never lose.
"WHITE TRASH" 'cuz
He owns a bike.
She likes women.
She's a "****".
She smokes fatties
So she's a "stoner"
He's just "weird"
'Coz he's a loner.
He loves men,
So he's a "***"
She loves him
So she's a "hag"
How'd YOU like
That odious tag?
Let's all do
The Label Rag!
Don't it make the
Tongues just wag?
It's enough to
MAKE YA GAG.

[chorus]

Tribal nation?
I'll be brief.
He's an "Indian"
Call him "Chief"
Does it make
White egos bigger
To call a black man
"BOY" or ******"?
Is that wisdom
Do ya figger?
Whatcha think
THAT'S gonna trigger?
Will the term "*****"
Do the trick?
How 'bout "******"?
How 'bout "****"?
How 'bout "****"?
That ***** Jew.
Well.
Let's take a look at YOU.

Look in the mirror.
The view is free.
Look in there!
What do you see?
Do you see yourself...

Or ME?

Is there smoke?
Are you deceived?
What's th label
You've received?


Look out dere!
HERE COME DA JUDGE!
10 feet tall & has a
GRUDGE!
And since we're getting
Really formal
Got another label.
NORMAL.
You judge someone
With capital blocks
Cuz you can't read
A CEREAL BOX?
Is prejudice the
Meal you eat?
Label on that
And it ain't WHEAT.

[chorus]

Yes. I'm white.
And I am sixty.
I ain't young. I ain't ****.
But I'm a POET
I can TALK.
I have been
Around th block.
You don't like it
You can WALK.
YOU WON'T PUT
ME IN A BOX.
I wasn't a "******".
I wasn't a "tweeker".
Was a "CRACKHEAD".
A ******* seeker.
Finally got it in my head.
There's another label.

That is DEAD.

Yeah. I'm a Christian.
"Jesus Freak"
I'm not ashamed
Because I seek!
Believe'n sure don't
Make me WEAK.

I'M DONE WITH
THE DISSIN' AND
THE TRASHIN'!
Got a concept called

COMPASSION!

Yeah. I know it's
Not in fashion...
But this no joke.
It's not a GAME.
I got a label...

It's my NAME.

I got another
Worth the seeing.
Another "label"...

HUMAN BEING.

Yeah. I'll preach.
I'm gonna shout.

My name is

CATHERINE.

Over. OUT.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/13/2017

how sacred are the raindrops
passage to another world

if I were a raindrop
luminous crystals
window wash the acid sky
and hot sultry earth
**** and span

Drumming down
a fresh start
blessed beginning
for all moccasins to tread
the path of the heart

Sacrificial waters
life giving monsoons
suckle newborn sprouts
feed snow capped
mountain rivers, raging bull
oceans
and the tiny sea inside
a mother’s womb

If I were a raindrop
a merciful tear falling from
God’s eye

**** and span
I have gone the other way
I found no love, in **** and span

The bell tower announces each hour
The town center inhabitants rush through an early lunch ,
a gaggle of blackbirds inhabit a tiny forested
patch containing statues , flowers and iron
benches , pigeons work the sidewalks in search of a
quick brunch
Her elders search morning papers with quick smiles
and "how do you do's"
This masterpiece of city squares rest at the end of converging busy avenues , with period brick shoppes and tidy store fronts , swanky
restaurants and courthouse patrons , drug stores , trinket parlors
and hand lettered windows
Gossip , breaking news and metro innuendo pass from ear to ear
Parking meter constables , free magazine stands , a **** and span
county seat add a certain rote of good cheer to southern suburbia ,
she's quickly turning from lunch mode to all business , she's a busy bee , the Queen of the Southern Crescent in royal splendor , the pride of the county and her gracious members* ...

In the beginning i was "oh no, uh oh" crying. Then I was the "not in my house" "nasty spiclett, rug rat, welfare seed". After I was here it was there, then there was shes such a bad kid, only cuz no one was stopping him. Then it was liar liar she's just a filthy **** liar, all the while theres turmoil left and right. How does a child just adjust with no one to ever trust, no home to call her own, bouncing here, bouncing there, never having anything constent. Always called every other name then the name forced upon me, like a mark, another label. How does a child learn how to eat at a table never provided for just always shiwn the door. Was this chuld just suppose to know how to survive all alone, nothing ever of thier own. Thats just the breaks of never being wanted.

The house had an evil aspect as
It hung out over the street,
Casting a permanent shadow there
Where the market stalls would meet,
The first floor was half-timbered, with
The ground floor made of stone,
The windows were made of pebble glass
And the window frames of bone.

No one had lived in the house for years
Til the Robinson’s moved in,
A couple, straight from the wedding church
Where they’d cleansed themselves from sin,
They’d listened to all of the rumours that
The house had its share of ghosts,
But the cheapness of the peppercorn rent
Had influenced them most.

The house was built where a charnel house
Had stood in the days of plague,
Where later a debtors’ prison stood
Though its history was vague,
They said there had been a gallows there
With a trapdoor through the floor,
And the arm of the ancient gallows now
Was the lintel of a door.

But the Robinson’s had sailed right in
With a mop and a whisking broom,
‘In no time, it’ll be **** and span,’
Said Sally, within the gloom,
While Brad had opened the shutters then
To let all the light stream in,
‘We’ll flush the ghosts from their waiting posts
With a broom and a pound of Vim!’

They dusted down the old furniture
Left sitting since George the Fourth,
And turned the old oak table round
So the end was facing north,
‘But still there’s a dampness in the air,
And a tension that feels grim,’
Sally said, as they lay in bed,
And she clung, so close to him.

‘Are you sure that they can’t get in,’ she said
‘Now we’ve flushed them out in the street?’
But Brad was trying to understand
Why the bed was cold at his feet.
‘Why are the sheets so damp,’ he said,
‘And they’re cold, as cold as sin,’
Sally was shivering, fit to burst
Though the sun came streaming in.

They sat at the old oak table with
Their bowls of soup, home-made,
And Sally reached out to hold his hand
But he started back, dismayed,
The soup was thick in the serving bowl
It was still three-quarters full,
When a swirl in the murky liquid then
Revealed a grinning skull.

Sally shrieked, but she couldn’t speak
And Brad had held his breath,
‘We’ve got to get out of this house today,
We’re surrounded here by death.’
The shutters slammed on the windows and
The doors flew shut on their own,
And barring the pebble windows were
The frames that were made of bone.

The people out in the market heard
The screams at an early hour,
Looked knowingly at each other, said,
‘They have them in their power!’
And Brad was hung from the lintel when
They finally broke inside,
While Sally was dead by a grinning skull
In the dress of a new-wed bride.

David Lewis Paget

Mother Nature ran a want ad
In this year's Farmers Almanac

Seems these days she's wearing thin
With the progress made by modern man

She needs a little extra help
With the here and there and there about

The whole earth needs a good sweeping
From the ocean floors to the river streams

From high above to down below
All of the trash that has been thrown

With all the extra mess around
She can't keep up with the dusting down

That is why she placed the ad
In hopes of getting help with that

Resumes started pouring fast
From North to South, East to West

So many from around the globe
Who would have guessed, who could have known

There were so many that were keen
In wanting to keep the Planet clean

Right then and there on the spot
She hired them all, the entire lot

She gave them brooms, their own dust pans
Sent them all throughout the land

To every crevice, every crook
To give the world a spit shine look

So many helpers worked that day
Into the yawning wee hours late

Until the earth was **** and span
Every water splash, every grain of sand

From underneath to over top
Everyone had cleaned it up

Bi-weekly now she runs the ad
Inside the Farmers Almanac

spanish

I’m sitting in the 8am sun by the end the driveway,
trying to get a handle on the day.
folding chair
house basket
coffee.
such is my custom
and my delight.
driveways are a luxury this part of town.
my back is to the brick
sidewalk to my right
sunshine upon my face and forehead
eyes closed.
a rundown hispanic fellow
about my age
appears
from nowhere
out of my blind,
asking for a lighter.
my eyes open and all is light.
he recognized my lighter sheath
heavy *** metal with the bottle opener at the bottom
told me that he had had the same one;
picked it up from some no name bodega
out of where he originated in
spanish harlem.
he began telling me his life story, you see.
he never heard the word
‘****’ until he moved to
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
told me he was the black sheep
of the little family he had left,
and that he hadn’t seen them in years.
he stood before me on the sidewalk
in the morning sunlight.
I asked him for a cigarette.
he was raised tangled in
a cultural straight jacket;
one tailored to his demographic.
an urban person of color.
his Divine Masculine
red lined and impoverished.
hand me down outfit
tj max rap music video.
I told him I identified as a stray dog,
sitting by the end of the driveway
8am sun.
he told me he was just doing the best he could.
best he can
with what he got.
our hearts were bleeding there together
pooling up on the driveway
8am sunshine
sky, blueish white.
I told him where I worked,
gave him the address
told him
come get some free samples of CBD.

everyday I forget that
it isn’t my job
to
save anyone.
he’s walking away with a limp up west orange.
i close my eyes.
I hope he doesn’t need any CBD.

©️  Jordan Gee

Whilst patrolling my fortified, Nazified, sub-tropical Florida region
I see that **** George Zimmerman's whiter than a blond Norwegian
in his self-appointed role as a *****-shooting Europoidal European
who pimps ***** to roll dipsomaniacs at Sanford's American Legion "Only **** babies in self-defense" is the unaborted rule that I live by
& "don't never impregnate no black gal who was born a black guy"
It's a-o.k. to give Sanford pigs some name that's but a phony handle
ike Kent C. Well, **** Too Tight, Robin Banks &/or Tony Candle,
Gaye Barr, Anita Bath, Harry Azcrac, Dixie Normus, Stony Mantle,
Nida ***, Lou Stools, Buster Cherry, Dixon Butts or Bony Randall,
plus Argentina's well-rotted, crapped-out actress hag Olga Zubarry,
who lived to bury ****-*****: Pork Chop Annie & Polka Jew Perry Mongols grow Occidentalized by Walmart's imported Chinese trick
& even ******-rich richer than a Bakersfield-deported Chicano hick Litters of swimmin' kittens are escaping Oscar like did Felix Unger
from the Apocalypse of Fukushima's China syndromic helix hunger Polite folk accommodate futt-bucking ******* by calling them gays
just as Wendy's accommodates idiotic patrons by giving them trays
For U.S. marines *** rights are earned during their boot-camp days
like when David Hasselhoff spent his T.V. time bay-watching bays,
in the era Reagan occupied his senile mind hoarding guns with rays while selling Latin American Marxists missiles to prove crime pays during our presidential-election cycle in its suspended-reality phase when Hawaiian babes charge nothing for their flowery, virginal leis
to celebrate the Hawaiian Babes' Free Flowery, Virginal Leis craze featuring tropical ******* & purpley nips guaranteed to amaze
in the orchid-rained-in-depths of our historically blue-blooded haze upon the moon's far side where-from souls are dispatched by Grays
there are no Jimmy Swaggart-$10-Johns anointing ***** with praise
while damning hell-fire Christians to the horror of a martyred blaze

What do I call myself?
If the world sees me differently
then I see myself?
If I’m a blancita?
Blancita, a white girl.
Am I just a white girl?
Does the Spanish that escapes my mouth
tell you I’m a white girl?
Even when that language was forced onto my tongue.
Does the brown in my eyes resemble my mother’s skin?
If she’s a morena?
Morena, a brown girl.
But do you know the stories my body tell?
Does the curve of my nose, the crease of my eye,
or the curl of my hair tell you I’m a white girl?
Can you tell the kid that called me a **** at school
that I’m a white girl?
Or the girl who told me my people were toxic
that I’m a white girl?
Can I even call this brown girl blues?
Since my native blood isn't reflected in
my skins hue?
Why don’t you tell me?
Because if I’m just a white girl,
then what freedom do my people seek.

Glorious showers squeegee the festive blues , they scrub the trees and brighten the moon
They bathe the birdies and sweep the drives , brighten the grass and detail the sky
Brushboard pines fastidiously tend to the oaks , 'Alabamers' leave the homesteads **** 'n span and float the johnboats
The catfish come alive and the crappie bite all night , the crickets seem to chirp non-stop till sunlight arrives* ....

A '63 green Plymouth was a wonderful
thing , trips to thrill hill , bee lining to Florida
with music on the AM
Push button transmission , 160 mph on the speedometer ,
immaculate cloth and leather interior , **** and Span tires ,
Growling highway rocket , you were one of a kind* ...

An ominous construction
In the gloming stood
It was dark, unlike the park
Of the neighborhood

Its architecture gothic
It was in disrepair
Its garden loomed and had no bloom
Just briars of despair

Cobwebs in the windows
Its gutters filled with leaves
The fence beneath like broken teeth
Wasp nests in the eaves...


The people living roundabout
We're angry! Up in arms!
Their neighbor had to labor
To give their place some charm!

So they all got together
And went there as a group
They had talked, and so they stalked
Up there to the stoop

There was a lengthy time
After the doorbell bonged
Then they knew the place askew
There was something wrong!

Some became quite anxious
They were sore afraid!
Their faces taut, they shook and thought
The house owned by a shade!

But finally someone answered
The mammoth darkened door
A wizened gal stood in the hall
An old lady! Nothing more!

"Have you finally come to help me?"
She asked, tears in blind eyes
"I lie in bed, my husband"s dead,
And I was just too shy..."

All the people were ashamed
Could not believe their part
As it were, blaming her
For the blackness of THEIR hearts!

So one by one they got some rakes
Some dustrags and some brooms
They changed their plan, made **** n span
They cleaned every room!

Bit by bit they found some wit
In the elderly girl
She took part, and had an art
Knew much of the world

So the moral of the story
Is plain as plain can be
Don't hold a grudge.
And please don't judge...
Until you finally SEE!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/14/2016