Dear Mother and Father,*

        I spoke with Ali today. Maybe it was the first time in years. Maybe it was the first time that we’d ever actually spoken at all. Either way. She told me some things that I thought you should know.

Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

         Focus on this. Your white picket fence. Your barbecue, your big family dog. Your pristine, rich neighborhood. Your uppity gossip. Your rules, judgements, “charity.”

         Behind your closed doors, however, dwells something else.

         Something like hypocrisy. Something like abuse.

Now focus on this.

         Ali: dark and brooding, even as a small child. Questioning all of your family values, the ones that I had merely accepted.

         My little sister, the ultimate judge, the supreme *****.

         Forbidden black fingernails, black hair; fingernails, which you forced pink, hair that you insisted blond. Friends that you deemed “greasy” and “unsavory”.

         Hateful, teenage Ali. Ditching classes to go off with boys. Returning home with track marks and glossy eyes. Sneaking out with no destination, if only to not be at the one place she couldn’t be herself.

         Home.

Now, this. That awful “it’s not to late to save your soul” camp. A reform jail. Holier than thou epithets. Squeaky clean repentance. A stockade full of higher authority telling her, “you’re wrong,” telling her, “we are going to fix you.”

         Brain washing robots with backhanded facades.

         Sad, scared Ali. It’s no wonder she chose to rebel, for all she knew of authority was hypocrisy.

         Not just you.

         Instead, a withered, sick janitor.

         The old man who brought her the food that they didn’t serve in the dinning quarters. Fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. Food to outweigh the everyday gruel.


         This lonely, forlorn man expecting compensation in return. ****** compensation; unimaginable and certainly ungodly acts.

         This Janitor, he would wander into Ali's room in the early hours of the morning. . . And vanish, several hours later.

        His pockets, empty. His heart, full.

         In this sick and twisted world, the janitor believed that love could exist anywhere. He believed that romantic relationships should not be constricted by something as trivial as age.

         And Ali, she had alternative motives, and compensated her innocence to reach them.

         This was, perhaps, the beginning of Ali's stark career.

         The *compensation of her soul.

         Or, perhaps, it was the man that picked her up next, as a desperate hitchhiker.

         Ali, who finagled the nun’s keys and escaped that ungodly place forever.

         Ali, who climbed into a sinister car with a pretentious man who warped her in more ways than one would even imagine.

         Penniless, solitary, and willing.

         But, think. What would you do with yourself if you had absolutely nothing and no one to lose?

         **Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

(from a song)

Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.

Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was?
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.

The right eye
is the window of hope
the left eye
the window of despair

And this proposition
is proven in my photograph
a portrait of a grizzled guy
taken just before
he stepped in front of a speeding car
while gesticulating wildly

Who knows what happened there?

Yet I will live!
gather fallen timbers
to form a stockade
against time

Because finally
I have discovered
that time is not my friend

It's a simple game she plays
time girl
trickster girl
but my ancient beams
will prevail

I swear it
by a handful of ash
and mark the moment
with a rune that exists
outside of time
and says simply

Be this.
You were forever thus.

It's a difficult rune to read
and a harder path
to follow.

The door throbs with sweat
In the morning-tide
"Whom can come at this time?"
A friend, I bet.

I stalk the sound until I reach the ****.
I open it to see the face of a cop.
Some questions spewed out of the mans mouth,
about if I have seen this other man printed on some page.
Then showed me of this woman,
which coincidentally is the one I've been raised.

They stepped in with no approbation
Suddenly, the atmosphere grew with scads of tension.
They access themselves into my home.
And snooped about the room, with noses to the ceiling.
I got this panicky feeling.

Again with the interrogation.
The only thing that fled through my mind was irritation.
Words came at me and caused an explosion.
Never have I felt more broken...

I constructed this stockade
to stable myself from memory lane.
And to have it easily be destroyed,
made me realize of all that I've been trying to avoid.

The men left, leaving me with bricks to recollect.
It was not a friend, that I have bet...

Syrian pilgrims on boats of hope
Finding no place to land
No one to lend them a hand
No Plymouth Rock to throw rope
How can Republicans cope?

They believe this land is their's
Exclusively, for a Macy's parade
A big balloon with man in stockade
Thanking themselves, saying prayers
Really just showing no one cares

Blaming it on religious beliefs
Though zealots they are themselves
Confusing truer issues as well
Where have gone the Indian chiefs?
To Mexico forced by Trump's police

I live now in a small garage
at times still half again too big.
It's not your style, a bit unkempt;
perhaps a bit too much like me.

Clean dishes jumbled by the sink,
not neatly stacked and filed away.
The desk astrewn with books and bills;
clothes all ****-heaped by the bed.

Makes sense, for I'm the one who left
to you the well-maintained facade
of stockade fence and painted trim
which most would call a happy home.

I left you ten thousand things,
careful not to take too much; but
find myself amazed by all
that moved in which I did not pack.

The touch of legs upon my lap
I found while sitting on the couch.
Your smile was wrapped in Sunday's Times
and wedged in with the bowls and cups.

Your hair blows up against my arm
as I drive with the window down,
and hear you sound asleep beside
me as the droning motor runs.

When our paths crossed tonight, we spoke
a moment, went our separate ways.
Walking past the shut-down shops,
I thought of how we fell apart

and everything that came with me
that I took pains not to include
and smiled to myself, wondering
what I had left for you to find.

It is the tipping point
the harvest well begun
its end in sight
an early morning
retreated to past
five on the clock

mist lay on
the meadowed fields
observed the pond
held tight to the trees

walking the empty road
camera in hand
to catch the chill earliness
in the far fields then back
through the uncared-for orchard
past the forked-fingered ash
still quite still -
the night air collapsing
as the sun rose

Darjeeling
in the white bone-china cup
a kiss of milk
comforting this delicate tea

and light everywhere
between three windows
our table her gifts
from the shoreline
shadowed hard-edged
whilst the back-lit screen
blinks and waits for words

my story blended from fact
pestled into fiction
itself a background
to a further fiction
from a past in ancient time
where each image described
takes aim at the resonant heart
of every exquisite moment


Eight Sketches in a Notebook

I

into a western sky
the sun finds cloudspace
to enter and set
well above the sea’s horizon
and for a while its rays
glimmer upward onto shards
holding remnants of the day’s
unreflected light


II

not a hut of straw and rushes
on a far mountain fastness
this a walled stockade all but moated
gardened inside its bounds
a miniature railway said to surround
a six-cornered house facing seaward
and towards a lagoon on whose banks
little terns nest from April to June
a mirror of light upon which
the solitary soul might dwell


III

rock guardian
standing
mid-beach

its debris
spilled
to water’s edge

still as still as
no wind or wave
pools dark depths

further out
the sea shimmers
ablaze with reflections


IV

hiding an anxiety of hair
a headscarf blue
and spotted white
reveals an ear
and below a sturdy neck
on round shoulders
her bare arms fall to quiet hands
next to thighs trousered  
knee-length to gentle calves
falling further onto bare feet
stood standing on course sand
at the sea’s murmuring edge


V

here the rock opens
its lips to a kiss of light
but deep inside remains
a dark sheltering secret
blackness impenetrable
wide enough for a storm’s
intrusion of water and wind
but beyond such darkness
possibly nothing
- a closed door
of rock?


VI

from my canvas chair
on the flags outside
the white French doors
this drawing – from where
the garden gate once was
a gap between
the honey-suckled hedge
and the long low cottage
above an ash tree waving
its fingered branches
in the afternoon breeze
fresh over the hill
from the sea’s shore
hardly a mile away


VII

the land points seaward
to an island light
a mile off-shore

on a shingled beach
sliced by the sea’s knife
cattle wandered yesterday

in the mist-driven rain we
sleeked wet as dogs approached
on the headland’s path


VIII

littered the land lies
with interruptions
interventions of the built

past beside present
ends amongst beginnings

complex histories
to delve deeper into
on this northern shore

I found the rat-fink bound at the whipping post
I found the ****** at the hitching post
I'm the one itching to go
Find me at the scratching post
Chomping at the bit
Chipping off the splintered wood on a telephone post  

Get me out of this stockade
Put me in the guillotine
Because I'm out of my head
And I'm going off
Bombard you with simple truths
You know it isn't all it's cracked up to be
If it's too good to be true
You've forced my hand
Now I gotta be uncouth
Something I gotta come to terms with
Something I gotta come to grips with

Looking back at my formative years
With the world I lived in hot on my heels
The celibate dust collectors
The abstinent hypoglycemic meat puppets
I was on cue
My cue to calibrate my own gumption
Bounced off the wall
Put on parole
Used my reserved rights to exercise my rights
To put my foot in the door and leave it a jar
While I stuck my hands in the cookie jar
But I guess there is such a thing as too much of a good thing
Become an over night success
Being famous for being famous
That whole scenario's played out
So mind your P's and Q's
I'll ask you point blank
Do you think you're ingenious?
Prodigious?
Are you in that proverbial extravaganza?
Collecting blood diamonds
Enunciation silent letters
That say all that need be said
Sent through the Pony Express
Written in an acrostic anagram
She'll answer with palindrome acronym in a Pig Latin
And she's right
In some aspect
To a certain point
To some degree
She sheds light
In some right

Forever in debt to the price to survive
Forever seems like such a long time
Forever damaging stubborn pride
Forever giving out bad advice

My thoughts are a prison

My imagination a stockade

All that I am and all that is
Contained within me a bastille

My room is a correctional institution

My home is mandatory confinement

This community is a reformatory

These sidewalks, these streets and
the road side signs a penitentiary

The television, the radio, the news
and all the crap they want me to
buy is a jail

The lines and borders drawn on a map, policies,
politics, governments and religions
are a fenced pen

The forests, deserts, rivers, streams,
lakes, hills, swamps, marshes, mountains
and oceans are a cell

This planet, its moon, the stars and galaxies
are a vault

The universe contains me
It restrains me
There is no escape

Abandon all hope
Ye who enter my domain
For once you go in
There's no leaving my brain
A relic of the darkest age
Gothic bells of Notre Dame
My atheistic serenade
My faithless roaring lion cage
My phantom of the opera stage
Masked and cloaked
In acid soaked
Smoke and mirror soul stockade
No Houdini escapade
Could escape artist my pain
From haunted houses locked away
Museums of natural mystery
Exhibiting my guilt and shame
From buried ancient history
Priceless are these artifacts
Of worthless self-discovery
Yet still displayed for all to see
As a suit of armor
Or a tomb of Tutankhamen
Where I have bested Rama
To be born again as Brahmin
Where you find me now at play
In nightmares of my new dream caste
Alone in every way
One can be stuck inside the past

There is a small town in the far north
of India which sits just about the
base of the Himalayas & I had a
a small adventure there as I played
the game of bailing out some friends
on a dope charge from the stockade
where the chief smoked hashish with
a smile & a jailed sadhu who’d chopped
someone’s head off in a ritual because
he became the goddess Kali for awhile
taught the four of them some yoga,

but mostly I remember it because of the
complete & utter peace I found to be just
sitting by the river & letting the sound of it
as it tumbled through the rocks wipe my
mind clean & I was at peace at last,

but I moved on after awhile to the town
of Simla further north & there I saw a
dancing bear & the Himalayan snows
& so I guess there are always new places
to be aren’t there.

I chanced upon old standing stones
Bedecked in lichen green
Arrayed in banks of marble rows
With walk-ways in-between
Each bore the scars of craftsman’s graft
Recording time and toll
One fading remnant epitaph
For each immortal soul

And earthward bound the sun polite
With mountain cap in hand
Fell silent as the hearse of night
Rode forth across the land
The distant city lights awoke
Like lanterns on a lake
A bubbled haze of smog and smoke
Above the city scape
 
Large crowds of late-night shoppers milled
Around the late-night stores
And roars of drunken laughter spilled
From dingy nightclub doors
The squealing cries of lorries lade
With goods to stock and stack
Were echoed by the cramped stockade
Of dwellings back-to-back

As one by one the lights went out
In windows dark and dim
Arrayed in banks of brick and grout
Old dwellings grey and grim
Stood sentinel to souls entombed
In plots devoid of green
The living mass of those inhumed
With walk-ways in-between

The night's like a cockroach that crawls up my skin, evil, exciting,
I let the night in.

The stockade has fallen, I'm free on the lam,
what kind is this man that chaos delights in the cockroach? we all know those nights so
don't pretend you can't see
or defend me, but just be one if the stars will allow and accept it
for this is the now.

In this junkyard of existence persistence pays off.

There is the diamond, a mirage floats on high,
a jewel
and my third eye desires the fires within,
more cockroaches crawl up my skin,
I let the diamond lights in.

If I excell at this it is only because the kiss of a madness is on me, badness is in me,
If vanity is to be
then it is surely
the cockroach who leads
me astray.

The bar squats at the bend in the road where Mill becomes Burden,
Walls somewhat recently painted,
Roof re-shingled ostensibly within memory
A derelict stockade on a front line where cowboy and Indian alike
Have each thought better of standing their ground,
Now defended by a few solitary souls,
Veterans of the days when the place hummed with those
Who’d finished shifts at Troy-Bilt or the Freihofer bakery
(Places either long gone or in the hospice stage,
The bar itself not profitable in any sense of the word,
Opening each afternoon for no palpable reason
Save some madness of inertia)
And who had not moved in with children in Latham or Malta,
Or gone to some frowzy, weedy southern trailer park
Sweating and sweltering through ninety-degree dawns
In Sarasota or St. Pete.
One corner of the building still bears a neon sign
Which sternly announces Ladies Entrance
Though, as the resident wits are fond of noting
Ain’t been no lady on the premises ‘n a month of Sundays,
But, on this particular evening, there is one of that gender
Haphazardly arranging herself on a stool
In search of a compromise between physical comfort
And simply remaining somewhat upright.
She is there in the company of a squat, *****-handed man
Who sits beside her, leering and yakking away
As he signals the bored and ancient bartender
For a couple more Buddy long-necks
(She cannot remember his name—Clyde, Clete,
In any case she’ll assign him an identity later.)
Their acquaintance is of a recent nature,
His end of the deal a burger at the diner on First Street
And a drink or two or three here
(There is a return on his investment, implicit and fully understood,
Though she has not—in her mind, anyway—reached such a point
As it needs to spelled out in plain English.)
She clutches, tightly though surreptitiously as possible,
For she occupies a social stratum
Where placing a death grip on something
Marks it as valuable, putting a bulls-eye
On object and owner as well,
A purse, a three-hundred dollar Coach bag
Bestowed on her by some gum-chomping Russell Sage undergrad
In a random, futile, wholly absurd gesture
(This was some time ago, and the bag, once a fiery crimson
Has faded and the fine leather has creased and mottled
Until it now appears to be a miniature strawberry heifer on a strap)
Though she would note that she was a family of some substance,
Having once attended a fine all-girls school
Where she became engaged
To a professor in the Fine Arts department
(It is unclear whether it was Smith or Bryn Mawr
Or, perhaps, Sarah Lawrence, if anywhere at all,
Her suitors and specters
All but indistinguishable from one another.)
All that, however, is clearly a matter of was;
Her will be is a less fanciful thing,
A measured yet inevitable and precipitous slide
into transactions less palatable
Exchanged for comforts colder than such as she settles for now
(But perhaps not—there is a persistent, palpable pain in her side
Accompanied by a noticeable swelling; Probably benign,
The nurse practitioner had noted at the free clinic,
But she occupied that societal niche
Where further, if unheroic, measures
Were unlikely to be forthcoming.)
In any case, she and her paramour pro tempore
Will call it a night, she pinning her bag to her side
As she instinctively swivels her head to and fro
To ensure no one is seeking to relieve her of her prize possession
(Though its contents are meager—a few dollars in change,
A sweater, a change of underwear,
The whole blessedly insubstantial,
As it is likely she could shoulder any additional load.)

Living wild
filed under
Amazon or
animal
and I lived free,
like Houdini
I escaped. the chains,
I reigned
supreme.

They trapped me
unnaturally,
used a stun grenade
took me from the safety
of my stockade to
parade me
in front of
Royalty.

And they hounded me
no longer free
I bury inside and somewhere
inside there's another me
like Houdini
I reign again
supreme

Many of the world's greatest Leaders throughout our tumultuous history have;
Many of  the insightful Revolutionaries in stink hole and glory hole countries have;
Many of the oppressed, disenfranchised and cheated also have.
Look to Lenin, Mandela, Gandi, Nehru, Havel, Bhutto, Ceausescu, Charles I, Papadopoulos, Lady Jane Grey, Louis XVI, Marcos, Milosevic, a pile of Mohameds, Mussolini, Nicholas II, Pinochet, Saddam, Marie Antoinette, Pope Clement V, Selassie, Baghdadi, Duvalier, and, let's not forget the author of Mien Kampf, Adolph the Tenderizer.
And what do they all have in common?
Some, before they became boldly notorious, and others, after they became criminally notorious.
Some, looked out their window and saw platforms being erected.
Others witnessed gallows, guillotines. posts and walls.
They all got some time in:
PRISON. GAOL. JAIL. COOLER. LOCKUP.  DUNGEON. KEEP. PEN. BASTILLE. CLINK. STATESVILLE. SLAMMER. STOCKADE. THE BIG HOUSE.
You get the idea.
His time will come.

Find a guitar for it is the sun , wind and rain
Frets are the tumblers unlocking one's pain
Music is the stair step to higher being
Harmonize with windsong as your mind is freed

Tones that touch the heart of thine enemy , mimic
the heartbeat of Jehovah , crashing wave chorus ,
thunderclap above , the flight of eagles , the braying of young
beagles , the coo of turtle dove , laughter of a child , whispers
of love

Perform with eyes ridden with tears , with unbridled fear
Before the committed stockade with reason held captive , before
the downtrodden and the betrayed , before the hopeful and the vain
In the backdrop of freedom , against the folly of state induced reason
In thy greatest hour of grief , atop the mountainous relief* ....

cracked cement ramparts,
a less than mighty bastion,
  swamp cooler overflow,
   drool down the battlement.
    behind the stockade walls,
     faceless generals barked
      orders to their private troops,
       drilled their little soldiers.
                
           “welcome to my castle.”
      
       you call this a castle?
      heat throbbing off the
     parking lot convinced me
    to chance crumbling stairs.
   and there, step four, flight two,
  i bumped into my white knight.
okay, maybe more like gray.
i’ll compr with silver.

You will not understand my bible.
Nor my religious ensemble
Because the experience of man
Should not stockade the lamb.
The holiest of holy
Will not coax with their folly;
Instead we laugh,
We laugh at a deity so far off,
Living with guilt.
A primal lapse of living with out.
Attached to the congruent self,
The belligerent nod waging fear over life.
Smearing adverse anxiety.
We negate self love willingly;
So love is not the engine,
A beat down city pigeon,
Feathers plucked by famine,
Limping upon a drudged talon.
Wings clipped by obscurity;
Disheartened, love preys on insecurity.
So we listen
Without reason
Waiting for a faint voice
A hidden angel of observance
Vanquished to your medial
Awaiting resurrection of denial
Denouncing the paved road
Shedding the serpents load
A callous exterior
Boxing the ulterior
When you fathom this ensemble
When you see a flaming candle
A string thwarted in wax
Melting away the complex
And when you fall for the fable
You will understand my bible
A clean page
With each teaching sage

A wooden fortress to keep marauders out
a stockade made from trunks
barks we give to dogs
logs to keep the fires burning
lathes are turning out
spindles
and all the time
the forest dwindles

eventually
there'll be
one
tree
and someone
will carve a heart
on it.

while I wait for the kettle to boil.

In my den, I paced,
measured the width
from each angle;
eight by eight.
One bulb burned
brightly overhead.
The commode was a
cold stainless steel thing
projecting from a wall.
My bed was a metal one
with a thin mattress,
with two sheets and
a blanket.
I was in
disciplinary segregation,
(that's another term for Solitary)
Two weeks for refusing to
obey a direct order from a
captain.
I was in the stockade
going AWOL (in peace-time)
I was ornery and a hard-***.
They jailed my body -
but they never broke my mind.
Twice I was in solitary,
but they never broke my mind.
Yelling **** and bayoneting
a straw dummy was not
my passion.
And so I ran away from it all.
Discovering pacifism at
the age of seventeen.
Crossing the ARMY off
of my things to do list.

Where those that have eclipsed past breath.
Regressing into a stockade of oblivions slumber.
There words are static on granite anchors.

But where whispers are numb, even though
deleted of motions, a needing persists beyond
confined stillness, a yearning beyond substance

A duet sprung forth,  disconnected, but knew of
another's shadow caressing another. Thoughts are
like leaves they grow till branches intertwined.

Brushing upon memories buried deep beneath
the earth, a foliage of wanting. As leaves mingled
formations wove within the rustling emotions.

A pathway woven within leaves. branches silently
watch as they walk within this silhouette two leaves
released by the breeze, ascending to the distance.

They needn't say anything as leaves fall like teardrops
into an updraft, never falling below as these aren't
of sorrow. Two trees caress in a cemetery of cold memories.

Chapter XII
Duodecim Evangelii

The Rainbow filament changed the banners of each scattered color. A new era is already coming in its white color, fading in the entrance Antiphon that says: I will give you shepherds according to my heart, who feed you conscience and experience.
O God, who has raised up Saint Joseph, Mary and her Rabbi, the wise priest, in the Church to proclaim the universal vocation to holiness of the Duodecim Evangelii, grant us by his intercession and example, that in the exercise of ordinary work we configure ourselves to our Messiah and let us serve with fervent love the work of Redemption by our Lord Jesus Christ.

In this great event since the Cave of the Apocalypse, everyday inhabitants already bound the ancient manuscripts of Sakkelion and Sakellarios. They worried about how to make a new resolution in their gallery. In the Byzantine period they administered gifts and tributes. Interestingly related to Zacchaeus who appears in the New Testament, in the Gospel of Luke, 19, 1–10, when Jesus Christ enters Jericho. He was a tax collector, tax collector, and very wealthy. The tax collectors worked for the Romans and also asked for more money than the Romans demanded, thus becoming easily wealthy, so they were doubly hated. Zacchaeus was short in stature, and for this reason, when Jesus entered the city of Jericho, everyone crowded to see him, and he stayed behind and never saw him. Then he went ahead and climbed a species of fig tree, a sycamore (Ficus sycomorus), as it was going to pass in front of him. When Jesus arrived at that place, he said:

Zacchaeus, come down soon; because today I should stay in your house. Fig tree of Zacchaeus in Jericho. At this the people murmured that they were going to stay in the house of a sinner. Zacchaeus replies that he will give the poor half of what he has, and if he defrauded someone earlier he will give him four times as much. Jesus replies that salvation has come to his house because he is also the son of Abraham. From this antiphon emerges Twelfth Evangelii, a file arises that concelebrates the haughty morals of tributes that are to be motivated by the tribal multitudes of Gaugamela for the presence of God for what their will wants and No. From all corners they will depart to give reading to this great incident not easy to read, hear or even feel in its vibrations after the immortality of the memorial events of history as regent transporter of the meeting of all the vain voices that do not know and those who know to come exalted. That the scrolls will be quadrupled to the combatants who end you dead or alive in Gaugamela, each carrying one of them in his hand.

All the crossings of relationships in ancient society, infused the parallels of the sustainability of Faith through generosity, almost transferred from an essential charism praised by the esoteric nucleus of the same dogma, becoming confused in the path that has to transport it without being aware that the destiny that took him comes wrong from the threshold of the doubt of the beginning. Since his wicked king Manases was imprisoned, imprisoned, and exiled, called the wicked king. He lived in the depths of the heat of Avernus. For modern Christians, Manasseh is an icon of Divine forgiveness, from where the traditional Prayer of Manasseh arises from the prayers of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, since after being one of the most ****** and pagan kings of the Jews, He forgave him and was even buried in the city of David, a pantheon reserved only for faithful kings, which means that God completely forgave him.

Etréstles, great work of the perenniality of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, was buried nine times, and after the ninth time, he was resurrected for the eternity of infinity. Etréstles is the main mediator between the dioceses of Duodecim Evangelii. Always on his sculpted slabs, the birds rubbed and told them that they awaited his oblation for the years that they had to be with him forever.

Etréstles says: I write! Words that hypnotize my will. What I do not know, I want to know for everything that I have not achieved You. They are heard by me, but my intellectual candidates intercede for me!
"Under the ground of ignorance there is happiness and it is eternal,
How happy we go for the beautiful escarpments,
Where the devil's tail cracked the stone...
And the robe of God...
He absorbed the foam of the waves that vitalized,
Our gases here in the graves of the Twelfth Evangelii”
Here you will hope to be at the mercy of the lessons of procession after procession. Thus would begin the factions of conflicts of the powers of the Good over the engendered evil. Every being will ineffably be forgiven before I have to leave to meet my blood Vernarth. Sooner rather than later, I will bring the documents of the Twelfth Evangelii, for this frank interlude as all the weight on the innocent clouds of noble wind in Persian lands.

Megatons of romantics are buried, they carry in their hands the scrolls of the Twelfth Evangelii, which will lead them through the remnants of their bodies teleported by the umpteenth theological speculations. They are dissociated into nine parts:

Messolonghi Brotherhood: By mandate of adoration and recognition of good reception of the Holy field to the Romantics.

Saint John in Patmos: totalitarian stay in captivity for his ideas fulfilled.

Allegory of Manases: To help them when they are under the sword of fear discovered in Gaugamela.

Bersahel entry: with its super size appeasing any small doubt.

Sheesham's Staff: to open all the hearts of the maidens who fear giving birth to ****** warrior children who break hearts of other maidens.

Strigoi frigate: sailing with the damsels of Tuscany sitting on the newly placed masks to fall in love with more oceans to conquer.

Raeder and Petrubus: Every child that is born and dies will be embedded in the bowels of the fantastic Pelican of the Dodecanese.

Likantus: Challenge Medea and make her captive of herself by making her fall in love with her lost lover.

Duodecim Evangelii de Zauco: feverish dream not fulfilled. Gates from beyond the scriptures manifested in perpetual prophetic dreams. Zauco traces his height and the whole world took him with him.

This sacred document with the nine personalities of the Megatons of the Romantics, recommends deliberating what will happen after the battles of Gaugamela. What will be the new goals in successive lives that Vernarth and his comrades would have to travel.


Post Gaugamela Ellipsis: In the ninth year of Vernarth's reign, on the tenth day of the tenth month, Dario the Great, King of Persia, arrived with his whole army again at Gaugamela, having lost the battle; He camped in front of the city and they surrounded it with a stockade, he remained silent without any gesture of altering the events that occurred. The city was under peaceful siege until the eleventh year. In the fourth month, on the ninth day of the month, while hunger in the city was tightening and there was no more bread for the people of the country, a gap was opened in the city, where everyone united in total solidarity to resort to the aid of the delayed families. Although the dates were dissimilar and anachronistic, these were reincorporated to give the analysis of attack and flight, since this vicious circle has been repeated since time immemorial and each time you flee you lose a trace with evidence that determines what to attract to gather new collisions not trailing them on the run.

To be continued… / under edition.

As there is ebb and flow
In crystal caves
We're dancing in the unknown multiverse

Catharsis and effigy, 'tings
Yet together of flowers in petals the lights glows

Ankhs stipulated by silver countenance
Mere desires, fame, destiny, brilliance
Build thyne's cities, steps and fear of
Mother's indentured absconded
Blades that be-still the feral warriors
In our strength and platonic ambiguity, there's tears

Indulge in premises made from proclamation
Surely a deity deigns servile flattery
of dinning and shamed into fighting
Everyone touches the stratospheric, the industrializations

Hunt for an apostle
The believer's maze bible ripples voices insane
The treacherous apple sits upon us
Our bitter oaken stockade
A mirror as an image makes spoken reflections
Across rivers battlefronts war stories catching the rains

Throughout all impressions
And our summer spices set
Fluently innocent one may find their lost

Heaven's Brimstone and Fire
Shoved into investigations
Of all facets of Abbadon
Drifts through central city then to the south funeral pyres

And now frail though brutal
There are assumptions and we choose to begin

Showering if not as placid rainbows
off the water at Heavens end...
As scouring proletariat hands worried port of call
trapped washing all made simple by the devil's sham

Deviously you contemplate you may
Be found fickly running to the underground

Whence out falls Edens and...
In calls the pleadings of the wicked and old

We stumble into virtue as the
New year greens our potential lights
Then we stare chant hack
Betwixt sappy speeding steady
Legs
Slowly walking   is this fila beast
But now exoskeleton rungs of fur
Aim and denial at twelfth then ninth
All vows the first copper sheened window
4 falling deedle mort limbs
3 then finger apparatuses
Excuses cleaned sorrow's boiled jam masonry
Excuses always twisting ending not seeking
However! I've impacted the  fracas of stockade feelers
Such swords and  swaths, which? Spatha yet Scythe....
Yee who walk forsaken embrace
For together we might  bruise/ fall
They lunged spirits broad
Strikes!.... yet nothingness was more than air
Preclude to needless remorse
Folks of  instinct with witch
Each has a kiss is chaos
Cacks and Clubs Kow! Kazaam! Zaps and Chattle
Chains on Mice and Rust on Bottles
Then might and magic we may prevail or...?
Perhaps chance though little  for tail ?
Or simply contemptuous each day
Yet one day might appeal a contemporary write
All this is done of the thoughts
For a New Years night!

Fruitless effort squeezing figurative juice
Pandora called triggering
helter skelter to get loose
necessitating Bullwinkle J. Moose
to usher at yours truly
(an aspiring wordsmith) vamoose!

Hey ****** ****** the cat and the fiddle
went off to see a crooked man and woman
whilst cowards jumped over moo-ving little
pair of mismatched
calf fully ambling muggles,
who both walked from scan
din navy yah,
(nor-way could action be stopped
otherwise den-mark would be left),
where dog goniff imps
jousted with brittle

shaky spears, den did mark
neither path to norse east, where pan
demon yum erupted over adult
playing monkey in the middle
and bear witness to such sport
as dishabille donned dude named Evan
spoon fully ladled insults adrip
with indignity of loosing - bubbling spittle
spluttering trumping monitor
to claim game rigged,

which assault whipped a ban
she against being accosted
from mish shuga,
a towering ebony Amazonian,
who didst tittle
late tad evincing groan nips quibbling
over what appeared to be a van
knit tee fair of bruising egos essentially
fighting for dominion
over right to urinate i.e. piddle
and defecate in non

gender specific restrooms wan
ever the urge
to empty the bladder or ****** -
(even if poo peas, the size of a skittle)
fraught major firestorm ratcheting,
synonymous with dandy rhyme
blues clues without reason -
dime a dozen cents less ditty -
snap, pop, and crackling
as hot cakes on a griddle.

Actually, the above
juiced a freaky Friday sideshow
displaying, hurraying, layawaying,
portraying and tracklaying dis-obeyed
rubric of respect, where decent
honorable linkedin maturity laid
waste to politesse, whar all stops pulled
sans presidential debates shade
no light on meaty issues,
but mudslinging as faux hit parade
housing and trumpeting an offer

to make America Great Again
thru yelping vanguard,
uber up lyft promulgating,
and intimating 4 years
times 52 long weeknd rock'm sock'm
bash re: hollow wean
qua vamp pyre avast
state farm riotous quacking,
whence life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness decayed

into growling pedigreed mishmash made
for kickstarter bullied
prize **** fighters
indeed jimmying stockade
bag of tricks viz contesting scalawags,
tearing like rabid animals inlaid
with bared teeth,
and mouth frothing foam,
who just barely evade
coming to fisticuffs,

while presenting scathing hair-raid
nada so hill a re: us political pugilists
making up rules on shutterfly
spotify, and not afraid
toot change horses in midstream
to fix outcome of game
of thrones spouting
unfair sands casino trade
thus, billy-clubbing husband
of opponent indulged

in many a rapacious escapade
smear tactics and mistruths
essentially, he sung hiz zone
battle hymn of republican party,
a mockery and charade
driving donnybrook conspiratorial
billed Jefferson muttering arcade
guarded by ensconced
male and female Petsmart Weimaraner,
attired in a Thom malt chew wuss
Nast tee getup

elephant and donkey costumes respectively
while viewers entertained,
who succeeds as next blade
runner, and earn chance
to run country into the ground,
then a fancy feast for morticians,
one world wide webbed graveyard
moss lee tubby
taken back by Mother Nature,
thee indomitable ace of *****.

Iced Dark Beer and Gallon of Margarita...
Faire terns relinquish the draught from tempest boast that
Daughtered the spiders running spout which
gland nor goad had taken a' sure
Fire maw lapse to foment by
the lash of tongue words an 'bout

Still many heinous fledgling derricks
for citrus n tequila  flapped aurum
Allows a fledging heckle doers 'n feisted
their doubt to fink the stockade
Which earnestly held embossed
spiritual letters donning clad
That spoke of weddings and joy
soaked frost not a catch of the day lost
They had

Heft the clod hopper or tankard or masskrug or pale
Dainty once winged and free swanks none
other all folks of the townehall
Choose the beast path forward for previous
rather than bourgeoisie commercial of other
Thou who thanks loess n troll of vanity
which doled the age an name of the
Finest distillery and brewery still derives a
Djinn waster fought and over with
As trial of nepotism mocks on an the liver's faith
shows magic's jist once more
'what now this been all 'bout'

fumigated like stockade lice
you Wall St. cologne jockeys
are now 3rd World land fill
recall that consciousness is tuneable
adjust your volume to a comfortable level
because Turette's plus Alzheimer's
is a nation destroying combo
I forgot what I was going to scream
wait oh yeah modernity is inherently outlaw
the chorus began to howl like cats
in Profesor Schrodinger's shoe box
because impressions create personality
there was barking and pulling of hair
their eyeballs spun like casino cameras
I am in your head forever he screamed
and collapsed like a cheeseburger chef
after football day at the griddle
well that was deep as an open manhole
but it hit me like a brakeless gravel truck
that once you admit the voices are yours
you are ripe for mascara ***** extortion
she'll kidnap your mind
and then bitmap your mind
for a little esoteric agenda indoctrination
into the holy tabloid of miracles
that radiate light all around and make
the organist pound like a jackhammer
categories exist before we name them
so let's try to name ones that actually exist
well how Phoenix rising can you get
how on your own can on your own really get
you gotta be educable to survive
that's Darwin plus Microsoft
or else the Army Psyops College
will unleash samurai population control
and you will die hissing blasphemy
like a spike strip *** doll predicting
the end of the cro magnum world
the trick to attaining godhood
is to not try so ******* hard
because adrenaline is a
reduced instruction set
with which high resolution reality
will rip your face off
worse than catching mommy
******* off daddy
for life is short and duty long
drink its venom defiantly
drink it you are going to need it
no need for instincts
in a world of plenty

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon