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Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
controlled intellectual tolerance,
considered Golden Age,
became first exchange, wars took their toll
turning point called second Age.
seaside expanding new suburbs
food shortage, riots, rooms had fallen
city invaded, concentration camps
some lived, one girl died, bookcase covered
scarce citizens, countryside foraged
spaces provided improved conditions
restoring entire city
city centre has reattained former splendor
buildings have become new millennium,
flat man is city inhabitant
city limits of foreign origin,
large wave settled asylum seekers
social projects make up the population
eight windmills summarizes open society,
increased influx has strained nationalities,
widest varieties share immigrant ancestry
city centre forms the foundation
Canal boats most popular
million visitors flood inhabitants, travel freely through
only staying for illuminated red lights.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amsterdam
Still Crazy Apr 2017
he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully

he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am

the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack

pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety

so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint

so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged

and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:

"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years


...and other stories
8:02pm 4/21/17
Aaron Mullin Sep 2014
First we account:
8 days per ...

12 hours a day
52 weeks a year
2 years
~10,000 hours = ~10,000 maniacs

Then we re-count:
On a stage in Hamburg, we perfect our Kraftwerks
Was where the NitrogenFixers teeth were cut
And Gladwell summarizes that perfection comes from continually piling small tasks upon each other
One after another
Creating a mountain of perfection

For the Nitrogen Fixers ...
Their pebbles came in +/- 3 minute soundbytes
Their mountains were named:
Abbey Road and White Album, among others

Then we implore:
Go find your Hamburg, I implore you
What about Blink?
What about Raven?

Then we explore:
A fractal inside of a labrynth wrapped up inside a piece of capicoli:

What did Lucy say about diamonds?

From Incarnate
by Juleta Severson-Baker
Raven Song*

"Though it is wrong
this will be my call to you
full throat
wings like a shell

I will pull you
through forbidden air to me
by this call

come to me
through the wrong and dark
I have sung my part
now come*"
Written with work boots on

Broadcast from The One
Tommy Johnson Jun 2014
I feel like God hates me
Or stopped caring
Ceased to provide
Left for good

And now I'm left here to straighten myself out for better or for worse

I've met people who feel the same way
Who surprisingly have the pincushion audacity to put all the blame of their misfortunes in the absence of the omnipotent one  
I just feel abandoned they feel betrayed

Maybe he makes a chump change commission on every life he guides to a certain point then leaves them stark naked at the haunting hour

I know all the preachers and secular teachers lie through their teeth
They win the merit-less hoax award by a landslide
They have no consideration of for the people they mislead or the ramifications their poisoned sermons causes

They use emotionally charged language to increase the parish's numbers
They're terrified of God, they live in fear
And see carpal tunnel as a punishment for ******* and wish blindness upon all those who partake

There is shared consensual hiraeth between those who have been through an invasion of privacy and the trespassing of private property
They want their rights and their guns back
They want their personal space
They retreat to their happy place

Let's go back to the Pantheon of lactose intolerant divine idols
Of epileptic godheads
Who's line of work is about incubated pie pans

Can you make a tutorial that summarizes the resounding reduction of options using nothing but euphemisms?
Mr Jay Aug 2013
She split minds apart when she walks into the room,

the radiance from the scarlet fabric on her honey milk skin polarizes the world to a central view.

Her competitors already know the battle is lost, because every man floats away like a helium filled balloon

Her magic works to the max, when she waltz across the dance floor like a beautiful witch on a Sunday afternoon.

they wonder the name of the architect responsible for her wicked curves, a unique type of geography, surely she must be new.

They think to themselves. She's probably with a politician, maybe a star who's gone home too soon.

I am not worthy, I stink of my experience with the last two.

As they waste golden moments caving into self doubts and relationship blues,

From the shadows, He steps up to stage to play the game of who's who.

He build's her confidence with an honest joke or two,

she buys into his bold point of view.

He excuses himself; gives her time to process his residue.

He makes his return to harvest the seed they grew,

She indulges, he is a perfect distraction from her new fool.

He steals her away for a chat by the pool.

He whisper's some words in her ears, and she feathers herself to recapture her hue.

He tells her "I have a drink that will make your lips think its hosting a party crew."

He makes a gamble like romeo wrote the rules.

With eyes locked, he shows her what his lips can do

The heats building up, she's waiting on him to put on the other glass shoe.

She wonders how to make the night fair and true.

"Let's go" words, he summarizes in two.

Envy and admiration storms up the crowd, only if they knew.

Later they dig deeper searching for clues.

He tells them and they look confused.

Its not about her or you.

Its about building a bridge that brings together two.
Martin Narrod Sep 2016
Operational anxiety. The words I've been using don't make any sense to me anymore. It's all quiet and I have so many questions. The mountains shout, "*******!" over the Gros Ventre. And I'm lifeless and apathetic about lessons. I just turn on the Philip Glass and go for **** misunderstanding. More of it is coming and somehow I allow it in. A me circle of despair, loss, and immense love. My subjects must be growing curiouser and curiouser. Some of these adverbs dress in white dresses with black boots and carry scars on their palms while they bribe you off their tears to crawl back into the dusty desert graves your skin wants back.

My oven mitts aren't even of animals. I stare at the deer and moose from our second story balcony. My wrists hurt in a loss of practicing this habit. Subject matter that burns through the nights where I don't sleep. I torment myself in nursery rhymes that don't rhyme. Beds that don't water themselves, and the stories that keep my fingers soggy and pruney, drowning their dactylic digits in infinite keyboard unfulfillment.

The music is familiar. It throws its knife-wielding notes into my gut- my innards are bleeding, and my headache is growing stiff. I could mutate like Alex Mac and operate in a vacuum. I could be an incubator of self-aggrandizing disastrous behavior, an awful diaspora of introspection, a sickness that starts in soft flesh and tissue and summarizes me in the faces and heads of people and children that never turned their heads to listen.

I am wrestling your poems out of your hands. A royal couplet you try to explode against your innards, and a ****** prose that cascades upon the walls, in a mushy textural, even artistic mess of crimsony soulless words you throw around, things haven't changed but you I think you were just pretending to be haunting.

Winter hoarfrost and summer sweating. Integers upsetted by short-acting suns and cold and chilling dips in frigid waist-high water. The rocks are slimy and I don't feel like the fires are still coming. I point my nose to the water and take fifty paces. When will I have my forty-two minute day. Children are ***** liars and ought to have no sugar or treats. But let's not feed them from bowls we place on the floor.

My fingers are freezing, my cheeks, nose, back, and elbows too. I am smoking and never going to stop. I have met Joe Black and he tells me he used to command David Berkowitz into shooting people in cars, so I tell him the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and that we need a new dishwasher, a cheaper place to buy ice cream, and a rough concrete square of floor I can torture myself for experiencing too much as human.
I like the way she holds my arm when walking…

up high, under the shoulder,
firm grasp on muscle, feeling
the blood beat acoustically, in joy,
sensually sensing a thrumming
thrombosis messaging, this is a
full bodied animation, liquid life,
“strong to drink”
“strength to break
off pieces and keep,”
a supporting mutuel
pillar column post,
given, taken, entrapped,
enwrapped, ensnared,
and
enshrined, mighty fine
feeling
“indeed”
pieces to mine,
pieces of mine

her taking is acceptable
my taking reciprocal
for her needs fulfill,
I,
walk taller, straighter,
in fuller strides, and when
she stumbles in the obstacle
course of nyc crack-ed sidewalkslop,
her whoosh of breath expelled
when saved by the arm firmament,
goes unremarked, for this is my
purposed occupation and the
occlusion of our skin cells
in tight bandwidth is certification
that our love is so much more than
mere skin deep,
or as she so oft summarizes, life is,
“indeed,” or in deed.

olp
Fri Mar 22-2024
Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
Nothing set in stone can stand the test of time.

In the mode mankind has long called
talking to the maker,
listening for knowing, while

hoping merciful repair instruction
waiting
for the quest ion
to twist right
-indeed, I hand ground, with a tool,
toy like coffee grinder that gives fixin's
for a stout cup of robust character,

I bought it, for ten dollars,
had the beans,
bought the grinder, to give me a ritual,
something to spend two minutes doing,
each time I don't use a kuerig dealybob,
adding upper *** to my brewtime pacing
for blood pressure, while electric fire
fills my habitual yellow mug with umph.

Last week of October, all the girls
from the garden are hanging in the shade,
mellowing and emitting
nasal acknowledgment that something's
in the air, in the at most fearful zone's

made light of in the culture that
commercialized hallowing effects,
calling all and sundry come, think this
paradigm of time and chance and fate.
On or near
the third Tuesday after the last
Friday the thirteenth, in memory
of the fallen DeMolay and
of the Templars Money Power,
became sacred ***** to the victors,
in what must have been secret,
for some
time.
Secret treasures all carry curses.
Heart hordes hold plentyscarychits.

Horror film fans, value the genre,
at some certainly not shallow depth
toward center mass, media you, reader
dear to any writer drawn by forces
caffine and cannabis contrive to link,
I think,
and think,
and listen, and learn, and
learn, and live and learn, once more,
learn, and live on learning, wind
walking
thinking lines and times cross threads,
tighten right, down from up, stuck,

dead center, the first tie in reader,
lost
the most self centered individual ever,
once, we all get such a once, it's you,
reading a line riding a reason used
to hang the authors of confusion,
using old lies used to make slaves
of those whose houses, the boss said,
were made by the heathen for the chosen.

The riches of the wicked are laid up
for the just, is it not written, is it not so?

Fibers, strands, not long drawn out
end to end DNA strands crammed in you,
{but as a thought experiment, that distance
will leave the first timer incredulous, fine
point, credulousness, would you believe…}
meandering is rain twisting its way
to experience the sea and all it holds
in water memory that foam back along shores.
Edgewater
Seafoam and twigs,
and tiny sticky things. No,
Pondscumfoam at a puddle's edge
before the first snows.
Did you know…
Some Katscina have long plaited hairs
twisted from cotton,
patented seed, registered weevil free,
Pima cotton fiber, long desert strands.

Daily grind, think twice, cut once…
made the difference, indeed done
not thought about in theories of good
uses knowledge can be made of good
smoke and strong coffee with character.

AND the biggest indexed library in the universe.
{far as I can tell}
Kenophonia, eh, imposter syndrome?
First guess, you got me.
I see my name, wow, tough tag.
Then I met a cat named Cuitláhuac.
Tough tag for a kid in Spanish class.
Euphluxing idyotom automaton'/
bop.
You phony us, joy us riddle make you think
you know, kennen Sie, Ich bin ein fake.

Nein, es ist vieleicht Xenophobia, other people's eh,
opposing right lane reasonings as old as dominion.

Tech, teach us patience to learn with, or prove us
know it alls, therefore machines, not minds at all:
My own, for the use, under usus fructus rules,
Ai summarizes thus:
Kenophobia is an irrational fear
of empty spaces or voids.
It is the opposite of claustrophobia,
where the person is afraid
of tight spaces such as
elevators or crowded rooms,
auditoriums or malls.
In Kenophobia,
the person is terrified
of open fields or spaces that they generally expect
to be filled with mountains or people.
The word Kenophobia is derived
from Greek ‘kenos’
meaning ‘blank’
and phobos
meaning deep fear or aversion.

{aha, there's literature on the subject}
The fear can be passed on
from parents who have lived
in a house full
of stuff that fills the emptiness
of the home.
Filling voids gives the phobic personality the feeling
that they are placing boundaries
around themselves.
- {okeh, thank the whole idea tech is.}

Be honest, you never saw it said just so. Kenophobia,
pity such folk.

Have ye sent yer imps pulse to test my resolution,
have my effectually silent prayers been rebuffed?

Blown off, sent swirling with the motes dancing
in sunbeams peaking through a tough old live oak,
rattling its gnosis psuedonumos

Any morning, thus far, can start with
trickling falling sunlight.

It takes nearly half a day, in late fall,
for direct sunshine to dapple
the great granite wave my home rides, silly child poet, wishing words
will or would,
or could
or should make the universe
alter its course and force all things
to work together for me, the prayer,

me, the selfish
center of my experience
in your universe, all of which
is none of my handiwork, none at all.

Filling the emptiness some there
then I laugh, and think I lost count
so there was one…

Guess with me, a number,
between… no,
analyze, guess with me that rooted
science e-use, per se, must be ancient, deep wisdom
old as governing forces conceived by mankind,
magi sage staged conversations to teach,
public discourse
in my time allows me to be the seeker
guaranteed the prize, to be the bringer back
of the substance used to build the bridge,
between the you and the me, generally,
mere
Logos used in dialog.

God and mind determined to seem designed,
as in the Goldilocks lesson fed children of empire.

The northern clime survivors, thought themselves
the only people brought to the full duty of man,
the only set apart and given heros in story,
the grand saga of all we must each become.

Story born heros, from the child gifted language,
strings of sounds tied to things with threaded intuition,
same same, red and sweet, yellow and sweet,
red and black, step back, black and yellow, watch
and learn, smoking out the honey
from an old rotted tree,

following how many trails, at once,
parallel par-all-el yes, oddly, so far
On track, or in rut. All at once, each system
self esteeming umphumph push

Upto par, are we, 2023 and beyond, the flat tire
on the current axial age, fixing to imagine a scene,
in a community of broken children,
led by two twisted adult children of mean, maybe selfish,
adults who disputed the legitimacy of ligous gnosis knots.
The scene we share, we can imagine meaning
Religize legality, tie me to my tree.

Ancestor worth, how come you think somethings, you know.
Yeh, how come…
Say, old sprite, if I listen, do I learn? Why,
yes, I'd say I do imagine so. Well, good sport
then, shan't we push past worthless me, and be this
other thing we become, when two or more agree, as
touching any thing in all thingdom, and, yes, it's guaranteed.

Life is not a strange woman,
wisdom does not demean the experience, adulting
brings, with no real maps to meaning in your case,
you arrived in that old fashioned tabula rosa state,
knowing nada,
zip, nothing, infantile in totality, until
art of you
meness, ah, I, me, mine, this that, the other, mad
dissatisfaction, rage, comfort, ah, golden excrement of gods.
Teocuitlatl , not only Cecelia, but God, shat.

Golden silence.

Of course, you could feel it, if you knew, personally,
post adulting & shared nurturing of offspring exposure,
then watching as each of those offspring bring forth adultable
blossoms on the branch where all my heretic relatives hung.

As and so, like anything, timed, sequentially, unhomogenized,
the cream is taken to make butter, using the shaking up
of globs of coagulating milk fat, imagine making that,
butter, with salt,
once, learning that, who knew that first?

how butter is made,
how cows are made to give milk gently taken,
why we have hands that can do this thing,
and cows don't,
I don't know, ' never asked, likely some story teller
made this whole thing up, we being but words by now.
One reader fills the cast, gives the aroma of the experience, learning a new
rumor of peace where now there was war for ignorance and money sake.
At 2.41pm on Tuesday July 28 2020,
Tom Dirkx wrote: { in another place}
Some people say it was Malinche’s revenge
and his real name was Cuautlimoc (Cuautli = Eagle).
She just substituted Cuahte (= ****)
when she translated for Cortes.
She was held as a slave by the Aztex
and hated them so this was her ‘revenge’.
Kenophonia is vain babbling, 1tim6:20
Trevor Gates Jan 2015
3am, the epitome of perpetual night.
        The hour of the wolf in sheep’s clothing
        Alabaster clocks, ebony needles for hands
        Walking to one-second beats on dripping wall paper,
         exposing the blood in the house and meat in the pipes.

I see shadows of the malevolent past:
        Rings of smoke and ***-stained magazines
        Lies woven into eyelashes, sealing them shut
        Bleak figures made of shattered glass
        Transparency, their only truth.

And dawn shows the new day
        A stage of light like sweet Arcadia
        The pages written for me to walk upon
        Every hour summarizes a year’s worth of turmoil,
        an abstract of vicious malcontent youth.

Standing against usurpers and cattle-branding parents
        I will not allow the false punishments to continue
        Nor the raging strangulation subjugate my woe
        Sweating fingers penetrate the holes
       All while pleasure and pain in endured.

As the sundial strikes noon, life meets the middle
        Leaves falling off trees while amidst the winter
        Hands tired and dry; legs crooked and frail
        I will wipe the dust of my friends away from me
        Like nothing and everything in between.

The tomorrow won’t come this time
        The prelude to eternity will be a last gasp of air
        And I’ll welcome the suffocation like a lost brother
        And abhor the condemnations like a pious father
        And I’ll think fondly of that fading mother
        As the light of day segues to a haze of fire
         I’ll take those reluctant steps that I must
         Ravel my life’s threads into a warm coat
And I will meet you at that cold and violent dusk.
Holy metaphors Batman!
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016
<>
"I am learning a little—never to be sure—
To be positive only with what is past,
And to peer sometimes at the things to come
As a wanderer treading the night
When the mazy stars neither point nor beckon,
And of all the roads, no road is sure"

Experience by Carl Sandburg

<>

summarizes my life, the fits and starts,
at every fork, the wrong road taken

and I lean back,
pensive from my shame,
knowingly confessing
that I would make the
wrong choices again

maybe, sadly, most likely...

the maps they provided early on,
were ok, but I never lived
on their edge,
never went far enough,
warned off,
all bordered in the red of
"go no farther,"
so stuck to the worn and grooved paths,
ventured out,
but retreated to safe center court
covered with the wounding cuts of
self-castigating tears,
for my lack of courage
and the waste and burdens
engendered permanent

maps for me,
are now no longer necessary,
for any road of mine is
closer my god to thee,
and my notice that
"the-show-is closing"warning
is a nearing destination,
slips quietly into my back pocket

now, I permission routine
to drive my simpler life,
where easy, gentling kindness
of the usual, the regularizing
steady as she goes,
are my comfy shoes upon
to tread the familiar road of surety...

that sates but doesn't fully satisfy

for the harsh hanging judge,
my resident permanent
on the top floor of my brain,
sentenced me as a young man
me to life imprisonment
in my very own self-built
asylum insane,
where all the tempting ladders were
maps that led to
This Way Out

was so fearful
to grasp and vault
from the top rung to
the uncertain pleasures
of the unknown of the other side

only here,
in the paths of my poetic words
do I venture across boundaries
and back over lines
that dare and
dare not
be refused

the great exposition
the great expiation
the great explication
of one man

words are my living will,
my testament,
my behests, my bequests,
my medals of discourage and
urges not followed,
tarnished but worn proudly

left to my
children's children
as a lesson plan
of one man

of a life poorly well and almost lived
these words are the rebar to build,
to cartograph,
to illustrate
new maps,
better ways,
signed posts
to take the risk of writing,
go gadget go abroad,
create new poems, new styles,
better than those
I that live~leave-left rightly
behind for
fellow travelers,
grandchildren,
who will - who must!
use them
to unmake the errors
I herein freely confess


12:07 Sunday July 10th of his sixty fifth year
jerely Mar 2016
Excemption of extraordinary
Night, lights
kissing the untwirled sky
Of illusions summarizes
the horizon of once in a blue moon to be.
Desired the longing touch of its hand
Round the ticking time
Elapses the hours
Motion of a vibrant top.
I dont know if i made this right.
Can't think of any words to put.
Maybe i can edit sometime or add some.
Writer's block (problem)

Jerelii
March 10, 2016
Copyright
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
~for my naturalist, Victoria~

the poems all end up in midfield,
yellow carded, the game a *******,
0 - 0 unsatisfying affair, all the shots
way wide of goal as I search
for the perfect phrase to capture my

twiddling and twaddling,
fussing and haranguing,
harrumphing and bemoaning,
my very own Brexit,
postponed, the hard answers terrifying,
the soft ones, humbug and *******

incapable of lifting a mighty pen,
or a fully worn down pencil scrap,
seen better days, but now,
all leaden ashes, all fall down,
my natural pointer taps only gibberish

in my plain manila actuality folder,
the cut off dates, ignored, so they
cut me off too for good measure,
plenty good bills to due in there,
plenty good ‘orrible poems for company

the pile of to do’s forming a party,
social, democratic, and
anti-septic or skeptic or semitic,
perhaps all three, as they are two jowls
or two cheeks, too many to the windy

all this shilly shallying, or is it
dilly dallying,
is quite simply to say that
my rooted U.K. naturalist
a Sherlockian moors, traversing specialist
cuts to the shortest quick,
by jove, there it is, succinctly red beeping,
in my garden, awaiting a good boiling

I too exhausted from all the
“scrabbling with the day to day”
she so easily summarizes,
though my poetic ego demands an
Ameddican textual emendation


hard scrabbling with the day to day”

or

just an all encompassing globalism

“ditto”

ah, Victoria
hard·scrab·ble
/ˈhärdˌskrab(ə)l/
adjectiveNORTH AMERICAN!

3:37 am July 4th

adjective: hard-scrabble
involving hard work and struggle.
Kewayne Wadley Aug 2017
My ideal love is a love that catches me by surprise.
The realization of intelligent things and conversations that literally take us anywhere.
My ideal love is a love that expresses ideal.
The ramifications that influence us to be who we really are in front of who we are.
A love that doesn't mind bargin shopping and putting together hundred dollar outfits that really cost $10.
The reality that its the most simplest of things that are most significant.
A spontaneous love that doesn't mind the predictability of living today before exploring the mystery of tomorrow.
Here after the after thought that we exist in the past as well as the present simultaneously.
If ever in need I'll do my best to provide all that I can for an ideal love.
Through these actions I believe the true miracle is achieved.
An ideal love that is beyond ideal.
Who sets the where and how we meet, the institutions of bliss where the masses are limited to love and longing.
To find patience and compassion sitting on the front lawn on the same institution.
As long as she provides a kiss that can send me outside of my own thoughts, and pull me closer to hers.
My ideal love wouldn't be based on a B.E.T movie.
A single expression that summarizes a scorned woman letting go.
A cliff note of lust soon as the next sceen fades to black.
Her ******* pulled down not knowing the dude is secretly abusive.
140 minutes gone by to realize the last 5 mins were the ones that made her truly happy.
The woes of love.
My ideal love is a woman built with ambition but with a heart big enough to understand that without sacrifice nothing is truly accomplished.
A culture made in truth, ripped off by those who ignore that struggle is what makes us who we are.
The courage to walk out in front and be who we really are.
A real woman that doesn't mind lounging around the house that knows whom Budda and Huey Newton was.
This revolution of ideal starts the moment I realize that I never stood a chance.
The surprise of her lips against my cheek.
I drink from this remedy each time you open your lips.
So in silence I gasp.
As you caught me off guard,
My ideal love
jerely Jan 2016
i held the secret
way out of control
summarizes the eclipse, more vibrant color
of its sunset shaded with orange, yellow vibes
a perfect combination to be
but more honest words
emotions to spread out
longing and embracing it.
jerelii
01.31.16
Copyright
Faleeha Hassan Sep 2019
Oh, my god
This poem!
Whenever I try to make her stand on the reality line
She flutters like Marilyn Monroe’s dress in the imaginations of men
I tell her to keep herself on one meaning
But she defies me
While wearing the interpretation mask
And when she tries to describe the battlefield
She is looking for the effects of kisses
On the collars of the soldiers who are tied down in their trenches
With fear and hopelessness
But if they were to be blown up
And their bodies were every where
Her words would be meaningless
For she hiding behind symbolism
She can’t sense the children’s horror from the bombs
And their attempts to huddle against the remnants of destroyed walls
Her cheeks do not hurt
Like mothers’ cheeks dried of their hot tears poured while waiting for deferred letters from their absent sons
She does not take the risk of thinking
So, she can’t believe any truth
She does not pay attention to my damaged life
Which has been crushed by the harsh machine of days
She is trying to make her words beautiful
So, she sprinkles rose water on an erupting volcano
She is too comfortable with death and even praises him
She is summarizing all this loss, darkness, combustion, destruction, chemical weapons. black banners, coffins, skinning , deprivation, orphanages, curfews, warning, sirens, barbed wire, tanks, thrumming of planes, explosions. ******. blood shed on the side walk, death, ashes, displacement, emptiness, charred bodies, mass graves, coffins, body traps, yelling, sadness, anger, hunger, thirst, vigilance, slapping …. etc.
She summarizes all of this in one ward
War
While I am, the poet stand in the middle
Watching my body jump from death to death
For nothing
Just to let the poem come
But after all this trouble
She only comes imperfectly
hazem al jaber May 2022
The star to my dream ...

There is a sight that summarizes life ...
sound that shorten distance ...
and someone who summarizes it all ...
that one ...
it's you ...
yes sweetheart ...
you are ...
the one who filled my life all ...
until ...
i see no one  ...
only you ...
even ...
into dreams ...
you are the star ...
to all events there ...

hazem al ..
string theory summarizes the way we are nothing
vibrating like something, becoming diamonds
residual consciousness burning like millions of onions
ministers of death set the test, reminiscent of themselves
exceptions are everywhere, so elevate the burning flag
and raise the consciousness, as jah is my witness
your mind is a prison, simple living is eloquent
like swinging from a vine into water,
that is cleaner than your heart
tragic embankments push the plow
through heavy piles of clouded dynamics
communication is complicated
when there are no parties involved who are present
In a dark cave I can see your bright innocent eyes.
Eyes,

Your strong hands becoming my candle,
Remember?

We’re running as fast as we can, to discover light.
Fright,

Fearful emotions coursing through me, while you remain brave.
Saved,

Like this reality summarizes your whole life.
Secret life,

Your strong broad arms clinches to me, like how my father’s once did.
Live,

Memories being animated, how my heart used to beat.
So deep,

I am grateful to feel the strength of your love.
Free like white doves.

Free from doubts of loving a stranger.
this poem is dedicated to my hopes of finding true love some day.
no truth login May 2020
Declivity
noun: a downward *****

~

a perfect word for the world, the mood, the man.
stroke of luck, ***, an email arriviste, word-of-the-days
all encompassing. what could go wrong, has happened,
only degree unknown remains.

don’t thing we can bend the curve twice, ours, and not
just the coronavirus, but the virulent state of the globe.

we are in a pandemic world, with plagues centuries old flaring.

disease revived of ugliness,and selfishness, so, wilding, and you
ask, where is God in all this, so I asked him...of course he/she
has whimsically hit me back with an email containing this new
word of the day that summarizes where we fall, falling, felled,
signed ***.

Use in a sentence:
The declivity, the angle of decline, steepens, and the human world, ***, *****, even worse.
word genius.com

WORD OF THE DAY
Declivity
Part of speech: noun
Origin: Latin, early 17th century

1. A downward *****.
May 31, 2020
I take stock and revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body electric of troubadour
now seated at his Macbook Pro
today February 20, 2021.

Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty one),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth, i.e. auld,
he whose decrepit body and
gnarled hands ice cold
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
coronavirus (COVID-19) motherlode
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold

grim reaper with scythe doth silently infold
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous sexagenarian
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose dead head lolled),
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder.

Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive

in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.

At long last... beastie boy attained nirvana
routing hellish existential crisis
courtesy earth, wind and fire
rendered null and void celibate journey
knight in shining armor
forever staind and tarnished
compliments verboten extramarital whoopie.

Herewith I forthwith take poetic license
linkedin to long line of mamas and the papas
whose music died
when passenger(s) violently perished
courtesy flaming inferno
analogous to L(ead) Z(eppelin) 129
christened Hindenburg.

Along similar blurred lines
foo fighter manned ****** temple pilot
Jefferson Airplane qua Starship
gracefully and slickly
deliberately maneuvered crash test dummy
immediately annihilated upon impact
smack dab into puddle of mudd,
yet lo and behold as a foreigner
and survivor yours truly eluded dire straits.

Oz suppose during whirlwind Kansas tour,
while snatching forty winks
in toto working out kinks,
I experienced revelation
regarding divine creator - Egypt me
never securing life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness
elusive weltanschauung as understanding,

the mysterious Sphinx,
yes essentially zilch joie de vivre
minus high jinks
aptly summarizes mein kampf methinks
my life and hard times
whereby vitriol pelted me
courtesy those rat finks.

Nihilistic zeitgeist
apocalyptic outlook sacrificed
no redemption no matter
how figuratively purposelessness sliced
unlike mum man crucified Jesus Christ.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
listening to singles is inevitable,
you're bound to listen to singles,
but... for the most part...
they're overrated anyway...
    i found that i have a much larger
attention span to digest
three songs worth 3 minutes a pop,
i'd rather stick to the progressive
rock / jazz quartet / quintet
behemoth of... say... 9 to 12 minutes...
just like i found with
the valley of the sun EP...
      for me EP is the way forward...
because it fits in nicely between
a single and an LP...
it just tickles the atmospheric
feel of an LP, but offers you so
much more than what
the single is... a footnote,
a snippet...
           an erosion of the mind...
with the valley of the sun
EP?
       the last track...
       butch... and i don't mean
lesbian butch... i mean - butch...
grizzly butch...
but that's the beauty of the EP...
it's a generous sample...
3 minutes turn into ~30 minutes...
the last track summarizes
the whole pouch of sounds...
but you only think this,
because you think the last
track will be something mellow...
like the lullaby track
on dry **** logic's debut
the darker side of nonsense...
goodnight...
   most last LP tracks are fadeout...
or thereabouts...
but an EP last track?
a absolute corker...
   riding and dunes?! come on...
but you don't appreciate listening
to this one track...
the idea is to listen to
the EP back-to-back,
and let the last track surprise
you...
   that's what's great about
an EP... the element of surprise...
and the variations throughout...
with singles you have to pack
in several... have a playlist
and what not... a ******* carousel
a carnival of too much
variety...
   and it's like watching
American football... but instead...
you know... you're listening
to this constant... stuttering...
there's no smoothness of either an
EP or an LP...
stop, scrum, shuffle...
  throw ball back, throw ball
forward... one lucky ***** catches
the ball... runs on...
or doesn't catch the ball...
ball hits the ground... repeat...
eh... singles are overrated...
    obviously it's inevitable that
you'll come across them...
but i hope the EP makes a comeback...
if it hasn't done so already,
at least for me it has.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.just like having missed Handel's messiah at the Royal Albert Hall, instead returning sullen and ******* in a brothel... now this... Beethoven's Ode to Joy, me writing this and da-ist-sein taking place all around me; but more importantly: beyond me - preying on the hope, of a divine intervention.

on a site... such architectural Behemoths
of beauty,
were born from the Roman numerals...
to see 31, via XXXI...
     a bit like seeing the ode to joy...
what i would call
   what my English teacher joked around
with when describing the Blitzkrieg
happening while
Wagner's ride of the Valkyries
was playing in the background...
well... time's up...
    plus the moonlight sonata
was overly borrowed...
            notably in geek love
by katherine dunn...
                 imagine calculus, using roman
numerals, are all modern mathematics
for that reason...
  perhaps, just perhaps...
teaching dyslexics arithmetic in roman
numerals, they'd be able to spell better...
after all... what do we have?
  /  i was just thinking that...
since we know what the ancient Roman
numerals were, what were the ancient
Greek numerals, and why do we
hear about them so little? /
   we have... oh look! what a "coincidence"...
anti-Roman Greek propaganda
(how else would the Byzantines
have not arose from the ashes
of the fall of the Roman Empire,
if not via the bible's propaganda...
for me? the book of Revelations
was written first)...
Revelation 13:1...
   a seven-headed beast...
let's see...
   I, V, X, L, C, D, M... by Jove!
that's 'even!
                     i must be in 'eaven...
(keep in mind that ode to joy
by Beethoven is playing in the background
as i mash this out)
- because you rarely hear about
the ancient Greek numerals...
i'm guessing because...
  whatever letter was whatever numeral...
became... a scientific constant...
i.e. a hyper-numeral...
        what with the Rho... ahem...
Trojans suiting the duo graphemes to look
more sophisticated in their sophistry
(Cicero and Seneka...
both loud-mouths, who apparently didn't
bother to think), as in their writing...
just marvel at this:

αʹ 1 ιʹ 10 ρʹ 100
βʹ 2 κʹ 20 σʹ 200
γʹ 3 λʹ 30 τʹ 300
δʹ 4 μʹ 40 υʹ 400
εʹ 5 νʹ 50 φʹ 500
ϝ 6 ξʹ 60 χʹ 600
ζʹ 7 οʹ 70 ψʹ 700
ηʹ 8 πʹ 80 ωʹ 800
θʹ 9 ϟʹ 90 ϡʹ 900

                          (look! look! they had knowledge
of runes! ϟ - soowiloo / sun
   and a chiral variant of ᚠ - fehoo / wealth
   and ᚨ - ansuz / one of the Æsir)

the precursor of chemistry,
the apostrophe attached to
          letters to represent numbers
absolutely genius...
      the ancient Greeks utilißed
their entire alphabet...
  yet the squalid Romans made use of 7...
**** me...
that really is worth noting...
    so the idea of writing chemical
equations like H₂O came from the use
of the apostrophe in the Greek numerical
use of letters...
and to think... the ancients entertained
a dual nature of letters...
they could encode speech,
but also think abstractly about,
weights, measures, architecture,
    triangles...
                          to me they were far
more sophisticated than we will ever
hope to be...
actually...
   doesn't Braille borrow from this model?
the Greek numerals?

the apostrophe is the number indicator...
ergo
         αʹ = 1
                                 but in Braille...
the number indicator is
    ⠼           ergo                   ⠼⠁= 1
oh look!
                     no ****!

now i know why i wrote the title first,
i knew i was going to digress...
Heidegger's aphorism XXXI, VIII,
well... i guess for you to read it...
you have to cough up around thirty quid
as i did...
       i won't rewrite the text...
forget it...
                    it basically summarizes
the ontology of the English...
   covertly, because this isn't an observation
done as directly as Voltaire's...
this is the English mentality....
briefly... it talks about the the veneration
of "facts"... "facts" that however much true...
disintegrate into a spaghetti mesh of
utter *******, or rather a caution:
to not seek origins in "ideas" or furthermore,
building a solid foundation
on theories...
              rather? experiences... empiricism...
i already knew that the English
were suckers for science as their new
guiding voice of having replaced
religion... that was ****** obvious
through their egalitarian idealism...
but yeah...
     ancient Greek numerals,
              the evolution of the numerals
into scientific constants...
   and the concept-borrowing from them,
using the idea of the apostrophe,
to write in numbers into the Braille codex.

ps. to ode an die freude:
  which brings me to the conclusion...
how not similar is the ancient Roman
numerals from how music is written?
from the most simple schematics,
arise the most complex structures...

    (⠼) ⠊     ⠃⠃     ⠃⠙      ⠁⠃     ⠉      ⠙       ⠁⠉

something so simple, can produce
at the same time something eternally complex,
and original...
   music... to think...
we need 26 letters to encode talking,
and with these 26 letter encoding,
we can muster up such vitriol as
to find it better to simply shut up...
  
     A, A# / Bb,
            B, C,
                   C# / Db,
                   D, D# / Eb,
                   E, F,
         F# / Gb,
                    G,
                      G# / Ab....

how many letters is that?
  **** me... 7!
             7 letters...
  and at the end of it...
you have either Handel's messiah,
or Beethoven ode to joy...
who would have thought.
             - and all of this... while drinking
two bottles of beer... ha!
Aha - argh... oh my dog...
don't mind me muttering, eh?

Earlier today (May 5th, 2020),
I forget thee exact hour
found me utterly beside mice elf,
matter of fact even at this moment,
yours truly doth feel mad at himself
cuz Aldi's merchandise (mostly food)
needed to be restored to their proper shelf.

Upon further contemplation
me thought quite futile
and pointless to expend energy subsequently nill...
best swallow figurative bitter pill
and maximize opportunity to take quill

in an effort to salvage sanity lest poetaster
schrieks with voice noticeably shrill,
thus if curious to discover visa vis
motive poem got crafted read further if ye will.

Electronic Benefits Transfer (EBT) card, i.e.
formerly known as food stamps
I never secured into wallet for safe keeping,
mine minor ohm my dog oversight surged thru me
(as if charged with a bajillion amps),

said aforementioned revelation occurred
while standing in a long line at Aldi's
attested whereby other patrons stood
pipsqueaks in tandem with their gramps
which snaked all the way to "5th and Japip."

Pointless regarding yours truly,
ordinarily insightful and adept
(in short, a generic and garden variety
local ******) who schlepped
courtesy rubber express
(think shoe leather) - except
sneakers adorned little (mine) feet
thus imagine hypothetical inept

hobo or ***** his bindle
slung over shoulder
traversing countless miles,
cuz an odometer he (I) kept
indicated staggering and sprawling distance,
sometimes on all fours (faux pas) he crept
hence no way would exhausting effort
be made for nought.

Riches to rags summarizes bio in short
former spendthrift and prodigal son
with lip service paid toward quaffing port,
whence reduced to penury, a courtship wasted
mein kampf of pennilessness insync with sport
despite feted happy occasion,
I discreetly did cavort
unbridled shenanigans bedding young nymphs

entailed minimal effort,
when lavish catered affair slated to celebrate
one lovely slip of a lass,
she (no rookie) beguiled
stealthily intended marriage to abort,
nonetheless gaining handsome dowery
with quintessential private escort.

We both acquired deserved comeuppance
therefore allowing, enabling and providing
me opportunity to attend contra dance
by going stag
wowed by gamut of coeds

moost who with subtle nonverbal cues did entrance
oft times imagining traipsing across France
courtesans attending every private need
ah... so much for castles in the sky
invisibly concocted via
strong swooshing dominant arm with lance.

In reality scratching out what began as prime
motive to detail forgetting ebt card
intending poem to communicate
spending more',n dime
times one hundred

hemorrhaging checking account
as momentary lapse of reason with rhyme
as often occurs time and again
poem takes fabulous convolutions
squeezed like figurative lemon going from
ridiculous to the sublime.
analogous to expending precious Air Supply
embellishing, modifying, revising, et cetera
a poem crafted about fourteen months ago.

I take stock and revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body (Electric
Light Orchestra) of troubadour,
whereby creative juices did perforce pour
forth as if sung by one man koor;
now he haply seated at his Macbook Pro
today April 29th, 2022
accompanied with Christopher Robin,
Winnie the Pooh, and Eeyore.

Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty two),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth, i.e. auld,
he whose decrepit body and
gnarled hands ice cold
senility and senescence doled
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
coronavirus (COVID-19) motherlode
courtesy geomorphology dynamism fold
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold

grim reaper with scythe doth silently infold
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous beat nickles less,  
dime a dozen, day late
and dollar short sexagenarian
dropped out of Culture Club
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose Grateful Dead head lolled,
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
meself finally nill and void nolde
of unwanted excessive fleshy flab
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder polled.

Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
immortality impossible mission to connive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly earthlinked buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive

in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.

At long last... Beatle browed
Beastie Boys attained Nirvana
routing hellish existential crisis
courtesy Earth, Wind And Fire
rendered null and void celibate Journey
knight in shining armor
forever staind and tarnished
compliments verboten extramarital whoopie.

Herewith I forthwith take poetic license
linkedin to long line
of Mamas and the Papas
whose music died
when Passenger(s) violently perished
courtesy flaming inferno
analogous to Le(a)d Zeppelin 129
christened Hindenburg.

Along similar blurred lines
foo fighter manned ****** temple pilot
Jefferson Airplane qua Starship
gracefully and slickly
deliberately maneuvered sic
Crash Test Dummies
immediately annihilated upon impact
smack dab into Puddle Of Mudd,
yet lo and behold as a Foreigner
and Survivor yours truly eluded Dire Straits.

Oz suppose during whirlwind Kansas tour,
while snatching forty winks
in toto working out Kinks,
I experienced revelation
regarding divine creator - Egypt me
never securing life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness
elusive weltanschauung as understanding,

the mysterious Sphinx,
yes essentially zilch joie de vivre
minus high jinks
aptly summarizes mein kampf methinks
my life and hard times
whereby vitriol pelted me
courtesy those rat finks.

Nihilistic zeitgeist
apocalyptic outlook sacrificed
no redemption no matter
how figuratively purposelessness sliced
unlike mum man crucified Jesus Christ.
noticeably decreases in one direction.

I take lock, stock and barrel
to revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body electric of troubadour
now seated at his Macbook Pro
another reasonably rhyming poem
I hope to score
signalled by satisfaction
qua eye of the tiger doth roar
today February 18, 2023.

Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty three),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth (actually
I wear dentures), nevertheless
yours truly languishes within
self made prison and feels auld,
a shy person, who rarely exhibited bold
lack the benefit of powder milk biscuits,
he whose decrepit body and

gnarled hands ice cold
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
inoculated against coronavirus
(COVID-19) motherlode
staving off silent grim reaper
swinging scythe catching
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
another mortal into his fold
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold
mine lovely bones clutched in deathly hold

ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous sexagenarian
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose dead head lolled),
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder courtesy
subtle nod auctioneer told
across webbed wide wold.

Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive
where I bumbled along

and learned how to boogie woogie and jive
in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.

At long last... beastie boy attained nirvana
routing hellish existential crisis
courtesy earth, wind and fire
rendered null and void celibate journey
knight in shining armor
forever staind and tarnished
compliments verboten extramarital whoopie.

Herewith I forthwith take poetic license
linkedin to long line of mamas and the papas
whose music died
when passenger(s) violently perished
courtesy flaming inferno
analogous to Le(a)d Zeppelin 129
christened Hindenburg.

Along similar blurred lines
foo fighter manned ****** temple pilot
Jefferson Airplane qua Starship
gracefully and slickly
deliberately maneuvered crash test dummy
immediately annihilated upon impact
smack dab into puddle of mudd,
yet lo and behold as a foreigner
and survivor yours truly eluded dire straits.

Oz (zee oz born during
baby boom generation)
and suppose during
whirlwind Kansas tour,
while snatching forty winks
in toto working out kinks,
I experienced revelation
regarding divine creator - Egypt me
never securing life, liberty

and pursuit of happiness
elusive weltanschauung as understanding,
the mysterious Sphinx,
yes essentially zilch joie de vivre
minus high jinks
aptly summarizes mein kampf methinks
my life and hard times,
whereby vitriol pelted me
courtesy those rat finks.

Nihilistic zeitgeist
apocalyptic outlook sacrificed
no redemption no matter
kidnapped without ransom
concerning grateful dead heist
how figuratively purposelessness sliced
unlike mum man crucified Jesus Christ.
following directions
that lead to dead ends
listened to the people
i thought were my friends
don't know where i am
not even a clue
someone come find me
i'm just a little too confused
to find my own way back
and be okay
can't see past my issues
or deal with my pain
i just feel so lost
so broken and hurt and torn
i dont understand why
i can't feel anymore
it is all so gray
_________
i just started writing again
and lately i've been overwhelmed
forgot where i left off
and don't know how to continue
so i guess this is what i get
and basically this summarizes how i feel
Be Blessed
Beautiful picturesque scenery you have painted here with your words....And your last stanza summarizes it all...We see God's Divine Technology and Art set before us every day....live and in action....Beautiful birds...flowers...butterflies...etc ....endless list...Thanks so much for writing and sharing this piece...Be Blessed
Be blessed my dear quest an arrow past the mess...

The inner test beyond the best
With love in the first remaining kiss
Savor with a kiss,
A kiss wink the benefit grip

Poetic stanza broke through the next mess
carry through the latest clue a given glue
bury your head in the pillow grip a next mix

— The End —