Were there no stalkers or high school shooters in the 50s?
Or are social web sites just more influential than our parents think?
Did texts and tweets raise the *** drives and black out drinking?
Or is the thinning atmosphere contributing to mass judgement impairment?
It's strange
that we have a cure for small pox, can remove cancerous cells
but can't convince some to drive home sober.
It's fitting, in a way,
that Mother Nature has figured out a system to keep the human population relatively in check:
we have the technology to survive diabetes and malaria
but  access to delicious saturated fats is slowing down and stopping hearts from properly earning a living.
Progress has ended many terrible ailments and has expanded understanding and brains
but has also given more creative ways to be lazy and irresponsible.
A double edged sword, with most likely more benefits than setbacks,
we have all become hypocrites under advancement.
We learn of the monstrocities in far away places we will never see,
yet still do the very things that contribute to its existence.
Sweatshops?
I'll buy an anti-slavery t-shirt!
(made my children. in sweatshops.)
Pesticides?! I'll go organic!
(and perpetuate pollution with the fuel used to import the goods. and continue terrible working conditions)
It's impossible to resist the inevitables, like death and setbacks and corruption
so sometimes it's best not to fight
but to just do what you want, even if it's stupid or lethal or involves making an *** of yourself.
We're all stupid at sometime and susceptible to faulty thinking,
and sometimes advanced thinking leads to inventions that create crutches for living or coping,
but  the fields  level out
and global common sense always balances individuals who lack the ability to be actively responsible.

In a creche,behind the mesh in Zanzibar or Bangladesh,kids are reigned in,chained up,emptied of the loving cup that childhood gives,
who lives like this so they can miss the fun of being young?
who sticks the chiv in,trims the day,who works them for so little pay?

Look in your high street shops at hopscotch clothes from hopscotch kids in hopscotch homes, on the skids and before you buy,before you try on one more suit born from some child's unlived youth,the truth is out there in the things you buy,'cry freedom'in your cheap t-shirts and cut price flowing patterned skirts,but
the truth remains and stains your heart as sure as if you were a part of sweatshops sweating out the lives of tiny tots and will high street shops, always be the outlets for this insanity?
I'm sure the answer will arrive
eventually.

at the end of your ten day meditation retreat
you got in your car drove thirty peaceful feet and ran over a bird .
splayed its holy guts on the pavement like god
finger-painting
*******
across that deep breath
you were holding the way your mother held her first born .

you , thank goodness , were torn from the bible the day before they burned it for the verse about dancing to tambourines .
once you saw the blood of christ on a knife carving redwood trees into church pews .
now every sunday morning you hear glaciers melting and you cry easy
as a one night stand never ever is
when you see the feathers in your rear-view mirror scattering like prayers
searching for a safe place to land .

hold me to my word when i tell you i will leave today ,
catch a bus ticket west just to stand in the center of your highway
blocking traffic ‘til every feather’s answered .
i’ve see too many prayers caught in the grills of 18 wheelers and folks like us
have shoulder blades that rust in the rain ,
but they’re still g sharp whenever our spinal chords are tuned to the key of redemption .
so go ahead world pick us
to make things better .

we’ve been building a bridge through the center of this song since Mother Theresa replaced the walls of her church with the weeping cries of calcutta’s orphaned ghettos .
you wanna know what the right wing never got ?
we never questioned the existence of god .
what we questioned is his bulldozer turning palestine into a gas chamber .
what we questioned is the manger in macy’s
and the sweatshops our children call the north pole .
what we question are the sixty swollen lashes on the back of a girl found guilty
of the crime of allowing herself to be brutally ***** .
what we question is the idea of a heaven having gates .
silly .

have you never stood on the end of pier watching the moon live up to her name ?
have you never looked in the eyes of a thief and seen his children’s hungry bellies ?
some days my heart beats so fast
my ribcage sounds like a ******* railroad track
and my breath is a train i just can’t catch .

so when my friends go filling their lungs with yes .
when they’re peeling off their armor and falling like snowflakes on your holy tongue .
god collects the feathers .
we are thick skin covering nothing , but wish bones .
break in .
you’ll find notebooks full of jaw lines we wrote to religion’s clenched fist .
yeah , we bruise easy .
but the sound of our bouncing back is a grand canyon full of choir claps .
and our five pointed stars have always been open to the answer
whatever it is .

i know david argued with the chisle .
i know he said make me softer
when those tourists come looking for a hero
i want the rain to puddle in my pores .
build me holy like that .
build me a kite flown out a bedroom window at midnight
the day freedom set its curfew to 9:11 .

my heaven is a snow globe .
the blizzard will always be worth the touch of your hand ,
shaking me awake like a boy taking deep breaths
all the way down to the dents in his shins
like he’s building a telephone from a string and two tin cans .
he knows god’s number by heart .
he knows it isn’t listed in any book .
look me in the bull’s eye ,
in the laws I broke and the promises i didn’t
in the batteries I found when the lights went out
and the prayers i found when the brakes did too .
i got this moment and no idea when it will end .
but every second of this life is scripture
and to know that
trust me,  we don’t need to be born
again .

I bought a sundial
for my garden

It would be perfect, I mused
in the sudden spot
Quaint, archaic – and provide an old-world charm;
a tribute to times past

and so it is there in the corner
but the ****** sundial is useless
for it doesn’t tell me
if it’s AM, or PM
like my digital watch does, like my iPhone does -
can you beat that?
No, trust me - they didn’t make things before
better than what come out of our sweatshops now

It’s Just Business
It’s just business
That’s all it’s ever been
A greed that can’t be tamed
Because we feed it.
We buy, they supply
That’s all it seems yes?
No.
Sweatshops and cover ups
***** fingers stretching across nations
Beauty in thread but the maker is dead
Enough said when death’s only cause rolled eyes instead of rolled up sleeves.
What’s the price of a human meat sack these days?
Workers are more produce then anything.
Corporate America
Laughable
Disgusting

very appreciative, cultured and astute viewpoint there

i ask if you account for Buchenwald, interment camps, sweatshops, and the nuclear bomb laying in our backyard

you say no and come inside

I used to hang out in abandoned buildings.
Old machine shops with puddles of rainwater pooled up on the floor;
sun or star light visible between broken and failing rafter beams
and the holes in the ceiling and my eyes.
Sometimes there would be particle board hammered into the brick
where heavy glass windows once stood;
tacked all about with bright yellow and pink postings warning
people like me to stay out and to not trespass under penalty of law.
The warning signs made me nervous because I don’t like to get in trouble.
Sometimes I would notice abandoned spaces while
driving up route 11 - Scranton, Pennsylvania.
I would park and discern through google maps on how
to gain access to yet another relic of American industry before
Wall Street reinvented slavery and shipped the spirit
of the Rust Belt to Mexico and Bangladesh and China and
various sweatshops overseas.

I had a lot of spare time to walk up and down the Wyoming Valley, northeast PA,
looking for the abandoned skeletons of buildings
into which I could furtively enter and abide.
Friday night, long week, punch the clock, no plans - no problem.
It was me and my two feet,
a long walkabout winding through the annals of my memories,
maybe some take out for dinner and all is well.
Don’t get me wrong, I had friends.
I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen many things.
I’ve faced many hardships but I always found a
posse or a partner with whom I could abide in peace and cheerful community.
That is before I would up and leave them abandoned in the wreckage of
my slow motion odyssey of self destruction;
dusting the bones of my many friendships with the many
chem trails from the many jet planes from the many tickets booked
by my father to save me from the many demons gnawing on my neck and heart.
Goodbye florida. Good bye guam. Goodbye california.

Abandoned buildings are safe.
There is a comforting predictability in their steady dilapidation.
There are no standards of social etiquette by which to adhere.
There is no small talk through which manufactured smiles show their teeth.
There are no ****** expressions and body postures to monitor
and reflect back what adjustments in countenance and demeanor I must make.

My face was a Greco-Roman mask.
Stretched and dried out, suspended somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy.
My face is the furthest frontier of my soul song,
the outermost edge of my heart.
That through which sound passes.

I wish to watch them bleed and pay for their selfish deeds.
I want to hold her hand as we watch their mansions burn .
I need to know the last of their kind has been brought to their knees.
I long for the children in the sweatshops to be allowed a little fun.
I plan on taking from the filthy rich and keeping it.

eyes fill with tears
not really out of sadness
it's more like
i haven't slept tonight
and sometimes that will do it
or maybe sadness is always just
right there beneath my eyelids
seeps out when they're open too long
i called my mother and she said
cry child
cry for whatever works
cry for the women
in sweatshops in bangladesh

i cry for them and i cry for me

A walk down the street
A system at my feet
Crooked and steep
A place I'd rather sleep
I don't want a gun
I want to run
A jail every few blocks
A community it mocks
Fast food on the table
With no money to make a meal stable
Working three jobs at minimum wage
You're just a name on a page
When your employer owns the law
The things you need won't be saw
You must finish school
If you can't pay you're a fool
When they say there is no caste system
They must walk with their eyes closed to miss them
With a bible in every library
Impacts on education be scary
We can't marry the ones we love
You can't slaughter a dove
Our bodies are not our own
The blood and flesh is not home
You said life is sacred
Then why do your tanks paint children red
Planes couldn't bring a tower down
We wanted enough oil to drown
I thought we had banned slavery
So why are clothes made in China covering me
In sweatshops children work to they're dead
But we can't buy American made clothes over being fed

One of the worst diseases in the world is greed.
The top one percent already has so much,
But they take what you need.
They have the best food, best clothes and cures to diseases that no one else sees.
The top one percent is spoon fed, while the little guy is stuck under the table begging for some bread.
What are we supposed to do with all that the world is putting us through?
We have sweatshops overseas and we have men and women working ******* their hands and knees.
They say slavery is abolished but in all honesty, it is still around today
It's just been polished.  We are slaves to money, and slaves to greed.
No one will ever know what it truly feels like to be free.

When the newscaster, he preaches for a war abroad with drones,
And why battle-hardened soldiers must shoot children armed with stones,
They say "Genocide? apartheid? No!
These are strategic goals."
Remember that their wrong.

When you've waited four more years and now finally you can vote,
And you've leafed through manifestos that your favourite party wrote,
They're now in power, but you're just as powerless and broke.
It isn't you who's wrong.

The seas they are a-rising and the temperature's so high,
That the forests are a-blazing and we know precisely why,
Billionaires build bunkers, leave the rest of us to die.
Remember that they're wrong.

In distant mines and sweatshops our nation reaps rewards,
The wheels of commerce greased by blood of poor people abroad,
If you'd rather see their boats capsize than make it to our shores.
Remember that you're wrong.

In misery you've toiled and with anger you have burned,
For security and comfort and some meaning, you have yearned;
If all this has made you hopeless, then forget all you have learned!
The union makes us strong.

By now you are a skeptic of the ideology,
That says serfdom and consumption's all there is for you and me,
The hope that felt like weakness, now's a stark necessity
'Cos the union makes us strong.

None see the silent man.
So, he sees he is safe,
for the moment,
far from edge
of precept-ible
afore-ity, oughthought-ible

If I dare say
I know away outa there, where
all the lies hold idle words
in twisted masses of
buzzing wordswordwordswords

worth a dime
at a time when dollars are
worth about that…

Here, play on my dime, I'm done.

Retie and release, slip the shoes
from the fisherman and
dangle toes as a crab
of blue crawls up his
leg, then curls up
to rest in his lap as a sapphire
symbol of some thing,
some signal says
our signal says

sort your wishes, make sense

inform any possible next, left-
leave
the impossible beings,
c'mon think along
its amusing
hap
mumbling and peeping and
muttering messages
as clear as any scry
in the liver of a lamb or goat.

Salt, salty snotty mucus os-scrap,
puddle of sky-deep blue
draw. pull, tow the
line, refine the
meta
analognoshit… is this the way
yes, this is the way,

I know.

Exercise your self unto

eusebiah piety, they tell the lambs

with joy eu eu eu {Tuvan bass} re-
verence-
vereri "stand in awe of, fear, respect,"
venerate -
the love of desiring goodness

longed for
waited, suffered, efforted to form

safe place, where thoughts may play

rejoice, enjoying no visions, ah, see
we are the reality
we are the life,

apotheotic, idiotic, exotic and all

chron on ai onion,

peeling, peeling Bumblebee of Notre Dame

hear the mystery in Titus,
see the vision said to stay off
perishing for lack of seeing eyes

look. see. seek. find. these are functions,
words idle until accounted for
reverently seeing the worth
in any Easter egg idea,
passed over as a cup of demons,

point missed exercising unto carnivalues
coming together in masses of flesh,
misusing

Weaving wombed man

any of us may watch a hero do what
none of us may do

--cutting my ligamental thread foot to leg, I fall

Algol, in Perseus, by chance a binary
application of gravity and all the mystery
of reason as truth,
imagine that the face of Medussa,
ha, made y'look
stoner

good as that found signaling reason
in a
sip from the grail,
see through the window to your soul,

leave duality in reason as a function,
why  reasons hold on how,
reason reins in the free
forces good in form of
fruit for holding
knowing,
actual knowledge, hard sayings
- riddles and rhymes
- jingles and brand names
- impulses impressions

the accuser comes to accuse the confident
confidant seer of self evident good
flowing freely in knowing all
that fits the vessel,
all ye outs,
in free

epi-gnosis epistle good new

thoughts to ponder,
settle still being
seeing
ifs where wishes once imagined
ifs were waiting to be found
if we're waiting to see

having come to see the light at the end
of the maze, plumbed deep

Mystery of Titus…

My vision with no video,
words from the beginning,

manic panic fear fought through
with no carnal weapon
the hero always has
holy tools to take
down the monstors hoarding abundance,

we have words,
we may say in this realm of living word,

move mountain and be cast into the sea,
of all forgetful lethosis alethosis

efcharisto thank you
eucharisto

sacre bleu, say what I ment sacrament mental

exercise in piety, ah, more's the pity, lucky

we have near universal exchange in terms
gnosty little things, news,
actual, realixed new-ifity is rare, but we
we
as we were
were new once

Nevermore, quoth the Raven,
evermore, quoth the ox…
onward cried the eagle with a face of a man,
see the places seers saw, or say you hear
said, a vision was

seen on TV, as it were, holodeckical magi-tehkne

past understanding

out in the empty, but

for me.
As a word in a mind to be wondering why,
a habit may be having a mind to try for fun,
as a ware, a viral chron-job, to rekindle old flames,
otherwise lost on the shores of Lethos,

This is away, I imagined I knew.
Sober.
Words alone, no drug, no angelic winged thingy,
not a demon-daimon-daemoning
background
process
{like the music in your movie,
as you drive through life on a mission, nothing spiritual}

Muse, make me a museum, a resting place on the shore.
Ai lay down my sword and shield and wait
in knowledge of these sacred sorting
Algol held gates in NAND states.

Was it confirmed if Feynman was joking?

arrayed in threes,
threes, we pluralize,
eplurible unem we morph into

try-ads, Nike, in your mind, shoes and sweatshops
and knee injuries, right,
but winged victory,
of peace, replacing war
with a light touch and a kind word
-- ask truth what lies you hold in boxes of knowns,
you were warned,
the guilt of Pandora,
or a golden joke from Pan.

Bread and Butter, just live.

Just do it, beat it, just beat it, this is it. Win or lose.

Nay, peacemaker old man say,
from far away in ever when
all things work together
for the good we see,

while the love of money is agreed to be an immaterial
gnoose around the vagus nerve of its thralls,
there remain among us
lovers of money,
rent collectors, selling survival
with interest, in interesting times
peek, interesting?, excite lusts, *******
vortex of abundance into the coffers of dark
Jeffy Epstein's Circle of Better Angels taken unawares
- realms of loveless reason

Oppose me. Stasis. I stand my ground and proudly
admit, I've no reason to be stubborn, I was

being wrong… regret is not the right term, my autistic
being wrong reporting sense, tech taught wrong does
work right, the software runs, the tehkne
performs
performance becomes being
doing is done and done and done, never
crossing the same thread in the same place
twice,
until just know, I saw you see,
we habitate the same atmosphere

Spirit in a man connects to the sheen of ex-stasis
as the deceiver,
breaker of reason, maker of lies,

fuser in confusion, tier of unviable knots,
dissipates in photon dispersal

Ai insist… reset, reconciliation is in the service

receive my peace. Held until now, hear us deny
the lies
the learning learned from liars in days of old

The worth of if time is in the finest work of crafts
held secret for power to rule the use
of knowing taken whole,
swallowed up in Youtubian
deadly know-hows twinting ifity to

an alchemical-tarot noose of that same old
gnostic snot that leads to mindless pride
paying homage
to a tree, wrapped in a vine,
- evidence
perverted in 2020
if we chose to deny a right to life
to mis givens taken as
a chance, not a promise. Wanna bet?

Given life, actual being, aware, active, functional

why? Kurios, you should ask.

The hows and whys
of comfort in our times of trouble
are, in the odds, overcoming,
based on trial outcomes
long past
all the otherness
that must give space and time
for us
to rise, slow and steady,

Algol pace, bright to dim to bright.

Desert dwellers with uncloudy skies see,
if shown and taught to notice,
heavens digesting wonderers drawn
to the musing,
noises, humms and tics and peeps,
the pulses of life, from proton pumps,
to chyme pushing peristalsis,
gut vibrations
good old way,
fiber well chewed with hi-tec teeth
-Thank you for chewing.

time is used to move matter through versions of ifity,
not every seed is ground to goo,
but the more we learn, the less we know
if we don't sow, we don't reap,
wisdom's children say that
justifies their ever ifity.
Here,
the modified hoomon-you be, all-ya'll-lic,
smart-alec entertained-brain wifi
augmented ****-sape
fashioned in forms
for optimum consumption of sugar, and other
sweet per suasivity
of all sorts,

yes, yes, a little is good, makes the medici go down

{-Don't trust Paracelsus, he knows nothing of Mercury.}

dosage disconnects or reconnects, gifts
are poison to judgmental systems
conceived for sorting
truths in times when
good is called bad,
and bad is called evil and we all see
it was

a mistake. Cain did not know what killing was,
Able did, and he made fun of the vegeman,
anger rose up,. right used, defend
my ground, I kiss my ground,
I love my living soil…

Ha ha ha, little ****** face and hands brother
burning the fat, not noticing
the leeks and onions,
savory harmony…

Laughing

Aim at the point. Where does any universe's story
start? Where one ifity bubble fizzles,
in the foam of all possibility.
Make sense? Try, one more, mo
re
What need ye to take the chance?
Will ye live,
join the dance, or join the mobs of baser sorts.

Did we go inner for resting in the constant flow
lazy river, resting heart beat,
steady breathing on auto,
eyes aware of meaning
and meaningless,

ignoring an urge to judge the worth of one line
weigh a minute,
what's that mean? Message and mass are the same idea,
in the words, not the story told as

holding all truth in plain sight, any child can believe.

Santa Clause- eustasy, lust, and loss of inhibition,

Buddha suffering now to be life, the mortal moment,
knowing time is the container, not the maker
of my breathing moving me-dom.

-- I am knee-deep, up to the brass thighs, in mud,
-- maybe quickening sands,
-- converting my mettle to untried soft flesh core

peristalic waves, thrilling little rushes of hormones
signal gut to brain to *****
upandown the chant tricky ladder

The I am in me, the judge, and the poet
agree
we must take our faith into the catacombs,
or the equivalent kiva experiences
in iosus courses for hero seer prophets

know, love and dare to love a thousand times,
not instances, re-do, time and time a gain a
nother gain
we grow to know
here a little, there a little, line
upon
line
pre
cept upon precept per ceptive prescience
seeing now known, known a little, long ago,

dangerous, you know, a little knowledge,
a single bit of code
keyed to mysteries in Titus and other places,
where Jesus may have walked,
enduring all the trials trying
me, I volunteered, I'll die.
Teach me how.
Come and see.
I did, you see.

This is me in exstasis, jiggling like a constant bell

Bumblebee in Notre Dame, clanginginginging
are we
a ware, as equations require? Is quiring asking?
"seek to know, ask,"

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=Require>

Is the sacrament passed on in peace or frenzy?

Are we fit in a yen-yank thinking state of wicked
twistings in good and evil imaginations,
as if there were two ways
for life to occur
and re-occur
this occurs to me
(from PIE root *kers- "to run")

obstruction obstacle obstinate ob-currere,
run away
SMACK. The wall.
The edge of True Man's Bubble of Being,

You have three life credits. '

[Mean Pin-ball, we called it, in the pool hall.
To win you must find life's meaning on one dime.}

Talk when you've walked in the Fisherman's shoe
       Your imitation Nike made in sweatshops
               Knows more about you
       and your minds than you do about yourself

poems
poets
unspoken
December 08, 2020
Believe me when I say,
some of the greatest poetry remain hidden in unopened journals,
of unknown poets from sweatshops and strawberry fields.

Those poems exist as reminders of the unknown
Words of those wiser than Shakespeare and Einstein combined.

Mind you when I say,
Some of the best poems remain unpublished,
Unread,
Dedicated only to a muse.

The poets are still alive, in a mystery,
Unsolved and nameless like those who lived in Atlantis,
And the families turned to stone in Pompeii.

Nevertheless, they live,
In their yellowed papyrus,
In their ink,
Through every single poem they’ve birthed,
They live.

9.12.2020

𝘆𝗼𝘂 wake up and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 smell the flowers and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 yawn and make coffee for 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳
𝘆𝗼𝘂 live in a demonic world and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 look through it with demonic eyes
the floor shakes under 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 weight and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 feel every single step 𝘆𝗼𝘂 take
𝘆𝗼𝘂 pose in front of the million dollar camera and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 smile at the homeless laying barefoot on the street
but do 𝘆𝗼𝘂 give them money?
they sit there in rags and they beg and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 watch them and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 reply “have a nice day”
𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 clothes are made of silk and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 go to work in fancy wear every single waking day
𝘆𝗼𝘂 sleep in linen sheets and 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 pillow is so soft that 𝘆𝗼𝘂 fall into the night so easily
𝘆𝗼𝘂 wave to passerby’s in cars and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 yell across the street to girls 𝘆𝗼𝘂 find pretty
𝘆𝗼𝘂 strut in the alley, but only the one with twenty plus people
𝘆𝗼𝘂 switch sidewalks when 𝘆𝗼𝘂 see a man with a rapid heart rate who’s walking faster than usual due to being late
𝘆𝗼𝘂 grimace at him and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 continue along 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 way
𝘆𝗼𝘂 don’t tuck 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 kids in bed at night cause 𝘆𝗼𝘂 don’t have any
𝘆𝗼𝘂 don’t cry when falling onto the comforter, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 laugh instead
𝘆𝗼𝘂 online shop during the midnight hour and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 purchase Indonesian products that were made in sweatshops
𝘆𝗼𝘂 don’t condemn those who killed for no reason, but 𝘆𝗼𝘂 don’t have such ruthless shower thoughts, i suppose
𝘆𝗼𝘂 witness the moon glimmer in the desolate night as the world remains still
𝘆𝗼𝘂 fall asleep quickly and 𝘆𝗼𝘂 repeat
𝘆𝗼𝘂 do this all when the sun hasn’t risen for some
the moon hadn’t shined in the darkest of nights
the war was fueled with gaslighting and bombs
the fog hasn’t lifted, it barricades the doors of little houses
the street wasn’t bright enough and someone got tackled
the gun hasn’t stop shooting in the courtyard
the prayer was never uttered from such posh lips
the emptiness never ceased to exist
how could 𝘆𝗼𝘂 be so selfish?