I like immigrants, immigration. Legal immigration,
Jane passionately corrects. Actually my goal is a borderless world.
That's a new idea to her.
Gathering the neighborhood like family.
The men discuss sterilizing welfare mothers. I say You're working
      around the edges,
humanity has exceeded the carrying capacity of the planet,
even those with jobs. And spouses. And houses.
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass,
two baseball teams of children playing in it. Safe from Pakistan.
News photos of Muslim refugees, women in blue robes, biblically
carrying children away from holocaust. The fundamentalist army
not far behind, beheading sinners, sure in its righteousness
as the Holy Roman Empire.

Somehow Joel Osteen the evangelist comes up
while talking about how the Catholic Church is irrelevant in North
      America,
even Latin America and Africa are going evangelical.
Izzi likes Osteen, awesome extemporaneous speaker, no teleprompter,
up from bootstraps message. My wife says he's probably Jewish.
No one wants to go there.
Fortunately no one claims the Holocaust never happened or slavery
      was voluntary.
What is the carrying capacity of the planet? Two children
have replacement value. In China is it each couple or each adult that gets
one offspring? As life expectancy and standards rise,
family size diminishes. We draw together into greener, tighter cities
surrounded by farms surrounded by forests.
The children of three monotheistic religions, atheists and agnostics
play in city streets, work farm fields, explore forests, deserts,
      grasslands, space.

Two ancient female poets: Enheduanna and Sappho
are a revelation. The clarity of their complaints:
lost lover, lost city.

PLEDGE TO NIGERIA
By: Adigun Temitope Idealism


From between heaven and earth stand a perilous place
Where poverty kicked us on face
Tears stand as our drinks
Where hunger eat up our meals
Our pain is a poisonous laughter
Where sadness becomes our daily activities
Where hardship becomes our ambition
And sorrow our career
Still, we need to pledge to Nigeria

Blood, bone and oil,
Are the pedestal of earth
Where killing is a lifestyle
And ****** a hobby
Where humiliation becomes our take home
And misfortune our store-house
Where graduate works by the road-side
Where poverty is titillating and titivating before the mirror of our land
Yet we need to pledge to Nigeria

Pledge to Nigeria
Even when the birds refuses to sing,
When moon dims its light,
When our days turn into nights
When sun fails to shine
And flowers refuse to bloom
When life fails to give reasons
When dreams refuse to forgive
When the weep inside birth the smile outside
When tears wash hope from our sight
Nigeria must still be pledge to

I pledge to Nigeria
Not to be one if the ambassadors that sing the National Anthem with a teleprompter smiling at them in a shameful tears
I pledge not to be a naked masquerade dancing at the village square
I pledge to steal government money for the poor when I become the President
I pledge to be loyal and not betrayal
I pledge to fight off vices and calamities with my pen
If democracy must to end
I pledge to go crazy to stop it to the end
If civilization was to make us stupid
I pledge to swim in stupidity not to be civilised
I pledge, I pledge

©2015 Adigun Temitope Idealism (Deacon)


#Muse #PurposefulPoetry #BPM #IIB #Asaplanet #ThoughtAndSociety #Poetfreak
blackpridemagazin.simplesite.com
@blackpridemag1

A lachrymose ebullition,
unable to be muffled by its producer,
is postulated idiosyncratic,
and erupts behind locked doors of each abode.  

Remembrance trailing each hastily inhaled sob
of each adolescent informed of responsibility,
and of how appearances are more important
than actualities,
but not the stones it chains to their feet,
nor how they must repress sentiment.

If the building blocks of Stonehenge
were to frolic and wriggle voluntarily,
what force would fight the gravity
always pressing downwards on those below,
from collapsing the entire structure?

Without convenience to focus on sentiment
the neglected portion of our humanity
congeals until it can no longer be contained,
until it metastasizes from heart to brain.

Until the bulldozer rolls through you without resistance,
to create a more scenic landscape,
or else,
a multistoried parking garage for others to leave
their possessions they do not require at the moment.

Inaudible to distracted passers-by
wrapped up in their causeries,
of the scores of their preferent Colosseum teams,
or else,
sensational stories relayed by jovial faces
from the teleprompter directly to their subconscious.

This outburst,
anticipated to reverberate only within the confines
of the relative safety of this shelter,
until the sound waves of each echo
slowly
lose
momentum.

Who could be expected to hear each cog,
slowly being worn down,
while hidden within a working machine?

When those that convince the populace
that their lament will be heard and mended
urgently cram currency into their ear canals
when their position has allowed their own
muffled cries to cease.

This begs a question from the masses.
A question, muffled, and without words.
Each raised hand stretched upwards
as the inattentive teacher ignores,
causes another hand to reach skyward.

This populace never intended for their own
whimpers to be heard,
not heard, but heeded.
While the torment of their tear filled convulsions
bulldozes through them,
not heeded, but auscultated.

Yet, these proceedings were never attended.

Not even by those same
that attempt to muffle their own ebullition
within the sound-proofed walls of the shelters
that they conceal themselves in.

Each, alone, quietly succumbs to the pressures
of waiting out
jovial sentiment with uncomfortable contentment.
Waiting,
to not exhale each murmur,
but to consume the promises they are fed
by those same whose ears are plugged with green,
until the protecting walls grow bars
and all are provided with solitary confinement.

Until it is only logic that guides the thought
that each is truly and irreversibly alone.

Until all are singled out in their struggles,
until they are uncomfortable recognizing
that they exist.

Until, separately, each attempts to smooth
their worn edges,
as to not break down the machine.
To hide the nicks that they have endured
lest they should cause,
a momentary lapse,
in productivity.

Each gear is further deformed
by this bending and contorting,
as the fear of protest causes them
to endure the pressure of warping
to try to fit a position
that they were not molded for.

Until they believe that unrepressed sentiment
has been made illegal,
and that unmuffled voices
will only cause more harm.

Yet, there are those that hear,
and heed,
and auscultate,
each muffled cry.
Each weeping convulsion,
and the pressure caused by keeping them in.

For those,
each turn they make within the machine,
is made with the sole purpose
of removing mufflers.

Until each muffled sentiment is uninhibited,
moved by the tsunami of a zeitgeist,
and ascends toward the empyrean.
Until each cultural center covered by a filter
inverts the filter's position
to collect sentiment from the base,
and send the congealed, concentrated,
neglect of humanity to the precipice.

Each syllable combining with the next,
working in unison,
as those that participate in primal dances,
to take a new form.

Not even those that release this unmuffled sentiment
know the form this conglomeration will adopt,
but it will move from one coast to the next.
A tidal wave of tears that will push
from one corner of humanity to the next,
until we again understand that it is acceptable
to feel our pain in unison.

So that we can begin to make progress
on the alterations that are necessary to the machine.
So that we are once again able to produce something,
besides awkward struggle.
So that we can stand on the highest precipice
of every unmuffled sentiment,
with unimpeded hope that one day we may relearn how
to hear, and heed, and auscultate,
happiness in unison.

Spending the last day with Maegan Finn,*
who, turns out, prefers to be called Mae

11:35 p.m.

I burn the popcorn. Just the pieces against the bag's underbelly.
Like a nightclub bouncer, I decide which pieces to let inside
a white, ancient bowl. One, on which, a former roommate scrawled
"THIS MACHINE KILLS MUNCHIES" upon its side in red, permanent ink.
I never said the night would be

perfect. But when I walk into my bedroom carrying the snack fiasco,
I know Ms. Maegan Finn doesn't mind. Something between her vine-framed,
honey irises and my gaze, some mischievous energy, causes her to lower
her head. She allows a smile. She's sitting on my twin-sized bed. Her back to a pillow
to the

wall. An empty pillow beside her waits for me. With one hand she moves her hot chocolate
to the side, with the other she lifts my calico comforter for me to climb under. I never
said the night would be

perfect. But I know Ms. Maegan Finn doesn't mind. Because when I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't really plan for this," nervous laugh, "this is the worst final meal of all-time. You can leave if you want.
You don't have to go down with the ship."

She responds, "I don't mind," raises an eyebrow as she reads the bowl. Dismisses it. And grabs a handful of popcorn. On the television, a white-haired man with heavy jowls and tree bark wrinkles begins to talk.

...planet Earth will be recycled. The universe recycled.

"So, when does this guy think the world will end?" I ask.

"Midnight."

"Chris said two."

"Two p.m.? Like today? Like already past?"

"Yeah."

Maegan shakes her head,"Stupid *******."

11:40 p.m.

"So, if I hadn't botched dinner, what would you have chosen for your last meal?"

"Well, Joshy-poo, I'd have to say popcorn and hot chocolate."

"Seriously."

"It's salty. It's sweet. The temperatures compliment each other.
It shouldn't work, but it does. If the world wasn't ending,
I'd suggest you open a restaurant."

"C'mon. What would your last meal be?"

...with friends. Cling to your loved ones as the final minutes pass by.
The world becomes perfect. The calendar pages turn no...

"Do you remember Waffle Crisp?" she breaks gently.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Hold on."

"Any meal on the planet. Anything! And you choose-"

"Waffle Crisp."

"Oh, that terrible commercial with the grannies in disguise."

"Grannies and all," staring at the reflective surface of the hot chocolate,
she begins talking in distant pieces like reading off a teleprompter,
"Waffle            Crisp            reminds

me           of           my

              dad."

"I see."

A commercial is on for ******. I never said the night would be

perfect.

...picking the right moment is easy with...

"Why do you think of your dad?"

Maegan releases a deep exhale/tension-laugh.

"I don't know. I mean, I

guess it's because every morning -- well, before my parents got divorced --
he'd come down the stairs, mess up my hair -- God, I'd get so mad --, and
he'd say,
'Mae, may the world learn from your perfection today.'
He'd kiss my forehead. I'd eat Waffle Crisp. I remember the smell -- the shapes."

11:51 p.m.

...less than ten minutes. Go outside with your families
look to the

heavens...

"How's the world supposed to end? Has he said?" Maegan asks.

With a finger raised, I finish chewing my popcorn.

"The planets are aligning right?"

"Yeah, I've heard that. I've heard the Mayans just
ended their calendars on the

date. But I don't know how either of those scenarios make the world end, though."

"Exploding sun?"

"Maybe an asteroid?"

"Could be," I say.

Ms. Maegan Finn rests her head on my shoulder. "You should ask another question."

"Um, okay."

...Security Systems. Are your children safe?

"I got one," I grab the remote and turn down the television. "What is something you haven't told

anyone? One secret that otherwise would die with you."

"I hate the name Maegan."

"Why?"

"It's a terrible name."

"Is not."

"It is too. First off, not only did my parents indulge the cruelty of switching the 'a' and 'e',

but

then they went ahead and gave me the most common girl's name on the planet.
I don't stand out until I say, 'Excuse me, you misspelled my name.' It's not funny.
Hell, even when I say that, their usual response is, 'No, I didn't misspell your name.'
Because they'd know."  Flustered, Maegan puts the white, ancient bowl of popcorn on the ground. "And get this away from me."

"What would you rather be called?"

"Mae. Just Mae. I always liked it."

"Alright, Ms. Mae."

...hoisted unto judgement. Some without absolution...

"What about you, Mr. Josh? What's your secret?"

I take a sip of hot chocolate. I look at the bare wall behind the television, and wish I had
decorated it, but I

never did. The paintings are even in my closet. They just need to be put up.

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you, Mae."

Mae smiles wide. Puts her hand on my shoulder, "Your'e joking right?"

"Nope."

"That's a bold secret to tell," she laughs.

"Not the reaction I was expecting."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just -- what happens tomorrow? When I have to see you again."

"I'm betting on the exploding sun."

"Or the asteroid."

"Or the asteroid."

11:59 p.m.

...a matter of seconds until we are cast like dice into the blackness of...

Mae takes my hot chocolate. Places the porcelain cups on the carpeted floor. With a "c'mere" she peels me off the pillow, off the wall. Moves the pillow to the head of the bed. She guides my body until I'm lying down. Straddling me, she leans down. Traces my shoulder blades, then softly latches on to them. She leans further.

...9, 8, 7...*

A kiss.

A long kiss. The weight transfers from my body into her, then is carried toward the ceiling by some mischievous energy. At the end of the world, Ms. Mae Finn kisses me. Kisses me despite popcorn. Despite hot chocolate. Despite love confessed too soon. Just when I never want that minute to end, it




ends.



12:00 a.m.
          
               But a new minute begins.

"That was perfect," Mae says.

Took my pen, and pad
away, life's scripted, just read
the teleprompter...

                             Kelly McManus

omnipresent sick to my ******* stomach

dressed in mosquitoes that are woolen
like the lining of my english ******* and
coated in a complex mixture of secreted proteins
i follow the screen of the teleprompter as it storms,
blue and brilliant behind a mess of optical wiring.

lip and teeth
theres bile at the base of my throat
threatening to bust with each greased second
as my brain becomes nauseated by the snow-drift
of sentences burning the back of my eyelids.
i've never believed the things i read
so now i'm mute but spitting, spiteful and unoriginal
visualizing their greyhound decapitations in high colour.
nearly implying transit to our friendship or something
that would only churn the stomach like rich food after famine

so yes, i am the cruelest female of august
shipwrecked on the front porch with the lamplight raining in my mind
and i'm asking the moon as it rises like a solemn word
why i'm sick all the time, sweating
from everywhere but my tear ducts and
waiting for several breeds of cold to attack my corpse

Change
On the horizon
Pockets are empty
Black meets blue
In hues of the pain of yesterday

Change
In hand
The vending machine's empty
Six miles out of reach, out of juice,
And out of gas

Change
The television channel
Vapid Anchors are empty
Teleprompter madness
In full make up and air conditioning

Change
Her mind
Her heart is empty
Abused by the fallacy in the word love
On the lips of liars

Change
Of venue
His smile is empty
He feels the souls too deeply
There is no one here to notice the smile isn't real

Change
A life
The Child's eyes are empty
The streets are kinder
Than the junkies who sold him for a fix

Change
The world
The people are empty
Media drones brainwashed
Into apathetic zombies

That is how to stop
                                         Change

His hair is poofed, 8 out of ten
Teeth polished soft white
Back is naired, nails all clipped
Underwear still clean
He is bouncy and blathy
A brassy baritone rips across the set
Co-anchor all Xanaxed and blonded
Can’t feel her glowing red mouth

About to show their favourite clips
Starving umber skinned babies
Distended bellies, chopstick arms
Fly clouded eyes, light fading
Mothers with vacant grey faces

Collapsed buildings, bodies sprawled
Terrified animals dying

Video Head man turns to the camera
Mouths the teleprompter tales
Without meaning
Can’t feel his heartbeat

He’s thinking about his *******
Of 17 year old Crack babes locked in his suite
‘N Just as he starts to get jazzed up

The lights go down and he knows
He knows
He’s just a digital clown
FFFTTT…
The electrons are gone.

Songs of the Illustrated Zombies 2010

Jan. 22nd, 2013

The bird tweets, but not for you.
Like a teapot screaming with no one to remove it;
Your voice is like a teleprompter on a fuzzy station telling me the evening news

But it's not as if you are hallowing out my bones with every word
The rings of age on my trunk are colored red and blue when you were there
but now green with life and growth and care

and I can't figure out if I'm completely full of ****
or if I'm just over it.

Why?
Why do people treat us as fools?
As, if we are a dummy in the room.
Who hadn't notice a pretty woman using her ways to get ahead?
Even, if they very talented.
Same with some of the men.

Oh, we see it in life's in many ways.
Still, they treat us like dummy instead.
Why?

We see in the sports world.
Where many ladies are gorgeous?
And like men reading a teleprompter.
Are they their for other reasons?
Then to be treated like a model trying to hook the male.

We notice the male charmer using his skills.
To flirt with the females to seal a deal.
But, we are treated like dummies instead.

In a way we can relate with them.
We just don't wants to be used like them.

Hate not Trump.
Hate not his supporters.
Yes, many are great out coming bigots.

But pay attention to the image you see.
And this alone tells you everything.

They mainly older whites close to his age.
THIS ALONE TELL YOU VARIETY OF THINGS.
Many only feel secure around their kinds.

Around others they strictly insecure.
But know when to speak and when not too.

Some would support segregation in a heartbeat.
For many can't stand the accomplishment of other races.

They still living in the days of their youth and not in the present of a changing nation.

Hate not the clown who barely can speak?
Even when a teleprompter is before him.
And he has the nerve to attack President Obama.

Then a highly educated man scares him too.
So to others in society, this isn't new.
Hate not the man speaking like a fool.

We need some to laugh at every now and then.

she will always begin with a pause,
her eyebrows will lift the wrinkles of her forehead,

exhale.
sharp stare.

she will always open with some battered phrase,
something to the effect of "we need to talk" or
"is something wrong?"

i slide a sigh.
roll my eyes
off to the
distant side.

she will always hope the drama of the event
will scare me into a newfound commitment,
it did the first few tries.

look to her play-tears.
read them like a teleprompter.

she will always use *** as the scapegoat,
condemning me for my high crimes,
my dwindling light of real integrity.

read her my
polished response.

she will cry for the remainder of her waking state,
we'll open our eyes only to find,
ourselves tangled in one another,
sweaty from the weighty night.
she won't be crying.
and we'll be in love again.

over and over and over
and over and over and
over and over and over
             again.

Take a look at all of you down there
So sure of yourselves
So full of the hustle-bustle of life itself
Never stopping to see what could be
Potentially the greatest things of your lives
Jutting through the stream like hot knives
No all simply let life pass them by
Not seeing all the things
Looking you in the eye
And will watch even when you lie asleep
For the final time
You all think you’re hot ****
All hit and no miss
No questions
All answers
Obsess with self worth
Convinced that you’re dust with a value
Just because a god you’re not even sure exists told you so
When the urge to **** is gone
What’s the difference between you and the dirt you walk on
You all rise and fall like the waves in the oceans
Like a glissando of smoker coughs
New ideas are thrown against the scoffs and scrutiny
Of those obstinate practitioners of organized ignorance
You are the only one who should impose sanction on your life
Not some pretty news anchor
Who nods at the teleprompter with total belief
You all chase after superficiality like a poor animal
At the snap of some fat fingers
Call yourselves Pavlov’s pet
You fattened the hand that feeds you yourselves
Have you met the total of life’s offer
Have you looked at yourself in the mirror
And not seen cheap narcissism winking back
Self-imposed limits are acceptable to live by
A moratorium of thought is not
You have free speech
Now learn free thought
Explain the intricacies of a fast food drive through
To the children of Darfur
Explain how you didn’t want to learn how to finish your schoolwork
To the little girl who can’t afford to buy pencils for hers
She will tell you with chagrin how she aspires to be a writer and a poet
But can’t afford the books to help her help herself
You express yourself by exerting as little effort
While she isn’t able to put in the effort to express herself
It’s the ultimate irony
Religion ceased to be the ****** of the masses
When it got it reached one-million views
You all can ask where do I get off
And I will only smile and tell you how I am just like you
I watch the same TV
Eat the same food
Wear the same clothes
The only difference is you can be different
And by simply choosing to do so or not is a step in the right direction
You are your own Atlas
Carry your own world
Anyone else is just liable to drop it

Tomorrow is you, you, you day, doomsday, Tuesday, too-soon day,
But for now, we have headlight heartthumps and stars in your eyes.
We have oceans of asphalt where we sail in shopping cart man o’ wars.
We have frizzy hair where moonlight hides and kisses on our magenta lips.
Tomorrow is for you, by you, with a special guest appearance by you.
Teleprompter notebook clutched in non-regional fingers
as your throat flies over the early morning traffic for the eight am report.
Tomorrow is to die for, lie for, try for, because you need it, seed it, want to be it.
We have place, we have lace, fingers traced over the skin between the lines.
Tomorrow is lentil spectacles, vision impaired, nightmares in mirrors that are closer than they appear.
We have scarves, secret sensuality, subconsciousness, sovereign sometimes and their armies of selfish senses.
Tomorrow is springtime revolution, noodle-nooses and ready, aim, fire reanimated dreams.
We have the means, the torn seams along the moments when we know what we want.
We have what seems to be the day, the day, the holiday, the you-day.
Tomorrow is every day.

Is it just me?
Or some feel close to what I speak?

Why?
Do reporters concentrate on DJT  twittering thumb?
When many of us know it not him but someone.

If, he can't read a teleprompter before him without pause.
Are, we suppose to be buying into this nonsense he's on twitter?

Patience, he doesn't have.
Which means one of the minions writing under his tagline.

Pay attention closely, how all the newsgroup report this stupidity that DJT writes this on the social site.
Really, people, this man isn't so bright.

We very aware DJT Jr. just as dumb too.
Maybe he should let the other siblings speak.
For when he does he create more headaches.

Then the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
But we aware that DJT isn't writing all the tweets.

Even if they can't spell.

When Donald Trump gets up to speak, you simply never know.
Will he seem sane or ludicrous? Just which way will he go?
Will he stick to the teleprompter, presidentially,
or rant his way to la-la land, lost in a fantasy?

Will he just share the facts and make his statement strong and clear,
or ramble, lie and shout and spread division, hate and fear?
When needed, he reads from the script, but looks like he's in pain.
He'd rather spout what's in his head, no matter how insane.

So when we all see ****** Trump, it's plain to see the fact,
that Presidential Trump is just an unconvincing act!

Politicians
are simply
socially sanctioned con-men
(and women)
with taxpayer salaries
and a teleprompter.

I would rather a leader
who is willing to laugh in the face
of his enemies,
as they spread their ridiculous lies.
Than a teleprompter reading Eunech,
with empty space between his thighs.

War is declared on the 8 o'clock news
By the dead-eyed ghost shoved in front of the teleprompter
The artists marched on the throne of God to vindicate their suffering
and called it alchemy when it turned to gold before their eyes
On wings of wax they kissed the sun risen high on the sky
and then ****** the night away
And they went and told it on the mountain,
They preached it into the sea
And held mass in abortion clinics and asylums,
And delivered brimstone sermons on the street corner where they sold opiates and muscle relaxers,
9 dollars 10 cents a pop
A Crusade on Wall Street!
And a Jihad on Main Street!
And the nihlists selling barbecued ribs on the side
Revolution! A maniac wielding a megaphone like a Molotov cocktail!
All of creation destroyed and recreated with almost historical accuracy
They called it justice atop the gallows and called it tragedy when it was in private
The writings on the asylum wall held comfort and good tidings, this time at least
And at least Hell lit a fire to keep away the cold
So the artists marched on
Awash in their Midas glow
******* into oblivion and forgetting to shower
Bringing God to his knees,
Crying for peace to the domed ceiling
With 50 dead spirits waiting in the wings

Every inch of my being is tired,
exhausted really, or some other form of the word
that I can't quite think of because my mind is on auto-pilot.
and I can't exactly put into words how I feel right now
without sounding ******* crazy but basically-
I'm tired of wanting to see my hand go completely through a wall
and not exactly know why I want to let loose on everything around me.
I'm tired of one day wanting to ******* from the face of the earth
and the next loving every single tree and blade of grass there is.
The irritation isn't worth the euphoria
but the euphoria makes everything else seem worthy.

I have traced my hand on paper and turned it into something,
like a thanksgiving turkey or a cool art project
just so I am reminded that these hands can hold more things
and touch more people than I could ever imagine
all I have to do is utilize these words and harness them
into something, something other than rage and fury.
I'm so ******* tired of feeling like I am running a race
while wearing weights around my ankles
and a lock around my mind so I can't think of anything else
except the circumstance I am in right now.

Why is negativity so easy?
When everything else is so ******* hard
and I'd like to think it's because nothing good comes from negativity.
All good things come from positivity right?
Well what about to nights I want to be alone
but the whole world is on my back pushing me to maintain
and everyone is hovering around me with expectations and worries
But all I have to do is reply with a simple,
I don't feel well and it all vanishes.
But this isn't the life I want to live,
constantly feeling nothing but pain,
physical and psychical what the **** is the difference?
Because physically you're in pain it makes you psychically in pain
Vice Versa. Vice Versa. Vice Versa.  
This is why every vice we have like cigarettes and ***** are bad
because nothing good comes from the bad things.
So why are there any bad things at all?

I  would like at least once
to write and really think about what I write,
and get somewhere magical.
Write the best ******* **** i've ever laid eyes on-
But then I start and I get so enthralled in my stream of conscious
I am not longer in control of what my hands type,
it's like a teleprompter in my head leading the way.
I wish it all made sense.
I wish I believed in god and heaven-
that it would make all of this easier but it doesn't.
if god exists why do I see ghosts of lives past
creeping behind closed doors in the light of day?
Why in the **** is there so much corruption in the church?
You would think he would try to stop us,
but maybe this is the plan.

Maybe depersonalization is actually just being one with the universe.
and maybe manic depression is just reminding us
how we can harness the intensity of our emotions-
because I've felt that dry wall cling to the knuckles
on my fragile hands and ever since then I've never felt so alive,
but I look at the damage and start to worry what my father will think.
How will I mend what I spent so little time breaking?

you know it's getting bad when
you're starting to act like a teleprompter for your friends

trying to coax them to the conclusion
but too afraid, too empty, too smothered, too something to just come out and say
"i'm probably not okay"

and see, i can't even type it here without first qualifying it as only probably

there's a map to my chaos
my words are your guide
you can find hints of my despair
on the Radiator or
in the taste of Codeine
despair as bitter cold and dark as it gets

i've desperately got my hands to my throat
i'm giving you the choking sign
i'm so far gone down the rabbit hole that you can only hear the echoes of my sighs

but this is my last flare
so i will hover over the light of its hope until you either see me or it dies

She's focused on the sea
I think I'll call her Miriam this
morn , she's right sure of her
place along the shore
The ocean is a teleprompter , a
memory barometer , a gauge of the past ,
something that'll last
A living photo in a seized thought process ,
a pretty blue gown in a beauty contest
Best of luck to all the Miriam's on the beach
I pray thee peace and inner strength* ..

a whisper to the side
a tingle up my spine
a teleprompter in my head
that i forgot to mind

The Trump thank-me rallies continue
As Trump hops from state to state,
Expecting applause and adulation
From loyal fans who congregate.

Trying to sound presidential
Is a challenge for one ill-equipped
To speak without a teleprompter
And sound articulate when off script.

To Trump press conferences
Are useless, senseless rigmarole.
He is more comfortable
Tweeting and being an Internet troll.

But how he loves his thank-me rallies!
He can stand on the stage and address
All of his vague promises
Without questions from the press.

Cheering crowds of people show up,
Praising Trump's theatricality.
Funny, many supporters share
The man's alternate reality.

- by Bob B (12-14-16)

Dog lovers know that a dog can be a great comfort. An old man's barking dog disturbed a neighbor who felt a civil obligation to call the cops. The cops murdered the old man, then shot his dog. A gun with the serial number ground off was placed in the old man's dead hand. The cops agreed to back each other up at the inquiry so that they wouldn't get in trouble for murdering the old man. ~ Robin Williams was worth $50,000,000. Who benefits from his death? When a wealthy man dies, esp. by "suicide," an investigation is warranted. 11 August 2014 ~ Within an hour of finding his body, before an autopsy and before his body cooled, corporate “news” teleprompter readers “reported” that multi-millionaire actor Robin Williams died from an “apparent suicide.” An hour after the “reporting” of his “apparent suicide” teleprompter readers “reported” that Robin Williams had died from “suicide.” Every business day many thousands of American citizens are arraigned on conspiracy charges. A conspiracy is an immoral or illegal act with 2 or more participants. It's astounding that this simple point is lost on most people.

It's the first hot crap of a dazzled morning that mocks exits & doors
where fertile stores of fertilizer fertilize ***** slaughter-house floors

People say Trump is "reckless," "unhinged,"
"Consumed by his dark moods,"
"Unfit," "unstable" and that he's like
A "tantrum-throwing child" that broods.

He's "unraveling," "losing a step…."
He's "dangerous for the country," too.
"Deteriorating on the job"
Has been said by more than a few.

White House staffers must protect him
From himself. And SO much
Chaos exists, that some say he
Has the "reverse Midas touch."

When he's behind a teleprompter,
The man sounds less obtuse.
But when he speaks off the cuff,
My goodness! all hell breaks loose.

So has the White House now become
An adult day care center? How sad!
Bush 2 is probably thinking,
"And YOU thought that I was bad!"

(10-12-17) By Bob B