There are no transmissions any more
Just long rocking emotions
sitting on the front porch of life
The skin of our teeth leaves
a vacuous  hunger
for the virginity of thought
But the magic inferred
leaves nothing but a sunset's ray
of goodbye upon the plains
of yesterday's regrets

He smiles so bright like he has teeth of gold.
Projecting the reflections of his own inceptions.
I'm done grieving the words that once killed the inner me.
Verbally abusive was the past that didn't last.
He shattered my hope like splintered and shattered glass.

As far as the moon is to the sun is he to me.
I can picture his face but to me he's faceless.
His voice is like the echo of a stranger.
He salts his words with flatter,
it doesn't matter, they are tasteless.

His speech is drenched in hypocritical lyricals.
Transmissions of emphatic subliminals
transformed him into an emotional criminal.
If people would obey the limitations of their naive believes.
Maybe they would know that he calls me once a year...

I'm blessed
I can broadcast transmissions
But they are not communications
Nobody can receive my transmissions.
I'm a radio signal
with no radios
I'm screaming again.
Nobody registers my broadcasts.
My waves bypass all receivers.
I'd tune my radio station to all the things who can not be heard.
They must be speaking honestly with nobody to impress.
I'd let them into my mind. I'd love to hear their transmissions.
I only love the transmissions meant for nobody.
Acting is death, persuasion is a lowly pastime.

Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

I.
I wonder if you remember me.
You said, “Go out. Find me
that universe, and take these
with you.” Talismans.
Good luck charms like Mozart
and fifty-five ways to say hello.
Navajo night chant,
Peruvian wedding song,
diagrams of ribcages, gender,
bushmen and bones.
Gifts for a people you said
I may never meet.

It has been thirty-four years
and I wonder if you remember me.

II.
Less and less,
we call across the distance:
sixteen-point-twelve hours
between transmissions
and I wonder if you remember me.
I nearly kissed Jupiter for you,
nearly skimmed Saturn’s bright rings,
but you said, “Go out.
Find me that universe,”
so I sail out into the dark for you.

I keep a photo of you,
twenty years ancient,
to keep away the quiet
between your calls:
pale pixel, distant dot,
my origin receding,
I wonder if you remember me.

III.
I know now,
you never meant
to call me home.
Dutifully, I will go out,
but I wonder if you forget me.
I am still here, sailing.

Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was  the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.

It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.

The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.

Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.

Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.


Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.

Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.

Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.

i'm sure
life was a peach
til he was born breach
but the inversion of his excursion
into the hands of the surgeon left him worse an'
the immersive submersion
in perversive subversion
was only urgin'
the incursion
of aspersions
for subversive diversion
as
an apparition with volition
wishin for position transition
fishin for recognition
of  ambitious cognition    
this in addition
to the malicious conditions
that stitched in repetitions
of neurochemical
         composition
       transmissions
    entailing
the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory sensory.

said the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory.

Dear friends,

Outward we go, outward to the vast infinity, the great mother ship of all entities, past present and future.
Outward to the cold reality of limitless space where pinpricks of light reflect time which began a million years past.

The great unknown where for eons, since man descended from the trees, his very hopes dreams and prayers have been directed.

Beyond the maelstrom of the sun's living cauldron, beyond the titanic violence of coronal outforce, there lies a false calm. A vacuum of seeming emptiness which harbours a promise of galactic peacefulness but delivers the potential likelihood of eternal, calamitous catastrophe.

This is the realm where God's and Devil's reside.
This is the realm of unimaginable forces and stupendous violence.
This is, at once, our hope and our damnation...
THIS IS THE UNIVERSE.

This is the realm where man has sought communication as long as he has been able.... With utter futility.
For all of his advances in technology, his network of huge radio telescopes, his continuous Asceti transmissions, the development of the World Wide Web, the orbiting space station, the wonderful Hubbard telescope and his advances in space exploration and travel....THERE HAS BEEN NO REPONSE FROM OUT THERE.
SO WHY IS IT THAT MAN HAS HAD NO COMMUNICATION FROM SPACE?

And of time..eternal time ....anticipated as tomorrow. Retrieved as the now and dispensed to the yesterday. Are all three interpretations valid as manifestations of time or are the tones of future and past merely renditions of the actuality...the present?  If that is so how can the light of the stars, emitted so many eons ago, be seen right now as a reflection of the actuality of real time? Has time stretched or are the factors of space distance and time linked entities?

Is eternity a factor of time and space or is there another spectrum. Another source creating equilibrium in the quantum flux? Is size a factor... Is our solar system a submicroscopic nutrino attached to an atom on the **** of an incredibly slow living, gargantuan, multi universe sized ant?
.
..and if this is so...There's no wonder that there have been no replies to our efforts to communicate
...We are infintesimal.....Nobody can find us!

Serenely in the morning air, magnificence defies
Predictions of catastrophe from those whose word implies
That chance, that willing player, who skirts around the scene,
Would show her cards, calamitously, to render doom obscene.
....But for now the peacefulness and order everywhere
Has lovers in the lane ways and laughter in the air,
Has Autumn leaves cascading and white caps on the bay
With balmy clouds in blue skies to reflect this perfect day.

(Though....Forever now humanity could decry me as a brute
For I have, inadvertantly, crushed that ant beneath my boot!)


Marshalg
Looking up through the cold clear night air at 'Foxglove', through the myriad of crystal stars...and beyond.
27 January 2013

A word of explanation: The poem in italics depicts a scene of normality in the big picture, the megamacro world out there, where, like us, they have their own insecurities, their own great unknowns....and like our world, way down here, it is a place where accidents can happen!
Mg.

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I'm not doing this to hurt you

I used to have a philosophy
Much like mass I thought pain was neither created nor destroyed
Merely transferred from one to another
Constantly circling
And I thought if I hurt it would take away the pain of others

Before I went to sleep I would curl up in a ball imagining that I was taking the pain out of a child's scraped knee,  or giving peace to a man's last breath,  or saving you from a couple more tears
I slept with a smile on my face

I'm not doing this to hurt you

All I ever wanted to do was good

Worn transmissions will slip if you flush the old fluid out. This is because the old fluid contains bits and pieces of the memorable clutch, which increases the friction capacity of the fluid. With a worn clutch, more energy is transferred between engine and transmission. Over time, this increased viscosity and energy will increase the pressure in the veins of the machine, the clutch fragments sanding down the walls, and eventually, a seal will blow out, and the life fluid will spray everywhere until the machine grinds to a deathly halt. The only way to fix this is to completely rebuild the transmission one piece at a time, and put new fluid in. Cost and time wise, it’s better to just try another transmission. But people are more than a transmission. Sometimes, we get too emotionally involved, and we dig a hole to the center of the earth. A transmission cannot repair itself; it needs the help of a mindful mechanic.

T'was the gleaming dawn that those fairies poked from the veils of flowers and caught on hair were the pedals of the healthy sun. When the age was young and time knew not of itself, the hills were not corrupt.
   The wings of faeryflies and butterflies were tarnished not, but were glode upon by the winds of aimless grace; Thus they were always at Heaven's feet. Racing upon the glorified mountains were the badgers and bears lined in unison, smiling and perfect. The sun bound its rays to the shoulders of grass hills like eyes of Gods upon their children. Stood ***** were housing trees of the nested kind, fertile and lush.
   Lazy and idle slumped man happy and lethargic, hypnotized by that herbal glory that was his natural home. That of a kind that had been stolen in past tales but was revived in that timeless moment that could be lived and lived again alone in the forest to the east. Winged reptiles fluffed with fur dove from penetrating limbs and sung to the distance in inspiration. Perked were the ears of the majestic and gorgeous felines, born of the deserts that were the companions of kings. Not caring to hunt, lapped the wolves and dogs laying with the enemies of ages gone. Now only peace was reigning.
   Books and poems spoke of nothing new for the moment had found itself in heaven. The poets had no magic to convey and the authors nothing to tell, the scientists nothing to document. Thus the dreams of Children and Gods poured like water of the loveliest kind, sparkling with diamonds quenching the soul of the population. Food grew lush and free like fruits of divine knowledge upon that giving tree!
   Ritual and rite spoke of many diverse Deities and contact was non-denominational. Praise rose to the highest and rang of the clouds which were glided upon like notes of bards to which realms beyond one could go no further to speak! This was the realm from which language was born and art was bare in its true identity. This was where the onyx was carven by the Lord's anvil, given by the spirit of blacksmiths, and craftsmen of the like. Within those onyxes was night's essence and dwelling within the diamonds of day was a rainbow of fantasy hills free from decay!
   Giants gave free rides to the ones below with lifted songs of magic, levitating them free from natural bounds! The trees grew miraculously at speeds unknown to time lines perceived but was of time construed as God Speed. Bushes bared fruits of rainbow colors and iridescent visual illusion! Beautiful and bold were the tastes that quenched the deepest of yearnings. Salt liquid would drip from the children as they skipped from haven to haven with baskets woven on crafty mothers said to know of love. Those mothers would lullaby their babies to worlds of sorts known in mythologies of ageless civilizations! Lifted and beaming the children were transformed to angelic entities with harps of berceuses. Emanating were visual paradises transcendent of worldly nature but only known to the angels and the ears that were graced by glory!
   Proud were the further generations of what had been laid out by their tall, masculine birth fathers. Unholy language was unknown but only the ecstasy of heaven poured from lips like nectarous liquor.
   The forests were lined with prairies of diverse flowers sprinkled and gazed upon by moons and suns of worlds magical and beyond! Stumbling, the mossy giants wore clothes of Pan and draped were their leaves over their limbs reaching for love and what may lay beyond those wreathes.
   The soaked floor of druid woods were vibrant and lively. Untrodden paths bore magical potions and herbs that once ingested sung through the guest's frame till ecstasy was found and language no longer made distinct the inevitable unison that those vibrations of time had strung through countless, and meaningless ages. Entered would be a realm beyond form, void and the concept of either. But only would love and the moment of now float like stars of unfathomable material buoyant in the womb of worlds. And sprung from what would be perceived as void came all the heavens and what lay beneath those shaman's and kahuna's ingrown feet.
   Embedded were the children of time, one with nature and naked in themselves and free to breathe what ever purified and holy air that cuddled their outlines like a mother does her child.
   Spoke from ten thousand horns were the tales of Lords and Gods and kingdoms that laid harmonious upon mother earth. No matter how the bard of the local bar was spoken, crazy he would be deemed by men who now hid this knowledge from those who knew not of the possibility. In all languages that soul would speak to all ears ignorant to difference but had love for only the song. And now still the gift of imagination and the boundless feats that it could manifest were passed along like feathers and leaves upon the passing river. Sought and caught were the treasures of language to those who knew of translation. And lullabied were those Gods and Angels who heard of the transmissions.
   But now only the drunken bard lay sloppy and tired beneath that tree that somehow taught him of nature and the wisdom that it held. And off into the distance sprang the vibration of his passing mumblings like songs of nonsense upon that aimless wind.

i think i know
that somewhat ulterior suggestion that you crept into my mind
like a vivid rainbow across your face
light transmissions offering up your words
your image is on repeat
and our sentiments are all quite something else
always on hindsight
on turmoil
easily not speaking
confused about what we want
overexposed to death
we each smell detached
the way we sound in the distance
often too frail to reach inside our beautiful loneliness

Sometimes when I try to force a poem, nothing happens.
But in the moment before I fall asleep
In the swirl of commotion that consumes my mind
Pops in that perfect line that was just
Out of reach
Then the flood gates open
My mind is awash with line after line
It goes as quickly as it arrives
If I don't get them on paper quick enough, they start to decay
That's why I keep a notebook next to my bed
Often when i read it in the morning it doesn't sound like me

Gunmetal Christmas socks pulled
past the calf like go-getter high school
girls "rocking" rainbow ******* below
the belt loops. I never went a day
without seeing short shorts and socks
replacing pant legs with a gap at the knee
to breathe. Downplay X-mas with black
jeans thinning 'bove the knees. I guess
it's payback for all the surly Santas
paid per nervous child lapdance
that got ******* out of $1.50
because I walked away.
For all the St. Nicks breathing pressurized
bourbon on little kids' wishlists.
Thread through a burgundy belt frayed
by the buckle teeth. And I'm sure this is really
burgundy, probably the only burgundy I never
questioned much, unless the manufacturer's
lying to me. Unless it's really a flexible case
for wild circuits and tiny open mics in bars
going on 'round the clock. Not just Tuesdays.
Fiber optics around my waist transmitting
telephone transmissions and cybernetic ****
monitoring my hips and what my **** does.
And my thoughts; they're ******* taking
my thoughts. Precious poetry lines lost
to the scarcity of pens in my car, when I'll
shave next, whether or not I want a burr grinder,
if I'll break glasses at work and have to drink
the glitters like iced tea from the hardwood floor.
Maybe I'll cut my gums. Maybe my tongue'll
become a chandelier butterfly and carry
me to Coudersport or Elmira or Nowhere
to watch pregnant teenagers push flat-tire
shopping carts ******-shaking in the newborn
section. Their babies are spitting up Gerber plans
Mom has never considered. Baby's just a rock rolling
down the birth canal that may someday end up
a boulder in a state park.

It's either a menace or a nuisance.
You don't know it's inside the walls until
You hear it. Miles of wire, humming
With current. Power lines, transformers,
Radio waves, microwaves, radar. Keep
A vigil or those transmissions unravel
Inside your ears. Every phone call, talk show,
And radio jingle all at the same
Time that you can't turn off. This is how God
Must feel, but instead of omniscient you
Are insane. Love will drive you mad, but the
Silence of heartache is worse than
Static from a television, it's loss.

♠ ♠ ♠

Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…

Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,

Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,

Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,

Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric,  semi-formal,

matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),

coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.

Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,

Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.

Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring  –  formulaic)
confounds –  yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.

Lists like this are perhaps  the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.

we are all
distributed transmissions
of the same
fundamental rhythm

heavy head
raise the lever
open eyes receive
light transmissions
signal time and space

je me reveille dans une chambre
qui ne me connait pas

j'attendais la vie me lève
mais il n'a jamais fait

They have tried to conceal our love,
they've thrown up roadblocks, and smokescreens
to keep us from finding each other again,
but yet we always do. Our love has its own radar.
I can sense your heart beating, like an angelic drum
through the haze, and I know you can always hear the love
in my voice, even through the harsh foul static.

Even when you cannot respond, I know you know
my love is always glowing, like a lighthouse in the night.
Guiding you back to my harbor of eternal affection,
where my lips never tire of sounding the horn of our happiness.
I have stumbled for women before, like a blind man descending stairs.
But I never fell, until I tumbled head first into the bottomless pool
of your beauty. The only waters in which I would gladly drown,
have drowned, only to be rescued and resuscitated by your kisses.
  
Those who do not speak the language of our love, point their antennas our way,
they intercept our transmissions, but their code books are missing the pages
that explain how such emotion can be decoded. They only catch the grand communique,
always missing the short, but ever so loving messages, that come in daily
over the teletype of passion. Feverishly at this very moment, they wrack their brains
wondering at the deeper context of our words, but their is no hidden meaning,
behind the expression of affection. Love is its own context, and if they cannot translate it
then they are the ones at fault, not us. We have our own frequencies, and wavelengths.

Our Love shall always ring out in the darkness, even if we have to switch channels,
It will be there, to comfort us, and relieve the ache of our longing. I already have enough
in this world. Let them have the rest. All I need is our tiny daily broadcast, all I need is...
Our love.

A moderately sized planet,
afloat in a distant spiral galaxy
orbiting an unremarkable star,
has taken the Tardigrazian nations by storm.
For thousands of their star cycles,
they have been capturing the imaginations
of countless people watching from their pods
both Planetside and Satellite alike,
brought together by the light
of the Blue Bead –

The little exoplanet and that defied all reason
and persisted at all cost,
despite itself,
possibly to spite itself.
Millions of lightyears away from our humble empire.

This tiny little dot
and the two-legged folk walking upon it
became something of a cultural phenomenon.
We have become the cheerleaders
for a people likely long passed.
We used to believe they might outlive their star
Go on to visit other planets -
meet their neighbors, like we did.

But recent transmissions from our probes
spell a tragic end on the horizon
for our distant friends,
whom we’ve seen climb down from trees,
invent tools, and writing, and cities, and more
but they never stopped at a reasonable spot.

No amount self-inflicted suffering
they brought in the name
of that momentum would stop them.
Progress, and the comfort that comes with it,
being not unlike an intoxicant for these people.
Addicts will always justify the means.

Their world has rapidly grown warmer
in the time we’ve been observing them.
Soon it will be outside the narrow window
in which they can reasonably survive.

We watched, screaming at our screens,
"The fuel - it’s the fuel causing the rise!!"
They’d gone this long, burning the dead
and expected no consequence.
It's not their fault they’re so short-sighted
It's how they evolved.
A mere hundred years or so,
that’s the lifetime of these feeble creatures
Hardly enough to gain wisdom,
let alone pass it down.

Nevertheless, they lived, they loved,
and they thrived.
Surpassing even the most generous
of our expectations.
Against all odds, they learned, and they grew.
Eventually, we did see the brightest of them
realize their jeopardy and speak the truth.
Just in time, they would unite as they did
so many times before
…or so we thought.

Instead, they fought more.
Even on the edge of extinction,
they dig their trenches,
and they pick their sides.
The great imaginations
that helped them build the world
now affixing them in rigid fictions
of their own making
Unable to see beyond
these preconceived limitations.

It feels, now more than ever,
as though we’re seeing the
final seasons of the Blue Bead.
The fall of a beloved people.
Who will never know
the billions of lives they’ve touched
in the brief time we’ve gotten
to share with them.

But then, they have surprised us
countless times before.
Perhaps they will again.

media holocaust dumbing down society
  matriculating detachment's spineless dump,
weapons of mass distraction's convergence  
assimilating adaptation's explored transmissions
   in conversions of auxiliary's pseudo-redemption
    anxiety cast in embittered expulsions of
ubiquitous foghorns flailing in numbing flat notes,
   off key in theatrical productions' translation
failure to cease & desist standby sub-humanity,
     close-captioned in radioactive hieroglyphics
                  on the walls of expectations' exasperation

I looked at your name in my phone,
the picture and last post
from your Facebook account
sent to and from space
on transmissions and airwaves.

I have a hard time remembering
the last time I saw you - at a bar,
the Blackhawks and the Bruins
making history on some LED screen,
while we sipped on cheap beer
and reminded each other
that our jobs aren't that bad.

A wise man said friendship
needs constant repair,
like your old red Jeep,
always rattling and clanking
for one reason or another.

And I realized tonight how things have changed:
that we're not growing apart, just growing up,
or maybe it's both, and maybe it's okay.

Poetry Grafted Onto Starlit Bodies

Focused moments,
hot breath tickling
receptive ears.

Whispered words swirl
into cascading souls.

Eyes meet,
gazes held for long
luxurious moments.

2. Daring To Unveil Their Cauldron Of Selves

Starscapes scintillate
as they fall back
into the cosmos
together.

Each tick of the clock
thoroughly elucidated,
boy quantum entangled for eternity
with the girl who is also a tree.

Cosmic bonds of entropy shattered,
never alighting from the cerulean blue sky.

Streaking sunbeams,
marauding moonlight,
mythical monuments carved into the shape of a kiss.

3. A Song On The Galactic Radio Waves (Tuning In To Love Oblivion)

Wasn’t there a time when you told yourself:
nothing’s gonna stop us or break us apart?

Isn’t there a dream you’re holding deep inside (so deep inside)?
Well you’d better let it out before it burns you alive, burns you alive.

For I am so much more
when I have you here in my heart.

And how can I feel any pain
when your healing words
always brings me back again,
again and again?

Jumpstart the engines of this cosmic machine,
we’re leaving for the stars tonight.

Grab onto my hand
like you’re playing that guitar.

Tune in to my wavelength,
and sing like your heart’s on fire,
like your heart’s on fire.

For today there’s one less tomorrow baby,
but still we go higher,
still we go higher.

4. Postscript (Welcome Home)

Tasting plush lips,
skin knowing skin,

hands speaking
in the language of hands.

Two hearts,
beating as one.

Two hearts,
beating as one.

And,
after a lifetime

of hit and miss,
hit and miss,

the cosmos
is finally:

smiling down
upon us.

Twixt here and horror
the path is littered with
chapped lips and broke-down transmissions.
Mandatory overtime.
That itty-bitty “but for this” was enough
to cleave my soul in twain, but
not right down the middle, no,
since it would represent a minor mercy
to be blessed with
some sense of congruity
in times like these.
Instead, what remains is
a big half and
a small half and
the big half eats the small half and
is left invariably lonely and sad and
filled with regret for this
lack of impulse control.
That **** is ******* me up, man,
its ******* me up.
Reserve your judgment.
Please.

Words rub off
on one another
Linguistic f r i c t i o n
between unprinted covers
to start a poet's mind
on Fire.
Yet the turning
of wheels and cogs,
transmissions through
frayed wires
Requires quite the opposite.

it was slowly hideous and more. the vapid skull was fragile
mucous glistening ostensibly of nasal passage and a flagrant
gesture mounting swiftly every coming brief second and
fornicating methodically minute transmissions of air of repugnant
lungs.
the heaving damsel broached or slippery tousled follicles limp
in arrogance foaled softly on her scalp. i maybe was and she
new. the sport of delicious fresh cluttered blood plump and
detestable in beneath the sallow rubber husk rubbing slickly
on the small walls particularly.
a
the. a(shade of yes(dribbles when the smacking rinds of lips
bubble sudden noise in. and a. a and. she smothers the babe
of silence in putrid vocal aberration fetid slop of words. temporarily
she is. speaking quickly and inviting me to the back little room
to weigh and measure large and pale the vestige of my i. take me sit
me in another waiting. another room of waiting. waiting. waiting

waitingwaitingwai"hello I'm Dr.Hanson"

Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I feel.
As though I am the dreamer.  The creator of this light wheel.
The feeling comes to me at times. Am I truly alone.
Is everyone around me truly in a different zone.
Its then I separate me from them.  And I hear and see the calls..
No longer am I trapped in these walls.
Signals of light. Echoes and transmissions.    
Strange memories I start to envision.
But only for a moment, Only for a fraction.
The reminders come to be and I lose this reaction.
So I drive on home and forget it about it all.
At least until I remember again, inside of these walls.