underling animals
in times
of quake-

slight
swellings

in brain
of maybe
one mole

bottled
now
for sea-

if on a baby
your hands
would be

so cute

but as
an adult

you glove them-

world as wheelchair
the wheelchair
from which

god rose-

as sporadic
surges

switch on
the sink’s
disposal

pull thorns
from the rabbits
you dream

I tried to be cordial with inactivity
washing it with weeping juice like a pardoned effigy
but the diamonds of determination were so wrapped in mind debris
that I threw away a fortune in potential

The smiles of the platitudes are louder than their laughs
An appeasing of their attitudes I warrant with the gaffes
of an undertaker's underling bestowing upon epitaphs
another deadened and deprived credential

Seeing days in ways that never did occur to me
Every end a mending by default, a sour recipe
for compromise eroding in a rusty *** of empathy

The dentist rubbed his fingers when he saw my gritted teeth
No sermon on the mount from me, more a mumble on the heath
My incisor is a tack that would support a giant's wreath
Thorns of novocaine will numb my Christmas wish

For the sake of universal order I will freeze a yawn
Mostly harmless said a hitchhiker of Earth so I can spawn
a batch of clones to live on hold where all the battle lines are drawn
I'll zip up and in the universal order I'll languish

Seeing nights in ways that never did occur to me
Every satellite a telecast of fault, a sour recipe
for sleeping juice to boil over in Big Dipper's empathy

Where's a pound of flesh when needed? I've grown tired of these ribs
On the grill of soggy marrow, hungry haunts will have first dibs
Call on William Blake to send the weepers to their cribs
Wishful thinking I'll preserve beneath the floorboards

With a hand in nothing new and an incisor in the usual
intestine chains surround my motivation's hot pursual
Don't read too much into my implied acceptance of a dual
with a messenger of fact's implicit hoards

Seeing days in ways that never did occur to me
Every end a mending by default, a sour recipe
for compromise eroding in an empty *** of sympathy

Sound the bugle for my bed is made, I'm rested for detention
Solitaire I'll play in my confinement for the crime of sought attention
I revolted the philosophers in plugging my intention
I would not concede that lab rats had it worse

The satellites are full and bright, the shadows walk on lakes tonight
I'll dream of sleep but eyes will play me in my bedroom's voided sight
Lay with me and sigh and the elastic laws of nature might
halt the quivering continuum of fate's forsaken course

Seeing nights in ways that never did occur to me
Every channel plays the same old cooking show's ensoured recipe
Compromise a minor seasoning in liver-flavoured empathy

04 15 14

Hail native Language, that by sinews weak
Didst move my first endeavouring tongue to speak,
And mad’st imperfect words with childish tripps,
Half unpronounc’t, slide through my infant-lipps,
Driving dum silence from the portal dore,
Where he had mutely sate two years before:
Here I salute thee and thy pardon ask,
That now I use thee in my latter task:
Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee,
I know my tongue but little Grace can do thee:                      
Thou needst not be ambitious to be first,
Believe me I have thither packt the worst:
And, if it happen as I did forecast,
The daintest dishes shall be serv’d up last.
I pray thee then deny me not thy aide
For this same small neglect that I have made:
But haste thee strait to do me once a Pleasure,
And from thy wardrope bring thy chiefest treasure;
Not those new fangled toys, and triming slight
Which takes our late fantasticks with delight,                      
But cull those richest Robes, and gay’st attire
Which deepest Spirits, and choicest Wits desire:
I have some naked thoughts that rove about
And loudly knock to have their passage out;
And wearie of their place do only stay
Till thou hast deck’t them in thy best aray;
That so they may without suspect or fears
Fly swiftly to this fair Assembly’s ears;
Yet I had rather if I were to chuse,
Thy service in some graver subject use,                              
Such as may make thee search thy coffers round
Before thou cloath my fancy in fit sound:
Such where the deep transported mind may scare
Above the wheeling poles, and at Heav’ns dore
Look in, and see each blissful Deitie
How he before the thunderous throne doth lie,
Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings
To th’touch of golden wires, while **** brings
Immortal Nectar to her Kingly Sire:
Then passing through the Spherse of watchful fire,                  
And mistie Regions of wide air next under,
And hills of Snow and lofts of piled Thunder,
May tell at length how green-ey’d Neptune raves,
In Heav’ns defiance mustering all his waves;
Then sing of secret things that came to pass
When Beldam Nature in her cradle was;
And last of Kings and Queens and Hero’s old,
Such as the wise Demodocus once told
In solemn Songs at King Alcinous feast,
While sad Ulisses soul and all the rest                              
Are held with his melodious harmonie
In willing chains and sweet captivitie.
But fie my wandring Muse how thou dost stray!
Expectance calls thee now another way,
Thou know’st it must he now thy only bent
To keep in compass of thy Predicament:
Then quick about thy purpos’d business come,
That to the next I may resign my Roome

Then Ens is represented as Father of the Predicaments his ten
Sons, whereof the Eldest stood for Substance with his Canons,
which Ens thus speaking, explains.

Good luck befriend thee Son; for at thy birth
The Faiery Ladies daunc’t upon the hearth;                          
Thy drowsie Nurse hath sworn she did them spie
Come tripping to the Room where thou didst lie;
And sweetly singing round about thy Bed
Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping Head.
She heard them give thee this, that thou should’st still
From eyes of mortals walk invisible,
Yet there is something that doth force my fear,
For once it was my dismal hap to hear
A Sybil old, bow-bent with crooked age,
That far events full wisely could presage,
And in Times long and dark Prospective Glass
Fore-saw what future dayes should bring to pass,
Your Son, said she, (nor can you it prevent)
Shall subject be to many an Accident.
O’re all his Brethren he shall Reign as King,
Yet every one shall make him underling,
And those that cannot live from him asunder
Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under,
In worth and excellence he shall out-go them,
Yet being above them, he shall be below them;                        
From others he shall stand in need of nothing,
Yet on his Brothers shall depend for Cloathing.
To find a Foe it shall not be his hap,
And peace shall lull him in her flowry lap;
Yet shall he live in strife, and at his dore
Devouring war shall never cease to roare;
Yea it shall be his natural property
To harbour those that are at enmity.
What power, what force, what mighty spell, if not
Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot?                    

The next Quantity and Quality, spake in Prose, then Relation
was call’d by his Name.

Rivers arise; whether thou be the Son,
Of utmost Tweed, or Oose, or gulphie Dun,
Or Trent, who like some earth-born Giant spreads
His thirty Armes along the indented Meads,
Or sullen Mole that runneth underneath,
Or Severn swift, guilty of Maidens death,
Or Rockie Avon, or of Sedgie Lee,
Or Coaly Tine, or antient hallowed Dee,
Or Humber loud that keeps the Scythians Name,
Or Medway smooth, or Royal Towred Thame.

---- 2023 youtube I wonder if, and lo': The Planets
A grand background orchestra, mental direct
there, you hav it, too, listen, a few times,
just in the mood, to listen
maybe as you get, that it starts at Mars,
begin as we
think we
Read this at your pace the writer advised,
and I did, a couple of times,
like long stuck records…
To Holst, an offered libation,
to all the minds whose words
are music as big as any mind
limited by my unknowing,
only
using, the truth, music, leading after words,
through ever away,
silent for a now,
or so,
from the Sun, past the fragment,
the single lump at the core,
of the process,
Ash as
Icarus, and Hermes, speedy messenger,
such as see thee, hold the knowledge holy,

watch, see, the wandering planets Holst,
might have seen today,
looking through my eyes,
wordless, right on, so far, as we

agree, there
is power in the mind that writes and reads
music,
power alloted some in blind feel,
power exuding from an ever in times past,

lasting ever tones thinning, spreading, patterning
perfected harmonies unexpected
yet
taken as granted, felt, in passion y sympassion,
same sound,

my once known wind, my bass oboe player,
acquaintance, who called me by name,
accusing me, subtly of not knowing,
there is a forest of low stature,
and there are missions there,
where if you pray,
they feed you twinkies… I recall, between
Venus and busy laughing Earth,

I remember Mars is next,
I am ready, I went into the dark kitchen,
back of the Mission on Fourth Street,
across from an Electra Records Billboard…

ifery approaches, Holst has not gotten me to Mars,
I am pulling in an experience, from a mission,
on Fourth Street, in a mindtimespace shared,

as of yet, by a few, who will know the place,
the ******* Mission, the one
with the Joker who used rats,
to get a startle response,

and at exactly the wrong place, for men with
certain
kinds of sure thing reactions, to diabolic attacks.

2023, approaching Mars with Lou Holtz, I thum thum
thummin wearin' my Razorback hat,
Inter Planatary Hwy 71, to Joplin,
ur in my realm.

Bass every thing slow creep slow, seep as sludge,
to the edge, and look beyond,
this is it, this is the Earth,
we shall survive!

We slay the unbelievers and fake it til we make it,
right, kids?

---------- longhair music, epicyc-lical as neckties,
to male tipped stacking schema for *****,
or stones,
or crystaline tones accompanying the heating up
of life's core cargo cult's last load,

Holst, bass trombones,
here, is the dance of little devils with a mind to make
a difference
in the depths of ever after,
up to now,
I had forgotten the piccolo parts, and the French horns,
and the joy of the big parade,
marching off
to war explore the unknown
for exploitations as per the underling theme,
go forth
subdue the Earth, and conquer all who refuse, to say
this is the way,
this is the good old way,

war
glory and honor, earn the urim'nthummin'n'human
inhumainity, we, the chosen warrior beings,
messengers of differing mocking gods of ****** mud
beyond the final river,
every slogger knows, forever, there remains
one more
river to cross, a final thread to tie to you, listener,

Holtz, still in the background, a journey, what price
each player plays in this, orchestration shared,
as I read, I wrote, as I hoped, I did,

and I remain, giddily glad… my side won the war
I lost.

Peace came, unbidden, apparently,
a deep breath, and harp strings,

this is the future from any ever before, now
to know
this is common, not so rare, as even the idea,
not so long ago,
first radio mono performance,
what child lay in the crib and heard this,
through the grand horn of Gram's Gramma phone.
Y''ello,
toldja, ai ain't no Injunsaint. Pretend, then,
right, ai and mai-y grandma

can piece together some occassional lessons, given us,
she in her time telling me in mine,sssince ever about
I was forty-nine, or so, she told me she was an orphan,
and had no family knowledge, past begins
at the last common thread,
to a native american epic,

when the old deluder, Satan, act, attached
to law and order and rectangular resettlement
of wilderness liberated from savages and beasts…
pawn, both steps, dare… help the Macedonians
and take Uncle Tom wit'cha, whicha oughtn't had
never the less, young wombed men, did tend
to become aspirational, after becoming
inspired read-up young wombed men, hot
to seek adventure, teachin' young'n's, out west.

indistanct depth Holst at the kettle drumms softerafter
- the silent version has a different light show
--- circa 1880's, not historically long ago, most places.
This character,
qwerty guy's friend, has kin as close as my Uncle Cebe'n'me,
who died at Wounded Knee, where my liege republic,
honored some two dozen rapid fire cannon supported
avengers of The Seventh Cav!
And in their hearts,
if not their lips,
was the march in time to Garry Owen. Their families
must be proud.

And that's a shame. We were taught to grant worth
to a medal signifying honor brought to the liege, in victory.

Peace passes that, music makes bubbles, we revisit,
replay the gramma phone version,
some scratchy
real realizing strings singing chimes and harps
of ages past
unveiling, hiding nothing knowing freedom is a sense,
you know
you do not own it,
you do not make it up, it is free. The idea

I had, approached as
hunter
in pursuit, steady as she blows,

leave us hap as may be at a triumph of joyous
curious
dancing twinkle noise amusing being a muse used,
enter tained, and voiced by bass
then tinkles
thin thin thin then Zildjian  K-bang!

____

One push one step
All it takes till they're all weeping
Horrified by the morbidity of my depression
This is what you all did as you watched in amusement
As flesh turned to stitches
Stitches turned to masks worn daily
This is the consequences to what you think is funny
Laughing at the gay guy
Picking on the nerds
Wedgies and swirlys
After school beatings
Lame excuses for the reason their noses are bleeding
One bullet away
And it's your conscious getting locked up
Guilty...Guilty...Guilty
It's all your fault
Your to blame for the red walls
Once painted a baby blue like the sky
Where they all found comfort in the clouds
Now they're waiting patiently
To assist in dragging you to hell
My depression is that of everyone I've lost
To the unreasonable bullying
You pathetic ******* just don't see
The torment your behind the back laughter
In the face fists
Face to **** stained porcelain
Maybe you should taste what you prescribed
For every gay, ****, *****, nerd, underling you so pleased
Priding yourself with their tears
Not realizing it wasn't the only thing you caused to cry
A wrist, a thigh, a chest
Now I'm filling graves you dug
With the bodies of my beloved misfits

"God. You're so ugly without your makeup. You know you really shouldn't show your face in public. You don't want to end up on that People of Walmart website."

Yeah I know.

"No seriously. You look like you've been hit by a bus."

Nope. Not hit by a bus. Just your ****** comments.

"You know they say sarcasm is just a deflection of an internal struggle, it's an underling issue to something bigger. Maybe you're going crazy."

I'm not going crazy. I'm getting my **** together. I'm in college now.

"Yeah, sure."

No. I wake up at a reasonable hour everyday. I take a shower and do my hair and make up. I do my homework and I make good grades. How can I be crazy when I'm getting my **** together. I have my **** together!

"Look at your room."

What about it?

"It's a mess."

So what?

"It's a mess. Just like you are. You are a mess."

I am not.

"You can shut the door and pretend it doesn't exist. Just like you're doing with that mask you put on every morning. Beyond these walls you're a fake. But behind them, they show who you truly are."

And what's that?

"That you're crazy and chaos. Your room represents what's on the inside. You're falling apart."

I am not crazy.

"Not crazy? As if. You've just been talking to your reflection for the past 10 minutes. Just like you have every day for the past four years. Just wait sweetie, one day I'll come out and play."

I sure know how to pick em,
thought this time would be different,
yet the only differences is how
you sweet talked your way
faster into my heart
then any one else ever did.

Sistah'Girl, I tell you I sure know how to pic em,got one whose so good I believed him from day one, believed he'd keep his word and all the major or little things would be a plus,

* the way I stood by him and stood up for him,
the way I support him when he had and has no one else.

How I slave in my kitchen making sure
once he gets home his belly's full,
How is it I'm coming up last over
a ***** that told you to kiss her ***.

Left you in a heap and continues to mistreat you, how am I the sideline ****  you've turned me into, when I'm pose to be on a pedal-stool.

pose to be the one with the ring
this one on this finger
you claimed meant everything,
yet I continuously find you making
up reasons for your underling
sympathetic *******,

seems to me you still want this
                             unfaithful
                                          ungrateful
                                                      atrocious
                                                               rat face
                                                                      sagging *******  
                                                                                   raunchy ***
                                                                                                        *****.


Be real
man  
and
be honest,

don't sugar coat a **** thing
fo me
I'm not like
most

I'll walk away with a smile
knowing I'm the top notch chick,
the queen you failed to claim,

Motha ***** please.

That trick you continuously long
& yearn fo will have you once more ready to **** yo self,
ready to become once more some type of disgrace,
that well polished heart will once more ache
and all your niceties  
will be for naught,

I'll be far gone
living it up with someone new,
some one who wont take
my love or me for granted,
someone who
isn't ******* you!


Karma huh
well no need to worry about "her"
cuz I'm far worse
and I come
quite as a storm,
make you feel the impact up
close & personal,

like you been ***** deep in ya *******.

like Dorthy when she left ******* Kansas
yo *** about to met the wickedest witch.


you gonna know it was me-you played me
& I told you before don't play with me boo baby,

****, trust me boo,
I seen all to well too many men like you,
the one's you say never compare you to,

funny- now cause seems like your doing the same ****,
just like them whom you don't wish to be compared with.

This is the reason why
                I rather say hell naw
                               get the **** out,
                                                       cuz
                                        I learned years ago,
                                                
                                                              I CAN DO BAD ALL ON MY OWN!
  Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®

I'm not a seasoned poet
As standards go
I have neither the will nor wit
To assemble words that exhale
Sensuous truths of beauty
I have been tossed in poetry's net
To serve and protect its fate
I'm not sharp enough
To detect Moon's climb
For I'm not Archibald MacLeish
I'm no master metaphorician
To equate yellow fog to a cat
For I'm not T.S. Eliot
I'm just here to release the waves
That load my pen to barrage
Their organic ammunition
I cannot delve into the dark show
As smooth as Edgar Allen Poe
I'm not one to sing of love, of wine
For I'm no Rumi nor khayyam
I can't settle music's dust
For I'm not Robert Frost
I can only write what I'm taught
By the shadow rulers of Art
If Yeats is awake
And Shakespeare watching
If Whitman, Dickinson, Keats
And the rest of the sublime ones
Happen to be espying
They would regard me
As an underling
And that would be a win
For I shall never reach
Their poetic spin.

Willing though I am
I am not the 'full shilling' of a man.
You can stuff me full of worms and watch which way the earthworks turn or burn me on the stake,take your shot,make your play,willing though I am
I haven't got all day.
It's time you see that captures me and ties up the dandelion clock and there's no **** a doodle ****** me to wake and set this old man free,All
I see are mad old hens with fountain pens scribbling in the sand and the farmers wife who never had a life to call her own, sits and hones the carving knife,willing though I am she won't be carving slices off this old piece of ham.
What's normal now may tomorrow be somehow sanitised by experts who'd then advertise me as the fresh young thing and bring me to some underling who'd work in order just to pay the madnesses to go away,but
I remain,
the stain you can't remove and I turn again into the groove,another disc reminds you that I am
not quite 'the shilling'
not quite the man.

Stronger than any other force
Pulled in by the gravity of love.
Afraid to lose the precious charm,
To some other underling heart.

I make myself ill, thinking of you,
In reality and inside my dreams.

But then granted to stop caring of the past.
And look forward to what's to come.
I will continue to fight for love,
Until the same is echoed back to me.

The world is the word as the bird that flies
Is the bird that dies
Or the man that lies
When words get burned and his sentence turned
By which he learned
There is no I
But I is us and we are you
And you are just another U
Like underling and uninformed
But usurp and you will be scorned
So word it in a quiet voice
If words should be your only choice

[premises]

he is cheating
resurrection.

his baby is a baby
in that it tries
to leave

a note
for god.

his mother lets it go
on the roof
of a hospital
about the kids
she saw
*******
in a grocery
cart.  

proof

yearns.

~

[root]

I left quietly
the pet store
of haunted animals.

a drifter preaching polyamory
took mental note
of my appearance.

a man was my father.

~

[outer life]

they’d say his head was hard because it was too small for god to kiss.  when he’d come into town, he’d leave with children we’d not seen except on posters.  his welcome mat was a napkin spotted with blood from a Q-tip.  save for the tiny matter of Jesus, our parents gave him little to do.

~

[the bridge]

let me not pray
for this man
who captured
on film

for the last time
in its environment
god’s bed.  let me not

be consumed
by this man’s return
to the inexact art
of home.  let me obsess

instead
over a portrait
of myself
trapped
by aging, let me grow

to my waist
my hair
might it burn
might I then

to the accumulation
of sight
and sight’s
potential

bow

~

[captions]

underling animals
in times
of quake /

slight
swellings

in brain
of maybe
one mole

bottled
now
for sea /

if on a baby
your hands
would be

so cute

but as
an adult

you glove them /

world as wheelchair
the wheelchair
from which

god rose /


as sporadic
surges
switch on

the sink’s
disposal

pull thorns
from the rabbits
you dream

~

[I saw my youngest brother born]

I saw his mouth.
I thought he’d ripped.

~

[the small]

I acquired you as an infant from a gentleman who needed parts for a radio he planned to invent.  listening to his radio was a long way off.  you sat early.  you called me mother before I was ready.  if I was good, you’d play a videocassette to watch it dream.  I looked at stars and you were a toddler.  our life was life on other planets until the gentleman returned.  he said he’d seen satan in a space suit and that satan had given him signs of ****** abuse.  you were not unrecognizably depressed but did start a fire in a photograph.    

~

[cure]

the dark, the ocean.

I have two reasons to believe god
has not stopped creating.

-

our father
had this phrase

all in good time
psychic

-

my anger has gone the way of the milkman.

his doomed child
with her piece of chalk.

~

[bait]

I didn’t see it
like some kids
saw it-

pain
as clay.

a swat here or there
to the back
of a mother’s
mind.

a man who took a bowling ball
into a closed garage
had no sadness
I could pray
over.

...Santa smoked on the roof
of my father’s house
while I
with a noiseless
stomach

touched
that hunger.

~

[how to live in the country dark]

toss frogs
into a fire
your father made.

find a woman
who’s abandoned herself
to being led
by a stick, let

her blind
mongrel
lick
your palm.

bury a handful
of gravel
call it
the moon’s
grave.

hide in houses
hidden
from road.

make at least one friend
whose night vision
is a glass of milk.

double your body
by walking
drunk.

~
[irrevocably child]

pressing
a cigarette
into the double
absence
of what
has become
the snowman’s
mouth
the woman  
begs
for a light…

it is a thing done softly
in a larger movement
of searching
belly-up
the nowhere

that sober
looks funny
alone  

~

[tell it to my brother]

a widow
with three hands
has ten
doomed
acquaintances.

god’s tacklebox is too light
to carry.

think of it as your ascent into feminine indifference.

think of your son as the incurable
made
thing

on the factory floor
of my son’s
use.

a male mime
bites into
a bar of soap…

***
is a bruise
in a blizzard

~

[mendicant]

this doorbell
is for the inside
of your house

-

to some
you’re the giant
you’re not

-

hearing isn’t for everyone  

-

a fog-softened man
with a baby
might experience
a sense
of boat
loss…

-

hurt

what you know

~

[crystal]

a foster boy using an alias teaches my son to shoot.

it’s the tooth fairy on a sad day finds
under my pillow
a handgun.

you know your father
is a night owl.

2020 -day 201

Sunday, July 19, 2020
6:49 AM

first 活 {livelihood}
remember meeting the enemy
seeing it is I
I am my opposition
I am the reason I lie I know

this is the day to keep my head,
if all about me are losing theirs.
this is
the day
the schism in the isms is widening
we may see scabs falling from
wounds healed at word
one,
hope, really, no wu wu, wei true hope
taken unseen as possible
- in a realm of imagining all things
- either possible or not things at all

wise to the ways of thought taught
conditionally
from the vibe in the tribe who took
triggering the primal scream from a theory
to musing drum music isn't good to sooth
the troubled soul instituted intuitive as
stories passed from inside to insider
states of waiting for
inseeing
ensuing peace...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

positioning super beings in mythic roles
once played by mortals,
is there an institute rising from its knees,
believing a we is enabling, any we

audacious hope tied to the idea that was
institutionalized in a polis with no
memory of standing as free men,
free to imagine the world we
formed from was an institutional lie.

Tweet... retweet liar liar seat on fire,
get up and run
with the lemmings disneyfied as a certain
truth, we all saw the cute little rodents
unreasonably leap into the sea,
as nature guides for the good of the species...

but we know the scene, the stage, was set
off stage, obscene, the critters were
herded over the cliff, for the shot, but
we saw it
we know how it was done, but the message
institutionalized in baby boomer minds,
passed on to children who had children who
live fully disneyfied lives,
in true imaginary prowess of children...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

A good man leaves an inheritance to his
children's children.
Mine get the wind, not good union
jobs, no guild proven tasks to perform to spec,
to gain
tenure, hold on
confess, professor, confess

are you now or
have you ever been the other in a mob,
did you run the other way?
or did you stand
institutional, alone? stretch it stretch it
-post Patriot Act,

is this the turn-key total war,
are we the children in the wolderness
hidden
by old hippies who read books and smoke *****,

but never lied, not even a little bit
to skip taxes,

the law does protect the satisfied poor,
who rear curious children formed
to fit smoothly into forms of being being
sold for tasks needing intel
teliosis tell me is that the goal, that brave
sorting of knowers from those
who can't get a grip on the
truth in the military
universal mind,
unified as the us, the objectional form of
we, the people, who hold certain truth,
as our state, once we swear allegiance,

wait. watch. lie, say you know you saw
lemmings suicide for lack of reason,
just as crazy as a riot of *******,
marching into my valley
through the fourth wall into you,
inner you,
what do you know?

You got infected by an idea virus
vaccine, some old hippie dreams set aside,

as sub science connected tenuously sparks,
shock
pain
why
-- oh, I see says the pin, penned between
trigger and spiral rifling
misfires of the un loaded gun...
----

䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


once, north of the rairoad track,
down in slaughter house canyon,
I met a Gila Monstor, face to face,

I assumed it was a he as much as me and
I heard a question, I would have asked
were I such a thing being a he as much as me.

The question was why I would think
**** it, fear it, jump back

while I were so far away, come closer,
come and see,
I
think of me being a she as much as me
as
any pain avoiding being,
I am she who uses mornings,
to recover from each night by
basking in the morning light to loosen
old bones stuck in the cold
inner being, the soul at the heart,
of the mindless, dreamless state of being
mortal
under the influence of time and chance
and creatures of the night
ah, she says, I see,
why you seem afraid of me,

differing POV, see, down low, you know,
no big fat lizard, big around as a ball bat,
long as a little leaguer's arm,
looking me right, seeing me straight from
an angle I never imagined
possible,

insanity, as defined by the inner child,
who still can hear hummingbirds
asking renewal of the famed
font of aqua dulce from
the legend that led
them, the flock that lives in the oak,
nearly always  only after the
flowers have gone brown in July...
----

䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


No unfinished thing is ever finished,
only finished stories end in hell,
and even then,
we unbelieve our way out,
time and again we escape the madness,

merely to stir up the dust that first formed
a reason to be at all.

Were I a gemstone cut to fit a brazen niche
beneath a gear and spring in an old watch,
fit, solid, held in underling relationship,
as a point,
balancing, perfectedly enough for a time,
the measuring assuring we see, as
life passing before our very
un ordinary, common sense of self

con science, con carne, con fusion
sub all that
under all that, sub conscience, sub knowing
I know you are you alone and the bell,
tolls for me, the after all,
being
imagined as you

stand and see if you were I
as I am me,
would you have reason to **** me?
...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


In my youth, we all lived in
Real McCoy
Western movies, tales of conquering
common folk,
whose signs needed Dave Wassen to make any sense,
but that link is likely lost,
despite all the merit badges earned
-- you could not learn the sign language of the plains
-- you needed to live in a time before we became enemies

we welcome strangers passing through

bo'weevilish little critters, jes' lookin'
fo' a home... the pattern,

the frame, the threads themselves all twisted
and tied, crisscross
woof and warp, first we weave the canvas,

then we set the sail, or stitch the story,
Cluny Abby edifies some,
as did Medussa, on reflection,
subtle ivy bound
gardens of stone people memorialized,
became wordless tales for children to believe,
you see,
you may become as one of these,
the leaders who led us to now, some how, we
imagine,
we were manifested now, from underlying
circumstantial evidence of unseen, yet

see-able, visible, ignorable or not,
feeling a blind insight where darkness seems
a spot,
only empty. A place to rest a while and
imagine
peace as a river flowing from another's belly
to swallow me in being
as I seem
some days more than others, aware of efforts
to wind the invented witnessed cloud
of unknowing too tight to tic,
tic,
take a clock from long ago, one of those
hour glassic witty inventions for
timing eggs. Nada mas.

But, imagine, time shifting phase, each grain,
each
Leucippus bit re read as Democritical atom,
bouncing in picometer hops
in picosecond times
spanning all the years since one, the number,
was the onliest number
that you never see,
being as
you are later, after ever began, you began.

You continue, after I am gone.
But, don't forget your lines, your cue, you know
the reason you read.
My angel told you, no excuses, read or end up,
famous for your ignorance.

-- note: I read that the Donald Trump, as seen on TV,
claims a real bond to the Bible that binds him
and his base spiritua/financial
constituency, that which constitutes the
aberration being bid by mobs to become great, once more
swell up into an epluribal us being
under a
boss, the man on the horse LBJ wished to be,
the sky pilot Bush two boasted of being,
from the backseat, screaming Mission Accomplished,
while the BeeGees signal once more,
we started a joke...
that has the whole world laughing
at our grovelling
under the man we witnessed rising on the Obaman ashes
in Afghanistan, prophesied from Hollywood when Jack Reacher
was fit to that little guy, who stars in the Scientology
story. Jack Reacher is a myth, from my youth,
a type - like Marshall Dillon, but un civilized, and
able to accomplish any less than Supermanic impossible mission,
with pure Horton hearing, and Little Red Hen persistence.
But this was not my knack, I rest my case,

Once we are aware, you are the point of balance,
my point is made.
-- buried deep behind the guilt and shame and blame
wait, while seeing

Nothing doing is nothing done and
never imagined impossible again
(Peter Graves was Marshall Dillon's brother,
and both were Jack Reacher sized men, once sent on
Missions Impossible, as messages embodied, like
messianic hope some say
has always been a lie, heros always empower Tyrants
history claims, after all,
look around,
see...
past why or how, reasoning now,

it is true,
some wise of our kind, wandered to the edge
of the civilized state, believing as they walkt away
fore warned, each had a vision, a
knowing for some unseen reason, next is solid,
now is not,
take one step toward all you wish were true,
do
not lie to you
and you will never
lie to anyone regarding self
being me, not I,
we
see.
there was always a way to get by,
any damming thing,
and if you can not handle that truth,
you are fired,
go to hell and wait, end of story,
time out
test me, I am an American,
claiming this grew from seed Ben Franklin sowed,
I chuckle. You underestimated life,
witnessed from so great a cloud as commonly
contains reasons for having been,
stacked neatly in examined lives, lived. Read or be
ignorant, actively ig nor ing if nition.

Behold how great a fire...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

( Written 11/25/13)

Underling hypothetical reactionary
Forces between us
I step with caution
Understanding the imaginary boundaries.

Poems written by a mad man will be short and won't make sense.

Poems written by a genius will always connect to each other.

Poems written by a broken person will have a darker, underling meaning.

Poems written by a angry person will always blame someone else.

In the end, It will all fit together.

Death is such a thing
As dark cherries
Plucked to bobble from the basket heap,
And so then slighted from offhand,
Be the underling to the massy arbor sweep,
Be the stilled ponderance of solitudes.

of underling
arising

viewing
of

past preceding
swirling now

it calls eyes
and demands
walk-thru of heart

I knew
the other night
was gonna be
intense

when I put
the chemicals in
the ones that tend
to make elate

it’s what
they’ve done
every time
since
you

to varying
degrees

they’ve become
therapeutic purge
leaning lone

just sit
in my ****
under the gloss

you are not alone
in thinks
in feels

they want air
and mouth
and hands
to catch

you know...

facing you
was the hardest thing
I’ve ever done

harder than
walking
out

of that
dead-end

it summoned
every shred of every
insecurity ever felt and
every failure face-planted
every inner negative creep
and ear-jammed program
the toxic false news
of six long years

to think I
get something that’s good
and not just good, but like
made special just for me
with this secret switch
somewhere that goes
glowy unknown
like too few are
lucky to know

after sucksessive bad
it just didn’t compute
when I looked
in the mirror

if you had not been
so ******* stubborn
I would have
never

returned.

I can spin
the webs in mind
so thick, my stories
my characters
and how I’d
painted
self:

plain, dim
undeserving
unduly inadequate

it comes up
for processing
not to road-block
but be cleared...

thank you
for what you said

I needed
to hear

precisely that.

the residue
of smoke remains
but I know

soon

I will
breathe deep
get meshed with
dodecahedrons
trickling down
my walls

whispering
the things, all

Com'on, how will you feel
if you know the only privileges  
you have comes from being an underlings
its not like your ancestors left you half of Park Lane
and you have silver cutlery and maids and servants to call
Yes
my
friend
you will be full of resentments and hate
you will sit before a Pc on a lovely day
everyday actually and spill your guts out
Its par for the course, oh...how the hate burn
ok
ok
let off steam, scream it all out on paper
just don't go killing your parents
there's no family silver or Land deeds
so please don't go down that desperate route
Sit calmly and know knowledge is power
even useless ***-bits can come in handy
so get trolling, let that hate spill out of you
keeping it in will only bring on your cancer quicker
self-loathing and envy, jealousy all negative energy
****
And don't think about your little problem below
just concentrate on opposing and trolling duties for now
Fancy galvanizing about in comfort
not having to work and sweat and be an underling
oh! its too much, the cheek of it all
Bet these ******* are laughing at us
hahaha.....hahaha....

Anybody seen my silver spoon
Somebody there....call me my MajorDomo
Say, where's my silver spoon, I want my silver spoon NOW!

From provenance
To Providence  
To prominence
I rise
Among students
And teachers
And principled minds
But in mines
I’m the guy
On the line
Getting by
All the while
Unearthing
What we
Stratify

Every night since
It’s subliminal
Hints
It’s the criminal
Underworld’s
Underling
Prince
That evinces
His regal
Enfeebled ambition
With pride
His exile
Erstwhile form’s
Normal disguise
Circumscribed
To confined
To confide in himself
For how could they relate
Even less
Could they help

Black flag(s) show up
on social media platforms
when potential homicidal maniac(s)
communicate(s) intent to strike
with ambush and ready
read - able, eager, and willing
to embark upon murderous rampage.

Prospective killer armed to the teeth
usually a young bucking male
between ages of eighteen and twenty five
wielding, targeting subjects then firing
high powered choice powered guns such as:
Bushmaster XM15-E2S rifle;
Glock 20SF handgun
.22LR Savage Mark II bolt-action rifle
or AR-15-style rifle,
a popular range of semiautomatic weapons.

After countless shooters on the loose
wreaking havoc vis a vis carnage
****** death and destruction
indelibly etched upon consciousness
regarding every surviving person,
who hears and especially
witnesses the terrible and horrible news
anesthetized, brutalized, traumatized, et cetera
for his/her remaining existence.

Violent deadly crime spree shoots upward;
gun owners indiscriminately brandish
loaded firearms toward innocent victims,
and concomitantly excite anguish
purported in accordance
with first amendment relish,
yet proliferation allowing
free ranging banshee dervish
sans weapons of mass destruction
(mainly innocent lives)

inures citizens to appear standoff fish
U.S., and self-important solitudinarian
becoming comfortably numb
at regular headlines detailing
some lone hooligan a bit mish
hug ha, an automatic killer
methodically unloading with a swish
multitudinous cartridges attempt
oddly to even the score, a wish
to take revenge viz a personal vendetta
amidst the madding crowds -
utter oy vey - tis Yiddish.

Such proliferation of
high-powered assault pistols
graph berserk arc with surging blip
bipedal hominid(s) deadly grip
handling barrel as dirk in case the clip
doth miss the mark,
where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprinting infamy to drip
metamorphosing into igneous
malignant state with curled (Elvis) lip
mailer daemon hell bent
on besieging bait (unaware nip

*** nap noopy snapchatting beings)
bursting with deadly quip
with a barrage of bullets
malicious intent to spray;
killing machines delivering rip
paying deathly howls
amidst pandemonium, thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate
taking souls to Hades trip
loved ones next of kin tragic loss
analogously suffering courtesy
stinging invisible whip.

More often than not
such brutal and nasty team
(short lived) nefarious scheme
unleashing angry people to rage and scream
directed at humble lettered people
like those comprising ream
member ring my hometown -
once evoked with pastoral meme
of Lake Wobegon minding
their p's and q's, when in the extreme

and out of the blue like a nightmare
interrupting an idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang
rings terrorist catcall followed
by red tide and river of bloodying
bodied of hue men caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood
within lies mutilated corpse,
pistol whipped, where mortician
daub with creme.

Soundcloud(s) boom(s) across,
thus occurs yet another
staccato sinister sonic thunder
across the pearl jam gray slate
of some formerly anonymous
name sake, which underling of bossed
son or daughter blasting
bombardment blitzkrieg shells cross
invisible trajectories shatter
at uber twittering, shutterfly speed,

the democratic rubric - rendered as dross
disposable lives of society
with senseless slaughter,
whereat somber silence
echoes nostalgia for the Mill on the Floss
when life seemed so innocent
against the gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss
elapsing years tombstone covered with moss.

This epidemic re:
murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling
and providing terrifying
trappings, whence went Pandora out the lid
anger loosed maniacally gun down
(in S-L-O-W mo) recorded by hid
den madding crowd, each person
locked in crosshair grid
source (perhaps pathetic plan
premeditated) employing did
da ding from flying bullets,
a coterie upping the ante vis a vis bid
ding fare thee well from odious
loading incendiary fiery clips.

Trigger happy homicidal maniacs slake thirst
finding me being verbally bullied
seem oh so yesterday
to take aim in billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray
with pump posse city,
a congregated engaged groupon
of people), with egregious pay

shunt and methodically
mowing down, a slew - nay
re: doth unsuspecting
victim aware - delivering melee
layered mayhem to this anonymous
American citizen as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows,
which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.

Death be not proud,
nor ought airtime allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers
foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access
to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring doth please
manifesting those prize pride

killing machine owners never freeze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses
even a lil whippersnapper kite runner
unleashing whipping cords
will serve you more
lacerating more so than ropes will ever do
necessitate strong control
to stem violence as disease.

What is odd about
Crows and what no-
-body knows, but for
their C they would
be Rows.

Is it why perhaps
on power pole lines,
when it rains or shines,
t'is side by side they
stand in nines?

Wing to wing they caw not
sing because a baritone
is bird's underling! They're
black as soot, not queen or king,
nor have no yang (for me) but Ying.

Light years since chronological wave length of boyhood, when mull late mum and (strapping in his prime) dad bossed, dictated, fulminated, harangued, jointly lambasted, mandated, pounded, yet unsuccessfully sabotaged quintessential trademark MineCraft aversion cutting hair. Aye-kneaded lockets, which amounted to necessitating remonstrance, thus unveiling vocalization with yearning zeal ascribing clutching excessively to frizzy greasy hair. Silent protestations incited joyless kickstarter, mercurial, no-nonsense outpouring per querulous response. This traitorous underling vehemently writhed yowling stinging zings. Compulsion, fixation and obsession with hair ranked as thee most vital aspect when just a whippersnapper. Paranoia and suspicion re: long brown locks assumed outsize personification. I now admit such irrationality incorporated realm encompassing terrain that expanded outward into infinity. Even now, a residual facsimile framework scaffold of neurosis thereof to prepubescent peculiarity exists. Hindsight (ordinarily 20/20) cannot broker explanation. No idea why adoration, declaration, and galvanization with unkempt appearance (harried style and swiftly tailored rats nest hair prevails), despite dishabille wrought unattended imposing disadvantage, whether in hot pursuit of employment, female glorification, or tolerance from others. this external characteristic (re: non-groomed mass of matted hairs akin to nonverbal expatiation. this individual did not wish to be part of madding crowd. no matter onslaughts  inviting barbarous (er barber us), calumnious, and deleterious, comments among thine human body electric, constant comets zapped psyche with abominable, execrable, and inexcusable malicious, nefarious, and opprobrious provocation. even ma deceased paternal grandfather hook kept a full head of hair to his grave (Aaron Harris - listen up) called me Mary (and inflicted misadventure per ******* bowl cut), though choice to grow uncombed thatch clashed with his conservatively favored iron maiden linkedin unguent zztop,  which barbs became internalized only to manifest into anxiety with even less ambition to conform to au current presentable appearance. even me mother when alive and vibrant as a cockroach on a hot stove pulled no punches, when pronouncing her unsolicited feedback such as ” you’re going out like that"?, when she new of my intent to scout for employment, (which effort oft times characterized futility) with nary job offers. still unanswerable passive (now silver) streak radicalism prevails. hence this poem, qua "dress for success" motto, when social security disability (for anxiety, ocd, panic attacks, plus laundry list of other psychological maladies) bubbled to surface of my consciousness. as a breakout writer, (with Kosher blessing of Samson, who would be all smiles) exempt me decrees, honorably lauded pitched proletariat tendentious tinder of the establishment, which ink cube baited current rubric incorporates a much looser modus Vivendi viz appearance.

Taking good luck as commonly imagined, causeless chance
I have no right to think I cheated,
I am not sorry,
I
stole my peace, as Prometheus, is accused of thieving fire,
and hope, as you must know,
if I got that whole message, as I watched the story
of the liver, reforming after dark,

who has the curious hunger pulling songs from me ?

Prometheus, fore thought foregone concluded known,

Percy Jackson version,
might work,
the idea behind the whole truth that allows such tales,
this initial touch of let
letting go
lives in many cultures,
many class the myths as messianic, promising a hero,
at a certain point
where hope appears to have substance,
-confident upright, balanced double minding-
steady, gait,
slow run, go on and on and on,
knowing truth
personally, like a you, who has what it takes
to win
that once,
when winning really counts, is this true or false, cut
? bing ware the con cise
edge of awareness
deep
dived down, Dives, lives. A drip, blot of ink
for ever thought
a jot,
a blind spot, through which the underling surface,
seems set to begin as story flows
ink to point to let
letter
structure- then structure-less, here, then there
actual every where at once,
central point
any given thought
can come from any former point that used it in a story,
once upon

exactly my point you know how any story starts,
there is a point

begin… and it never ends, until the flesh fails to reboot.