Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Alyssa Underwood Sep 2021
I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME I
(I — XIX)

8/23/21— 9/8/21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II
(** — XXXII)

9/22/21 — 9/29/21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kyle Kulseth Nov 2012
There was talk of exploring
                         empty lots
                 until the sun came up
And laying dotted lines
                         on empty maps until
                  We found ourselves new homes
With softer beds and warmer sheets

Make it as far as frozen streets--
       decide to paint it black
                         when
             We've run out of red
          Our hands are getting chapped
                         and

We've been running ourselves dry
Out here beneath polished winter skies
Then right before
          our hazy, crossed out eyes
Come falling
           snowflakes from the clear
Think they must be the
           first five of the year
And lately, I swear all we get 'round here
Are busted plans and second tries

The chips are falling
    so let's cash our winnings
out and sup on underpinnings found
as tacit answers start to drift

As tacit answers start to drift
     the question's seeding up
     the frozen ground

And rougher textures make for traction
       so I'll get a grip and count
out snowburnt seconds
     'til we find the map to another
      point of black.
Another not-so-new one. I wrote this one about a year before today's posting date.
Sam Temple Jul 2015
systematic injustice personified
defended by Constitutional underpinnings
a flag of hate, slavery, and intolerance
waves in the warm July breeze
as a debate rages
over the ideas of heritage
versus
symbolism
becoming the latest social conversation –
systematizing racial profiling
for Aryan officers
lost in the code of silence
giving the badge both a blue
and black image
of bruised pride
the pride of a nation –
poor pigment-ally challenged youth
bound to suffer
indignity of an atrocious nature
at the hands of your teachers,
preachers,
authority figures,
and family members
so culturally *******
that they cannot see themselves propagating
their own despair –
this nation of victim blamers
hates its own multi-ethnic skin
cannot look into the proverbial mirror
without shuddering at the view
in one thousand years
when all humanity is a nice,
even, shade of brown
what will we hate about each other then? –
John Prophet Dec 2016
of our civilization is genetically controlled.
Our two dominate instinctual drives, self preservation and procreation are reflected in our global structure. Our preoccupation with *** and violence, reflected in our songs, our books, our music, everything. Human genetic code is woven into the fabric of society and cultures like a fine tapestry. Nothing done by us has not been written in code reflected back to our eyes reinforcing the script laid out so long ago.
A script forged in the stars, massaged by the software of the universe. The maestro, wand held high conducting it all with ease and grace, leading to a crescendo of unknown time and duration. We all dance to the tune. In this we have little choice. Each step taken to a large extend scripted with some self expression allowed. So dance away and throw in as many unique moves as you can.
Mariya Timkovsky May 2012
“I love yous” waft through the room
As erratically as weeds growing in a garden.
Constant notes and hugs engulf me
To the point where
I’m suffocating.
Like in a plastic ball pit.
Every time I try to pull out
I sink deeper and deeper.

Though I’ve considered returning the love
So equally,
It was more for the sake of easiness
Than true reciprocal feelings.
Or was it?
Maybe I feel so suffocated now
That I can’t think,
Can’t comprehend the cataclysmic
Underpinnings of the situation.

But how do I ask for space
Without jumping to another planet?
The Earth’s pull is too daunting.
The innocent image of
Gluing our hands together with Elmer’s
Reverberates through my head.
I don’t want full escape,
Just a blessing for another
Path in life.
Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2023
In darkness
we protect the light

In blindness
we perfect our sight

In battle
we secure the truce

In doubting
—we ensure our truth

(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)
Keenon Brice Feb 2016
what gives you new life?

- the underpinnings of the artist
- mischief (and hellishness
- (becoming friends with nothingness)
- devotion to (healthy) destruction
- becoming friends with nothingness
-----------------------------------------------------­-------
hellishness (being hellish)
(the shadow)
exploration of the shadow
the unconscious
rage
callousness
violence
killing (things)
crudeness
crassness
- healthy outlets for destruction
- becoming friends with nothingness
rage

wbu?
its an important thing to know
------

mischief and hellishness
becoming friends with nothingness
the underpinnings of the artist
-------
memories of musing privately
(good memories
of musing privately)
---
(waiting) to be moved, egoically
--
confident ignorance
i try to be unconscious and let things shape themselves
(things shaping themselves unconsciously)
---
the familial greif inbetween my teeth
----
i cant control this beast
the beast that is my creativity
Carl Velasco Aug 2017
I.

If I wait by the mirror and
See my calves half-pressed underneath
My elbows, I’d turn into a portal. To warp
Headfirst into the frosted underbelly
Of sugary insults.

II.

You should expect her rage
Any moment now. She will stamp permanent
Burn marks across your entry points.
You will be barred from accessing
Yourself. The only choice at this point
Is to borrow a backup ghost of you.
You will live in a secondhand time. Lended
In after-phases. You will miss it: your hair,
Your old fur, your eyelids, your ****** fluids.
There’s a chance to return.

III.

I run my fingertips from clavicle,
Chest, belly button,
*****. I feel the head,
A tempered muscle.
I feel my neck cramp,
A choking sensation.
I raise my left leg, bring it to
My mouth, and fry the hair strands
With sweat. They can then become black chalk.
Valid chemicals to mark off
My genitals as a forbidden area.
No more search for the carnal.
No more lurching when
The tailspin sends firecrackers down the
Mouth to reduce itself. I am now
A humble biology, and I can
Be defined by you, any way that
You want me.

I press my ear up your belly,
I hear a falsetto of cities; a mechanic
Wrenching mugs.
I tap your sternum, I scratch it, too:
It sounds like a car running on an empty tank.

IV.

No surprise;
There’s no healing.
The disc of the world parades
Like a funeral.

V.

During siestas, the feet unlatches
From the limb, and they tread toward
Their own Mecca. By the time you
Wake up, they’re tethered back, having already been
Into the womb of their promised treaty.
They walk in rote patterns, taking
The integrated human into different places.
Then you wash it with soap and sunflower seeds,
And try to ***** it with a nail file. It is tortured, but also fulfilled.
They press into cotton, finally,
And they have served you.

VI.

The knee is a vault. See
How there’s no joint? See how
there’s just two huge bones weaved between
Sheets of muscle? A gate.
The knee is a cup when taken out,
A bunot spun from a palm tree.
What does it hold?

VII.

Some bed.

I kiss your eyes; they’re hot like the sun.
We ****; magic.
Now, in this aftermoment, we are well
Aware of our shared worth; the emptiness
Of one filled by the fullness of the other.
Or maybe it’s less
absolute than that?
Buck-naked, blankets doused in sweat, we
Attach, coil, and lock like Rubik pieces. I understand,
at that sheer momentum, the planetary involvement of
our animalistic response,
that *** can be priced.
But not this; not this time; not with
Us two scratching our calves with
Thickened skin.

Will you leave?
Will this recede?

VIII.

It will last
For others only.
I need more than that.
The hunger, the blessing
Of your carved upper lip,
The bouncy, fractured
Underpinnings of your rib. It is my
sole Purpose. I am born
For your pleasure, and you
To make me starve for
Feeling.
We transact. This is holy.
It has to be.
Breon Mar 2018
I offer no defense of my hidden sin,
Not when it wastes a fragment of eternity
In frivolous expenditure, stretched so thin
Across another vast, sprawling century.
And if I would - if I were - where to begin
This tour of a macabre private gallery?
All things, even this one, have their beginnings:
Thus, my humble collection's underpinnings.

Called to this divine vocation, I set out
Each time I encountered one who, crafting art,
Demanded my attentions. Please: never doubt
The truth of my intentions; my swelling heart
Adores them, falls in love as they sing or spout
Their lifeblood inspiration. Stepping apart
From all of this, don't stare so miserably!
Can I be blamed for working literally?

I love them, one and all, and here I curate -
Safe from all the ravagings of time, if not
Precisely speaking safe from my own mandate -
The workings and workers who inspired such thought,
Such incisive action. I lay them in state
With tender care, never sold and never bought.
Perhaps a glance at my favorite pieces
Might reassure you? My latest releases?

Observe the cuts into copper, engraving
Her fury, her passion into the cold plates!
How torturous, yes? She recalled it, raving,
Having sought me out to deny the ingrates
Assailing her solitude, as a craving.
I preserved her passion. Here, her works’ mates:
The roses she treasured etched into the hard bone
Of her shoulder-blades and skull, instead of stone.

But so few beloveds grace my humble home
Despite my voracious eye surveying scores
Of likely lovers - artful, otherwise - some
Lacking, left uninvited. Those I adore,
I long to beckon close - close as you now come.
Join me? There's more to show you, so much more,
And I hope you'll linger tonight, to dine.
I've just the thing for an artist who loves wine…
The request: "write something about a monster who does all her killing because she's genuinely trying to help people." As always, I'm fixated on muses. Apologies to Browning.
jeffrey robin Oct 2014
(                                                )
O             ­                         O

^^^

>>>>>>>                //// • ||                 <<<<<<<
<>        

/      (     (        \

################

she
                                           ( pure love )
is quite the thing                        

                                  ­         |||||

THOUGHTS ON BULLYING
~~~

( ---- like an epidemic
         Sweeping thru the culture

Especially amongst the YOUNG )

••                  

every act of disrespect

Every act of insensitivity

Of treating another as Alien

/:::/

Is actually an act of

SOCIAL TERRORISM

Which at the personal level
The one on one level

We call BULLYING

/:::/

Which we mistakenly limit to a recurrent but still
isolated incident ,

But / upon further reflection / we notice that these
incidents are often of a POLITICAL SIGNIFICANCE

In the same way that GANGS  ----- lawyer up ---- and enter
POLITICS and POLITICAL PARTIES

& POLITICAL PARTIES ( as GOVERNMENT )
take on all the characteristics of GANGS
as they start spying on and terrorizing
The population
and basically using their Power as a form of
PROTECTION RACKET

////

We too / internalize these tactics of Control /
and legitamatise them into SOCIAL NORMS
hence
BULLYING

( especially in the School System )

The Schools being where the kids turn into
Lab rats in a maze
and into
BRICKS IN THE WALL

//:://

This TERRORISM / BULLYING

as SOCIAL NORM

is primarily seen in that aspect of a child's life
Where the child is most sensitive

The EMOTIONAN LIFE
the ****** LIFE

••

First / thru the Media
The child is bombarded with
Images of Wanton ****** excess
And always within a commercial setting///

The body as COMMODITY
as PHYSICAL    OBJECT

///

One ATTAINS one of these OBJECTS

if one is  / WORTHY !
( has POWER )

meeting this object
And  KEEPING this object

Becomes a totally INDUCED PREOCCUPATION

and / as it is being played out in young minds /

It is a total MIND CONTROL OPERATION

Instilling IDEAS and ATTITUDES that will last
A lifetime

POLICAL ATTITUDES !

The acceptance of VIOLENCE at all levels
of experience

So early / and so deeply ingrained / that the VIOLENCE seems NORMAL

and then the child becomes dependent on GOVERNMENT
for protection

///////

now / let us look at ourselves thru

OUR OWN EYES !
the eyes of
OUR OWN POETRY

••

The subtlety of our BULLYING !

I LOVE YOU !
YOU HURT ME SO BAD
I AM FORCED TO HURT MYSELF !

This is so obviously simply BULLYING the other person into
doing what you want

I HATE YOU NOW !
AND I HATE YOUR NEW PARTNER !
MAY YOU BOTH GO TO HELL !

The hidden threat is obvious !

This is TERRORISM !

••

The main property of

TERRORISM / BULLYING

Is the way it induces CONFORMITY
into the society

Anyone who stands freely outside these INDUCED SOCIAL NORMS  is harshly labelled and ostracized

This of course begins in the schools ( as you must know )

Words like

FREAK / GEEK / NERD / LOSER / LONER
Etc

Abound // but it is the EMOTIONAL UNDERPINNINGS of these words which are used as a meals of legitimating VIOLENCE that we must notice

VIOLENCE against these OUTCASTS / REBELS become tolerated  by AUTHORITY  

and all Youth is divided
And INNOCENCE RENDERED IMPOTENT  

//

Now

I could go on and on
( and on )
And on  !

With examples

But we all have read ourselves !

///

So
I am just asking that we all examine ourselves
And ask

WHERE DO MY IDEAS ORIGINATE FROM ?

WHY

DO WE HURT EACH OTHER AND THUSLY
OURSELVES THIS WAY ?

Perhaps then
We will see who are friends should be

And who are enemies are
Joel M Frye Feb 2015
The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.
Carl Velasco Nov 2017
It’s always after a film when you say,
“Did you like it?” I think for a little while.
I think of the film as a whole, in chopped parts, and time
spent watching it that’s become time no longer.
It’s swimming now in a stream of phantom haze; less of a memory,
and more of the carbon imprint of an experience over.

We argue a lot if we liked it. I think I did, but over
the course of plenty moments, my mind goes restless: What if to say
I liked it somehow violates its completeness? I don’t trust memory
can tell me everything. A moment stretches, it happens a while;
then it's finished. Once immense now vapor; the thing no longer
the exact thing. And to access that again, to recall the past, plays with time.

After the film, you and I have a nice time.
I’d ask for this thousands of times over.
Running through street lights, shadows are cast: mine’s always longer.
You catch up, you giggle, there’s nothing to say.
We stay kinetic for a while.
The spools, the underpinnings, the machinations move, and create a memory.

The film was about a town that one day stopped speaking. One memory
of it astounds me most: The more time
passed, the clearer it became. It took a while,
but we finally knew why. But the credits rolled and it was over.
The audience vacated the room and it belonged to us. We didn’t say
anything. A respite emerged, and it grew longer.

You look at the shadow again, longer
than yours. I wish it was easy for me to access my memory,
and to access yours, too. I wish I could say,
“Did you like it?” and see you go back through time,
back before present turned into past, before it became over,
back when the vapor was the immense, and the blip the while.

While
longer,
still over.
Memory and
time.
“I liked it,” I say.

It took a while, but we have the memory.
We can access it longer than the merits of time.
And when it’s over, I’ll forever say.
I found it difficult to write a sestina, but felt immensely disciplined while doing it. This is rough, I gotta be honest. Hoping for better ones next time. William Miller's "The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina" inspired me to create this. Read that. It's so phenomenal.
James M Vines Sep 2017
Kick the ball, pass the ball, catch the ball, the simplest of definitions. All sports have the basic underpinnings. We watch to be inspired, we watch to be entertained. We get a thrill from the excitement and drama that comes from the team we love winning or losing it all. Until now, there has been sports, but no longer is this the case. The sacred arena has been turned into a political theater littered with nay Sayers and contrived outrage. 24/7 in a news cycle, we succumb to the volatile nature of confrontation. Our national pastime, our favorite hoops shooter or the fastest running back was our escape. Now millionaires not content with fame and large sums of money, must pollute the sports we love with their fake outrage. Sixty minuets in a football game or 3 hours in a baseball arena. One hour on a basketball court or a few periods on center ice. Hundreds of hours pass in a month where a person can make a statement, but when they defile the sports we love, then truly there is no game, just a sad rendition of failed lives that only want attention they feel they cannot get anywhere else.
Sam Hawkins Sep 2019
Letters and print seemed not my language anymore.
Pen in hand I felt like a weighted foot.
My eyes tracked; I lost the scent.

But whenever I rhythm, rhythm free --
false underpinnings of me evanesce,
cease their being.

Alphabets break through school room doors.
Wall clocks split their faces.

Whenever I rhythm, rhythm gentle--
my heart its codes concoct--
make all green fresh alive

as sweet this earth
become green eternal springtime.

(my blood my body know
openings wanderings)

Whenever I rhythm, leaping leaping;
my mouth mouths, my breath breezes.

I am at one with shivers of sunlight.
I sing I sing:

kei quah rae sa
sa e cha nu

e cha nu quah rae
kei quah sa saaaaaaaa….
With this, you can make up your own rhythmical tune aloud, hear it in your head or read it in monotone. I remember times when I lived in a print-less world -- I was natural and wild, steeped in magical nature. You too?
anusha Feb 2018
and awaken,
the ill-lit underpinnings of a
world drained of all;
you've shown me
a dim haze
of life, a marching pall-bearer,
the passed: my soul.
poetryaccident Nov 2017
Surety is now perverted
rational put to the side
when it's twisted to reflect
the fears disguised as the truth

here's the joke, the saddest fact
the table trembles with hard fists
banging with intent so pure
sadly this is God’s prank

free will to scramble round
looking to puddle’s face
wondering who will resolve
the pain inflicted by false calm

the foolish run into the gap
knowing wisdom’s been lost
while they seek to display
the underpinnings have no legs

madness denies certitude
mountains of fact brought to dust
conviction rests in lost valleys
to be trod by jester's feet

lunacy shared by those who heal
pointing away from the puddle's flank
up to the sky the moon shines bright
reflection of the sun's sane light.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171108.
“Sun’s Sane Light” is about the need for the jester or trickster to bridge the hubris of the human condition and the wisdom of the divine. The intervening steps appear to be scathing madness, but in this the truth is revealed in its form beyond the petty striving of man.
OnyxSea Nov 2017
The pain of the world,
Continuous and ever flowing.

Never ceasing, never ending,
Exactly when was the beginning?

Roaming, wandering, stopping, thinking,
I see suffering and all its underpinnings.

Painful it may be, everlasting it may seem,
Eventually all of it ceases to be.

To discover this cessation, this end to suffering.
I bring forth my attention, mind and will.

For the sake of myself, and all other beings.
Wandering the world since beginningless time,
I summon forth the strength, a well of power.
And sally forth I shall, to end myriad suffering

Though this body may cease to be,
and all meaning meaningless to me,
What matters is I tried, to do what is meaningful to me.

For my existence is value, as is all those who know pain.
May they walk forth, for the sake of the world and thee
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,

poetically, and zealously
oozing, gushing, bubbling over
with faux snobbish suave re:
pulse sieve literary fatuous
haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre
ning all the while chuckling to me

self, and indifferent if
some anonymous browser
with Dutchman's breeches rolled up
upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee
disparages mine harmless
badinage, hence if ye

might qualify as such nitpicker,
who doth cavil - dee
crying wading thru
quagmire of verbiage,
a gentle reply to thee
might be more wise to turn energy

toward, how in many another country
the village people haint so free
spouting, sporting, and spoiling,
vis a vis intellectual sparring
(albeit innocent) black
barbs hatch chee

ving, and raising urgent
attention against he
(who **** squelching
constitutional rights) re:
pressing, rescinding, reviling,
et cetera access toward key

underpinnings within these fifty
constituent United States
of America beckon alacrity
for obliging citizens across
all points of the compass to alee

v8 his indiscriminate flee
sing, sans bedrock nation could tee
tear on the brink of calamity,
which political plug quite inadequate

to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending
many a sacred liberty,
and foo to you reprimanding
against any agree
gee us objection to pen about polly lee
ticks and/or religion!
Prone to bloviation pure and simple
rides on figurative high horse,
which doubles up as my Plymouth Duster
analogous to General George Armstrong Custer
(blowing his i.e. mine little big horn)
anonymous readers I unwittingly fluster
poetic patina an artificial, superficial,
yet beneficial ego boosting luster
one mister re: man can muster.

I (no surprise) become
self absorbed with my own palaver drum
ming across the screen written from
me, (an average happy go lucky)
goose stepping honk
king Crimson and clover Caucasian man hum
bull despite being imagine
an infinite string of superlative adjectives jum

bull ling together to accentuate Lum
burr jack ambitions comfortably numb
when modest male
just another brick in the wall
scores of decades during plum
years of mein kampf
watching favorite television programs
in boyhood living ***
while bobbing like a sponge
(donned in square pants)
sprawled on my washboard tum.

No inflated cheekiness for logophile
renown throughout the webbed wide world
for his pro licks
regarding poetic shenanigans ad nauseum.

I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
misinterpreted as snobbery
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,

poetically, and zealously
oozing, gushing, bubbling over
with faux snobbish suave re:
pulse sieve literary fatuous
haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre
ning all the while chuckling to me

self, and indifferent if
some anonymous browser
with Dutchman's breeches rolled up
upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee
disparages mine harmless
badinage, hence if ye

might qualify as such nitpicker,
who doth cavil - dee
crying wading thru
quagmire of verbiage,
a gentle reply to thee
might be more wise to turn energy

toward, how in many another country
the village people haint so free
spouting, sporting, and spoiling,
vis a vis intellectual sparring
(albeit innocent) black
barbs hatch chee

ving, and raising urgent
attention against he
(who **** squelching
constitutional rights) re:
pressing, rescinding, reviling,
et cetera access toward key

underpinnings within these fifty
constituent United States
of America beckon alacrity
for obliging citizens across
all points of the compass to alee
v8 his indiscriminate flee
sing, sans bedrock nation could tee
tear on the brink of calamity,
which political plug quite inadequate

to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending
many a sacred liberty,
and foo to you reprimanding
against any agree
gee us objection to pen about polly lee
ticks and/or religion!
Courtesy narcissistic trumpeting
fungi moldering democratic underpinnings
donning spore ergot
lump n prowl lot terror re: hot,
hence yours truly compelled to jot
reasonable rhyme analogously describing
how land of the free home
of the brave strangled
courtesy Gordian knot
tying even Steven score
with diabolical phenomena
characterizing Salem's Lot.

The tattered glory of America,
now heats up to fahrenheit 451 degrees
analogous to kindling tinder
once again with agitation poised
to strike on brink
arty choked Jerusalem
legislation incites humiliation,
which goads desecration
fête accompli *****
in armor of Democratic

rubric, constituting capitalistic
ethic, generic iconoclastic,
and jingoistic logic,
nor budging an inch when man
dating trans sect
shoe ell masses swallow his drink
what huff huck –
this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hellraiser doth bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Marshall law

fast as twittering shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab doth
put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury re: hill temperament
pitches orbit of planet Earth
tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Jew pit
er damnations, excoriations, fulminations
huzzah sing how **** derriere
didst Saturn simultaneously

crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plopping
approximately two hundred
and fifty pounds off flesh
doubling down humming
his favorite Neptune,
dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating self coined motto
I yam almighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering reins of control,

a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool
rip pugged ant guise zing rogue
rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
king die hard fans of dictatorial,
linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving
wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal
Surviving at the Top,

The Art of the Comeback,
and The America We Deserve
incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down vis a vis
pro pens heave lee and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval,
which scribbled signature
doth not smooth survey monkey
serve hazmat puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze

catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these fruitful plain
in short *******rendered barren
United States of America
land of milk and honey
twill become wasteland
hell in a hand basket
with nary trace of able link
kin, the sixteenth president,
(whose rugged pioneering frontier existence)

found him steady and strong,
plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitome if  elected forty seventh
commander in mischief
a twenty first century Drake
yule ha – albeit tink
con **** – barely describes
this oafish piranha making waves,
(whereby Hurricane Katrina
seems like child’s play),

where even a toddler,
could out rule,
out smart, and out think
maniac pampered
by donned patriarch Fred,
who fawned, doted
and bow wowed
over polarized magnate trick son,
whose rapacious,
reprehensible and riling actions

generated when United States
First Lady Melania Trump
wear a $39 jacket emblazoned with
"I really don't care, do you?"
during a trip to a migrant
child detention centre
published June 21st, 2018
didst give (in my humble opinion),
an affirmative clear cut, eye raising wink
to exploitation and fraternization
with kneading greed,

which four years of horror and terror
wrought chaos in the white house,

When congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and firearms as all hell broke loose as testimony
to dire prognostication foretold
more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted
up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis

credo, coda and **** knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint
against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto
when opposing with energy
plus verve espoused by fellow delegates,
and his hologram ghost ******
from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate

as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis
of twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump,
who throve on cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon
any hopelessness for
civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without

vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,
when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold
at fire sale price slashed

when Donald Trump ran country
into the ground evidenced
by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor
of hand grenades trashed
like some sorority or fraternity house
left the sanctified righteous West Wing
with powder puffs canisters
of pepper spray, whereby
most docile, humble,

and liberal took page
from playbook of Pandora,
and landed an aimless swing
at root cause of melee
by hurling objet d’art
at pompous trump ping
septuagenarian, whose platoons of goons
rent asunder peoples against their king,
the donnybrook heathen, whose remarks
against libertarian rubric

made America great
wantonly soup peer egg go whist tickly
reviving prejudices declared dead
from yesteryear and his attempt to bring
back the glory days, when WhistleBlowers
getting water boarded and aching
deigning to implement dictatorship
virulent strain Jane's Addiction
of the Proletariat as capital idée fix
weaving together, the salient strengths

viz founding fathers credo gave licks
to King George, and now in an ironic
twist and shout of fate through eclectic mix
basket of deplorables further shamed
by being routed by New York Knicks
sewed jaws, heads of state, and dignitaries
with limping bodies spent like derricks
oil used up and no place to go except
to keep Alice in Chains and
Alice Cooper Company with toys in the attics.

Meanwhile the complex edifice
housing innocent Little Red Riding hood
standing in for realm of Pilgrim's Progress
witnessed statuesque Lady Liberty
firmly grappling torch of freedom,
when sequel to forty fifth commander in chief
whereby talking head strongly prophecy
how he blatantly snatches emblematic symbol,  
and essential fabric and rubric
stitched together over the course

since Declaration of Independence
arrogated courtesy founding
fathers and mothers, (albeit unsung)
huge bear paws figuratively swiping
sacred inviolable enshrined covenants
stripping away said constitutional perquisites
establishing totalitarian hegemony
casting dark shadows
along the edge of night,
wherein outer limits of the twilight zone
harken stranger than fiction dystopian wasteland.

Welcome back DONALD TRUMP –
holding hostage goose
that laid the golden egg.

Axe the old don
a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
with the ha airbrushed pompous ****
so the kiss my a** in Macy's window
paraded jackal hound doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide and proletarian discord won!

No matter Donald Duck Trump
i$ - a pompous ***
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
with Kristallnacht broken glass
inciting banal deathly
hallowed expletives toward lass
seen – especially as viewed
on archives from Fox Television
then news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
bracing herself against ogre personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults
from incriminating verbal pass  
so…NO VOTE from me
from such a snooty, petty, haughty
arrogant simian with sass!

I van nah try to describe
while sitting on me ****
how he oh bomb in lee rages
with gnashing teeth while back a slump
blasting democratic nomination as a sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome
of crass bloviation, a malignant lump,
whose rants sans
presidential outcome a sham bull

with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to ******* jump
disseminating gene pool –
birthing more quackers
and additionally doth ****
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape
erecting taj mahal ******* symbols
where players dump

and gamble away hard earn cash
for his hello kitty,
as if that cachet to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal leering pout
while hair *** red bulls
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed
heady measly shaped muppet
diseased cranial hologram
of a cretaceous,
facetious and insidious measly mump.
now, if you the STATE seriously
and society: not so much...
well then... soecietal construct arguments
of the anglo-sphere far left
are so bogus...
i'm talking about STATE formations:
gradations,
i could seriously whiff up a solipsistic
perfume with a **** on a crowded
northern line at elephants
and castle: is there a dormant volcano
in the vicinity of the station?
it's always so ****** hot...
anyways...
                    social-constructs: ha ha...
i just saw Lenin turning in his mosileum...
maybe even blinking...
i'll send a dog actor to investigate:
bells like St. Bednards'-Pavlov's...
slobbering: woo woof... found a dead body:
let's audit!

typical Saturday night:
although no BBC radio 3 or 4...
i leave that for work nights...
when i'm off and there's some clairty of the V
and some haze of the M
and some: moozeeck...
then i turn into that soppy DJ
listening to Beyonce and: if i were a boy...
and i get to think about Edie and Reyla
and my mother and father
and the dead...
because i can't really think about
Reyla's mother or her father
so she's like the inversion of my father
and mother
whereby she can think of my mother and father
concretely...
like my father thinks about my mother's
father and mother, concretely...

but this audit is not because i'm actually
outperforming most people in the workforce...
but because there was a death
and in how the SIA licensing "scheme" is
orientated: duty of care...
tertiary police authority...
                             safety, security, service...
oh i know the dry tongue
but in this profession there are two options:
like and unlike a construction site:
dealing with caged animals and people in open
society is one glad tiding of comparative lit.
basically...
you either get physical, abuse your power...
don't understand people...
**** life... therefore you don't think about it...
or...
you get metaphysical, disuse your power...
begin, understanding, people...
the prepositions are omitted for a reason...
reason being: understanding...
begin to UNDERSTAND         of / off people is not enough...
there must be an omission of guilt:
via understanding... the -ing form is paramount...
if someone commits suicide in the workforce...
and you have a clean-slate conscious-conscience...

21st century schizoid man...
London is Blade Runner
i get paranoid in the workplace
through the silent treatment of:
how to trickle down a compliment
from on top...
to the pawn king down below:
that's not like pyramids and work force
works...
         the hierarchies and bypassing
them with flukes...
a typical Saturday night for me...
managed to find a Pirate ship that
screened Deadpool & Wolverine...

                 the dialogue... brilliance...
**** **** the stuttering on TT FF uck...
the caviats... the resurrection of scratching match...
but not my genre...
an overarching yes culturally necessary:
who started it: Superman and Batman...
cinematic anti-glory...
    watching Michael Keaton summed up
that difference
in terms of target audience...
DC is mature comics
Marvel is immature comics...

                                  "immature":
archetypical exploration
versus... dark psychological underpinnings of DC...
the fantasy of the psy narrative
associated with the self-morph dynamism
of identifying a "self": in pop culture by image:
rather than idiosyncratic: wording...
caricature of mannerisms...
the immaturity of com-cons... as image-stylists...

oh... i will switch off from this idea of work:
since most people don't see this as work
when not in construction:
no physical labour just physical endurance:
but no concept of work...
some bypass the lethargic stupor:
leperosy-catatonia...

                          but they are not the ones
on the extreme of wanting to become physical
and adrenaline fission corpus of attention-caffeine booster...
i like to think i was a stutter in
my youth:
but sometimes i BOOM and BELLOW
like not Ginsberg's howl... how how... anaemic dog's
bark: how...                     howl is such a feeble word...
like owl...        but not owl...
owl is also eagle...

                 how...                  how...
HYWH
  
   rugby goal post aH
   rugbly goal post bH

         game of Y (3 dimensions)
   game of W (wave of time,
    2 durations, 90 french minutes)

2 durations? beginning and end...
durations are the equivalent of dimensions,
the spatial-temporal realm
is subject to the
dimensionability-duration conflation... action:
not -ation Nn-Nn-Nn-Nn-Nn-             (+)

3 dimensions
2 duration...

         just thinking... within 3 dimensions...
          there's 2 dimensions of history...
    as time passes it becomes geological and squashed...
like dinosaurs...
so time shrinks
   as space expands...
and at the end of it: there will only be a blink
of the great eye...
and everything will restart...
         a rugby game is 2 durations or one duration?
it can't be 1 duration: 1 duration is life of an individual...
2 durations is life of a citizen
which is 2 durations of a rugby match
or a movie: there'a a beginning and an end...
a 1 duration system has no beginning
therefore has no end...
what would be a 3 duration dynamic?
oh **** me... i don't know!

— The End —