"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail, to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"

The Brandon who was sure of a god is deceased,
But his memory is visible in my idealistic wish for one.
Who would not want a loving, personal god
Forgiving their wrongs and guiding them
Towards ever-lasting happiness?
Answer me..

No matter what you want,
In regard to matters of forgiveness and happiness,
You are on your own,
At least that's what I think.

I have to forgive myself,
Even if everyone else will refuse to do so.
Ugly and beautiful both describe me equally,
And these qualities apply to every
Other human being as well,
From the poor to the wealthy,
The atheist to the religious,
The prisoner to the police officer,
The terrorist to the president, and so on.

Failure to acknowledge this
Underscores moral supremacy,
And the over-simplification of humankind.
No war between Good and Evil is being waged,
And as far as happiness goes,
No man or woman can give it to you,
They can only supplement it.
It is not a plateau
To be permanently established,
It waxes and wanes like
The phases of the moon,
Tending to glow whenever you smile.

(c) 2013 Brandon Antonio Smith

9/20/13

Marisa Mayeda's tiny hands are steady as she smooths the fabric out in front of her and examines the stitches, checking for bunching or knots.

“Lay it flat, so you can see the whole thing,” suggests instructor Joyce Blaney. Mayeda obeys, spreading out the gorgeous patchwork quilt she’s almost finished creating. It’s one of five she’s making for the babies at Torrance Memorial Hospital.

“It’s her Girl Scout project,” explains Blaney. “Each kid got to choose what they wanted to do, and since Marisa loves sewing, she picked this.”

Blaney’s studio at Sew Creative in Redondo Beach is colorful chaos: bolts of fabric, scrap baskets, ribbons and lace. Pincushions dot almost every surface, and the hum of Singer sewing machines underscores conversation.

It’s unhurried and something of a throwback that most post-baby boomers would recognize as a home economics class—a part of American curriculum that has dwindled over the decades. It’s where Blaney herself learned to thread a needle 50 years ago, fell in love with it almost instantly, and made it a part of her life.

“I learned in a classroom of 30 kids and one teacher. She must have lost her mind,” she laughs now. “It was very crowded. I didn’t realize how challenging that must have been until I started teaching my own students.”

The previous owner started Sew Creative in 1989 before retiring, whereupon Blaney—who had been an employee for several years—bought it and has run it for the past 13 years. Any kid—or adult —can join classes, starting from age six and up. “I primarily teach classes every day after school and on Saturdays. It’s a great opportunity for kids to have a creative outlet.”

According to studies from the University of Missouri, an increasing number of millennials and younger kids don’t know basic home skills, including sewing, cooking, or doing laundry. Only 30 percent of young adults know how to properly boil an egg, according to one study.

Learning by example, such as watching your mother hem a pair of pants, has become less common with each generation. We microwave our food or eat out a lot more. Convenience has made it easier to forgo learning how to cook, and with home economics classes gradually disappearing in the education system.

“Schools are so much more about academics now,” Blaney observes. “This gives kids a chance to make something with their hands, to feel confidence and have something to show for their work. One kid even said that sewing helps her relax, to focus on the moment. I mean, that’s pretty important. She gets it.”

The Queen Amidala costume that Ava Brunner is making for Halloween exemplifies that sentiment. Resplendent in flowing white fabric and a complex pattern of scalloped ruffles, it’s an intricate and challenging design. Brunner, who has been coming to Sew Creative for five years, is now a pro seamstress at age 11, and plans to be an actor and fashion designer.

“There’s no deterring her. Once she decides she’s going to do something ... ” Blaney shakes her head admiringly. “Nothing stops her.”

Mayeda, working diligently on her blanket, just started sewing two months ago at her mother’s suggestion. She had never sewn anything before, but she had a goal and dove in with enthusiasm.

“I wanted to make a new bag for my birthday, but I didn’t know how. So I needed to learn,” she said.

Like her teacher, she’s found a new thing to love—plus a brand-new bag for her birthday this week. And come this January, five newborns will get handmade, hand-stitched blankets for theirs.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

for Dennis Lee*

By the river
at night

burned stubble
of sugar cane
feathers the air with a lick of caramel

a quiet earth underscores
crocus and chorusing cricket
as curlew weep their distant sonorous calls

******* the stillness
we pluck a string of starlight

to pull a gentle breeze closer
we tug on orbiting moons

in the darkness of deep
we become motionless
intent to watch worlds
and enter the symphony


MChallis @ 2015

I am the inverse of a human being.

I’m not like anyone I’ve ever seen.

I only like the things that bring me pain.

I don’t know how I ended up this way.

Try to make me cry.

Try to make me bleed.

Try to make me suffer

maybe then you’ll see

only when I’m in pain

do I feel relief

from all of these demons

that have been haunting me.

You can keep all your encouragement

and any happy feelings you have sent.

I would rather hear from someone else

who feels the way I’ve always felt.

Give me sadness.

Give me sorrow.

Give me self-destruction

maybe then you’ll know

that all your hopeful words

will only serve to show

that I am out of place

everywhere I go.

So please don’t try to make me smile

or try to make me happy for a while.

Your cheerfulness just underscores

all of the things I’m longing for.

These verses filled the void;
Contributions from 'round the world;
From men and women, young and old;
Creating something out of nothing.
A prosaic mosaic, a collaboration,
From HP poets, a celebration.

A blank line
Awaits my thoughts
A blank line
It’s an invitation
A blank line
Patiently empty
A blank line
It calls on creativity
A blank line [sic writerunblocked]

To comment on this I cannot resist
The daily poem takes a new twist
At the top slot a poem that's not
A poem that doesn't exist [sic. Martin]

For the life of me -
I cannot think the words -
refilling blanks, and slots -
not coming across, absurd -
at least, not in, so many, words [sic Temporal Fugue]

Farts are nothing,
but previews for ****,
just like most
Movie
trailers
at
the
theatre. [sic Hasani]

Please fill in is the Story of My Life The Invisible lines the Unseen pain I walk among the crowds but I am not there all they see is a shell when the truth of myself is withdrawn deep inside lost between the invisible lines [sic James M. Vines]

When at 12 midnight
And my heart beats a certain pace
I finally turn off the lights
As tears stream down my face [sic jace]

the vacuum
Empty yourself of
From...
What u retain
What u contain
What u detain
What u abstain

Draw the lines of...
Your Boundary
Your territory
Your trajectory
Your sanctuary

You....
Draw your lines of action
Define your confinement
Create your vaccum

And now....
The love flows in
The bliss moves in
The happiness gushes in [Jugnu-the-firefly]

THESE underscores from a your keyboard--
Bored-as-hell I can see
The creative act has been forced-in
This outsourced work, taking our
Outsourced words, during work-hours [sic Sean Murray]

Lines
Lines Blank call
like void of creation to birth.
They grab my attention
luring poet mind
to commence firing away.
It fires in blasts of gratitude,
jarring empty spaces of thoughts
Phases that have no connections
until pen touches paper
or fingers touch keyboard.
Until I shout out to another writer
named Francie who inspired
to fill the void.[sic Star BG]

i would have described my frustrations
what i expect from u
but i decide to keep my lips shut
its not what it seems
sometimes my lips cant depict my problems........ [sic Gucco]

It's a new year, yet are we, new people
although many others have been extinguished,
my star still shines and twinkles (although not as valiantly)
and so does yours
and I pray that it may twinkle,
for the longest time indeed. [sic sincere humble cowardly Song]

Words can be over-rated,
its the blank page that often inspires,
images tumbling over themselves,
waiting to be scribed by word-squires. [sic Pagan Paul]

Like this goose of a poem I'm holdin'
The deliberate silence of this is golden

Now don't be cheap
and don't be crass

hold your words until the last
without donkey ears your still being an a... [sic Green Trees]

The symmetry of her eyes collapsed into the void............
....sixteen teardrops spilled on the morning sky............
............Colorless and absurd............................
............the sunrise misplaces past happiness............
Future was you [sic Kyte]

Your poem is good but mine is better
You should feel the poem, writing doesn't matter [sic Daman Singh]

I do nothing
Others do it for me [sic Dennis Faulk]

To all the confusing things that roam my head and heart that I cannot read what it’s actually telling me. [sic Sara]

The eyes sees genuineness that mind yearns
The heart feels what it needs to learn,
Yet all is but God's ultimate plan!
Life amidst it's hustsles goes on and on. [sic Saumya]

Broken Chains
Free me,break these chains of *******
Chains that bound and confine me to rules
Shackles that control me against my will
Fetters that make me submit to emotions
Irons that make me less humane,free me
Till all that's left are broken chains. [sic Abi]

Feelings so fierce as they swarm inside
No escape as theyey spin and spin
I try to open a door
To let them out
At last, the page is blank [sic Lin]

light for sure
shy of ardor
less is more
why try harder? [Ian Woods]

And thus the blankness left,
And the void was filled.

i want to peer inside your beating
veins, copy the colors off the
walls and write the names down,
so when the aliens come there
is something worth saving

i want to sit on windowsills
with you and squawk at the
birds from inside,

and on tuesday i will take
you grocery shopping and test
the tomatoes, i'll show you
how and you can laugh,

and i will write commas on
your tongue and scribe
underscores on the throbbing
veins beneath your wrists

The Long Lost Road

Been many places seen the sublime and the harsh realness of our world love’s overabundance then the
Stark night cry of a child lost in the darkness mother had more important plans rivers of pain befall our
Land of plenty many of a home sets in darkness where loved ones have parted the pain lessens but
Never will you be free from gentle tears that slip down your face when friends leave for their love
Brightened homes all that can be done is look to the future where all sorrow will be vanquished turn my
Child into the recesses of those calming streams in daylight or darkness they come when you close
Your eyes against the pain loss struggles weigh heavy and you are carried away by their waves yes the
Road is filled with signs but the mystery lingers baby sister came with the New Year she only stayed
From January to June mother to distraught it fell to others in the family to attend her service what
An Enormity all that room and only the tinniest coffin but it produced much sorrow it seems a lot more
Babies died in the fifties but not to worry life would make up time and claim in great in numbers our
Loved ones in later years you stop at the altered world you try to find the way forward truly the richness
Of the bond runs in the blood at deep streams you find you can step into the canyon the walls block out
The familiar lights that came from their smiles and laughter though the heart beats a somber note the
Spirit Within finds they though faint and light are the same as it was before they filled your life you were
Incomplete and in them wholeness came so much of life is outwardly shallow but when you take
Deliberate Action to walk the lost road you will find less shadows you will find comfort rolled in great
Clouds in this mist that rolls over the hills and valleys loves voice is made clear you are not alone
Merriment underscores your steps truth runs through the depths of high water but here the waves have
The pain and hurt is far removed this is the sacred joining place of both worlds love bridges the torn
Asunder parts of your world you are permitted to bask in all that was perfect and is eternal if the world
Will not allow a vacuum here truth love goes back before your birth and continues for ever forward
When the physical house is dissolved it instantly reveals the indestructible their lies the difficulty you are
Surrounded and shut in by limitations but you can reach this greatness by withdrawing and in the soul
You stand and stretch until these extraordinary heights are yours at least briefly because reality will
Always if not consciously at least sublimely it will occupy this territory.

Exactly what just happened?
I must have missed the memo
did we begin advertising
for wanna-be Longfellows?
I came here for inspiration
so many years before
now I feel such trepidation
towards hash tags and underscores

I guess in the end, we all attend
to selling out as ******.
At least I paid my money. .
where is the online store?

Curiosity let me down
Why do I hate what I have found
Why do the walls look awful thin
How long before the sky caves in

But I got hooked on these blue and purple lights
And i found myself in the streetlamps in the dead of night
Crystallizing, like the frost around my rib cage
A palette colder than the snow falling from outer space

Freeing myself From the hands
Finding my life is to my own detriment
Finite, caustic in the games we play
Dissolving underscores the price you paid

Rain drops
Bluer than the sky
Tears of someone high above
Felled in spirit
Will defenseless
Recognizing they were selfish
Despite all my endless walls
Broke the sky down to a fault

And the shards now fall all around
My outstretched arms
And broken heart

Saving grace is in my lungs
Biding up the time here spending
All of it pretend inventing
Ideas for the passing eye
Finding out why days go by

A wooden kid with a furrowed brow
Carved this way and made to wonder how
How long might we survive
Strung up, dancing on this twine
Woven out of atmospheric bitter sweet goodbyes

And the notes that I hum
To pass the time
-------------------
I'll still see you around, right?

Yeah, keep an eye out, I'm sure you'll see me

The thunder of freight cars traveling through Palmetto , heading North to Atlanta at the five o'clock hour . A silver contrail underscores Venus , jet airplanes in every direction . Golden Pines as far as the eye can see , stately Oaks , steely Pecans and ravishing Maples .. A frozen Buck at the wood line surveys his next move , the last remaining geese reveal their presence , then bid adieu .. They travel South tonight by the light of a mischievous Moon at tree top level , off to points South beneath the Western horizon ...
Whippoorwills begin their familiar call , a Barn owl takes the stage with its haunting song ..

The earth, a grain of dust,
suspended in a sunbeam,
it underscores our responsibility to treat
each other with more kindness and compassion,
and to preserve and love this pale blue dot,
the only home we have ever known.

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to **** one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.”

This is really
about the wire

a lightly
penciled line
in the air

the birds like
underscores
or arrows

it's what's
implied
unspoken

what's
almost erased
or slightly out of reach

© Whit Howland 2019

A Discourse on Aerophane Eunomia  9/24/2024

The preterition of bionomically viable mackintoshes perdurable by vivat credenda whorling around catacoustic furor that attempts to array the constellation of all grievances deciphered by compassionate governance is dependent upon the following stipulations and statutes. Primarily, a catadioptric houndstooth complex bionomic superorganism demands a gradgrind dompteuse of psephology (as a stark underestimate of nasute observers primarily overlooked by swingometers) trying to zizel lurdans by vaccimulgent fracedos and forfex haecceity contingencies of nimiety with pushful forcipation at the behest of quokkas affright at amphiscian afterclaps amberjacking dontolesque heydays imperiously governed by interlucation using interfluvian omphalism unreeving humanistic altruism (a tentative renegadism) in spinescent palzogony roiling in salebrosity with bastardized semelparous progeny gorgonizing the polydipsia of pickthank tantony to nebulist algedonic overdrive backfired in mackintosh vulcanization implodent upon portfire calculated to appease a fetishized odontalgia inculcated into modish broadcloth visiogenic maquettes of cultural deformation suddenly vogue with macroscian specters the subsultus of internecine nidifugous loimic periblebsis hobbling the weighage of kerygma better suited to cloistered gnotobiology rather than noisome cultural pettifoggery spooling in chorizont celsitude.

Wedelning qwersy sell-outs corralled by websters and coquelicot contecking compital moral clochards zealous for chryselephantine clavis disproportionate on shibboleths of jarabing jalousies adscripted by jarking foothot jellygraphs jerquing caballine jiggermasts by nasute opportunism attrite on incidental crepitated gerdoying stampedes culvertaging cynomorphic mavericks too nacreous to sustain nebelwerfer mechanomorphic negentropy more predictable as bezique betising for briquets of Sarvodaya finicky to proficuous nektons secondary to lagniappes of nembutsu the catalyst behind synclastic tympanies nettlesome because of elflock forestalled by ipesand nidamental to powellisation for pyretology forever percurrent as a heterodyne trigonometric variance of bounded vacillated voltinism of opaque sastruga henpecking somniation sparvering interpunction to specular umbrage sphacelated sussultatory suretyships for jansky and pulicide in ignivomous deputization of blunt obtuse iopterous conflagration fumigating ipecac into streamlined mechanization of ironmaster wallfish irriguous because of lucrative downtrodden evanescent brehon yet catalyzed by springboking resourcefulness joggling the jamdani into jockeyed cladogenesis intransigently isallobar (resolute in protection of ****** octodonts constituting the bellwethers of aleatory oryzivorous osmol insulating preterition) by chirking global solidarity even in subboreal disagreement with other countries

An oscitation of orrery often siamang in rumchunder rhotacism in celation contingent on shenango tatamae of shagreen nimbose compurgation of dashpot shibboleths of rheotaxis redemptive in the pleoinosis juddering the volplane porbeagle with tangible costive coy popocracy at the detriment of deplorable springhare rasters of tragelaph pseudo-paragons supernal in importunate thremmatology culled from goniometers of elective grillage for tachytelic gonfaloniers to punctuate the valedictory ****** of equity in equipoise suspended as a tantieme of conserved tectospheric terrella (harvested potential energy even when embezzled by chlamydate henchmen) manufactured by testudo uncial migraineurs toiling restlessly even in macroscian umbrage for gradate suffrage a piebald moonraker sphacelation of spurriers above murengers always cognizant of indignant plight but frowning on outright cultural temulentia of ultrageous cacodoxy becoming kuru. Paroxytone recadency of bosky boschveldt pantagruelian scabilonian whangams of pilloried pigeonholes slimmerbacking complex sociodynamic catastrophes abetted by worricrow paradigms obtenebrating cryptotype exists suboptimal because it is coauthored by nyejays gribbean against swoopstake individualism emergent into syndicalized mutualism (a talisman of tegular latticework moonshot telenergy capable of subverting core machinations by singular tentation of togated terpsichorean modifications to camaraderie in a woke-spun world’s sorority—responsible for torpefying virility—troating with lucriferous might yields compromise and efficacy when wed to chilgoza rather than epicene debasements while vouchsafing ambitious masculinity) such that the turncock on insight once clogged by mute ridottos now inundates trouvailles of subtle vastations gradately hedged from interramification to slowly disperse or become vecordy for huckabuck graft guilloched in defiance by skalded vorticism tediferous in contrarian polities orchestrated by chatelaine pedigree to sustain subsidiary alms for witwanton libertines despite such ergotall kilmarge of rancid flagstench purified by secular litotes

Simultaneously, wobbly but resolute mahouts--the mainpernors of scofflaw matachins trying to catamount caudle against elitism--try to obviate cecutiency to immiserate chelonian banderols cadging chevrotain empaths to nebulize matriotism in aimless vitiation of attempted negentropy by nivial centrism only to marvel at summative nolitions all wagered in bailivated wrox galvanized by baized serpentry seahogging zarzuela gamidolatry and out of the greatest cognitive dissonance hoggasters for killcow antithesis of hopsack pragmatica walloped by hotchpot howdah foumarts’ exhortations while flysch decimates their ranks as fitchew murage defaults such that political derricks are delegated to defeat quotidian dentagra even when prominent politician degage aunceled acclaim of asterism militant in pettifoggery despite jurymasted victory over the peccadillos undermining ashplant stulms (arrect in their own malversation) mainsail of rabid contumacy rather than valorous travail resurgent in chrestomathy.  

Tirociniums for timocracy aristarching arguted aretaics against Hakenkreuz and naïve espaliers bolted to boltrope epizoic determinism for witless alamort epilation of oreillet nidifugous inculcation of physiognomancy with improper brassage deskandent in perfunctory interpunction of punitive oneirocritism of radical jolkering innitency by backstay imbrication of aloof ivory-tower nihilism among perverse academic ranks illecebrous because of ichnited analysis of stemson immunifacience of scud by scrimure abandon drooling over picamar cirriped goblin treasures. The scrobiculous backlash of scumble shiding around in cat-lady garish gaudy falsettos betrothed to the superlunary concourse cooperative with silverskin sorbefacient psaphonic acceleration centrifugal from izzat operative in cultural umlaut because of unguicule embracery abroach of illicit pipelines of tubifacient graft sustained by the bonhomie of second-take absconce actinism enveloping the virgations of woke allegiance to afterclaps of alcahest  which underscores the forefront posture intermediary to alexia is a resurgent aphthong of thoughtless consumerist ploys of plashy diatribes against apologetic kerygma swaddling apotropaic aggiornamento above fraying braying jackals of religious aporia preferring the exhilarated wharfinger hobohemia to the muntjac sublimation of all entelechy synclastic towards plurennial pleimorphy for societal phoniatrics to great fanfare and amelioration of the dirigisme by guarded abraxas pergolas so decisive they collectively are both the antecedent catalyst and consequential afterbirth to high-ticket onerous pandation.

The vulpecular zayat zoppa of downtrodden crestfallen haustellum of substandard binary hawseholes become dogcarts to sophomoric banderols specious to tanquams of tantony gaslighted by dupion to either be dipnoous in endeavor (self-consciously dishonest about oppositive support for detraque) or emphatic about declasse enfranchisement darkled by the devastating prospect that authenticity invites anathema from every cordwainer obliged to sustain humane compassion deadeyed by radioactive daws of misguided quasi-astragal autecology . Taradiddles of cruelty wagered in provocative acropathy deserve alpenstocker magnanimity because of invaluable munificence in forever keystoned enhancement of allemande noospheres revalorized into burgeoned tympany and vivid nembutsu earned on the suffrage of the aloof frogmarch hobbled by martingale aegis livid by the contumacy of pretext debaucheries invented by vulpecular Idiocracy to engender the source of the vehement neurergic aspersions ultimately the ultimatum of circular sockdolagers of laborious acequia accolent only to abscissas few others could interdigitate for eventual appeasement of cordial exoteric aspiration of demassified eunomia heartfelt to attune the escaliers of recourse to invest in prosodemic eclaircise that oystercatchers overlocked against the isovol by defeating the froward isorithms of egestuous bannock will enhance nisus and oikonisus simultaneously in a world already famished of fertility in farsighted alacrity committed to the nuclear family. Thus, we need a polyphiloprogenitive growth engine to camber and calver rejuvenated moralism and redoubled enlightenment to jurymast integral noetic virtues establishing paragons of jannock wroth in success woonerfing rectitude in meliorism that refrains from anti-Americanism rather than stultifying the whole system for the mazut of killcow wragapole samara squintifegos spuddling on antebellum travesty and premodern areneidan illiteracy the sastruga of typhonic pessimism better obrogated by reform than reiterated in vandalized scaffmasters so prepossessed by scarfskin acciptrine atrocities it forgets to marvel at our stepwise progression of wondrous cosmic dilatometry piggybacking sidereal lugsails propinquities prize in ephemeral mensuration of holobenthic time at loss with the joss of kismet zazzy in foudroyant entelechy as the clepsydra bleeds festination because of polyacoustic gezellig quesited as the ultimate wonderwork forever perplexed of and tantalized by the selfsame fate of pansophy.

With peaceful intent I extend the broadest bonhomie to repudiate miscegenated compaginations that seem surly, burlesque or menacing when in reality my words have variegated connotations that sprawl elaborate metaphors with maximum creativity sometimes overlooking subtle innuendos too brash to be authentically my asseverated intent

Dear illustrious Republicans in Congress,
You can run, but don't think you can hide,
As more Americans come to understand
How you've taken the people for a ride.

A tax reform bill you call it. Please!
Doesn't it more resemble a tax deformity?
Or better yet a vicious and outrageous
And monstrous act known as an enormity?

Something wasn't on the up-and-up.
Your great desire for secrecy underscores
The fact that you were hiding something big
When you wrote the bill behind closed doors.

Your suspicious need to rush it through
Made us wonder why you'd vote to embed it
In our system of laws when there were many
Members of Congress who hadn't even read it.

Hasn't the thought ever occurred to you
That one doesn't have to be a ****
To see your great desire to pass a bill
Before people could see how bad it is?

You'll make your donors happy; that is true.
Their money hasn't lost its strong appeal.
Now you have to convince the people you've *******
How they are all getting a wonderful deal.

What a bold redistribution of wealth
To rich Americans, who will benefit most!
You pulled off an outrageous scam,
And then you raised your glass and made a toast.

That millions lose their health care doesn't faze you.
The deficit? Oh, that's an easy fix.
You'll just target Americans' earned benefits.
(That's how Paul Ryan gets his kicks.)

Go ahead: throw us under the bus.
Expect, however, that people will verbally smite you.
Prepare for consequences of your actions:
Your callous decision will soon come back to bite you.

-by Bob B (12-20-17)

"It's so much fun being president
Of a great country like this.
I love it when people sing my praises,
So everyone can share my bliss.

"I can do whatever I want.
The only ones who seem to obsess
About my activities are
What I call the dishonest press.

"My people don't give a ****
About my income tax returns.
My people have faith in me
And listen when I express my concerns.

"I can hire whoever I want.
And what's more I can require them
To pledge complete loyalty to me.
If they don't, I can fire them.

"You can gain so much support
If what you do when critics start pressing
Is cut off access to information.
Confuse 'em all and keep 'em guessing.

"When they bring up a Russia connection
And even suggest the word 'collusion,'
I distract them with tweet after tweet
To make a commotion and cause confusion.

"One of my favorite perks on the job
Is taking all of my paid vacations.
I also love having the power
To cut off any investigations.

"My business empire continues to grow.
Conflict of interest? Bah, that's bunk.
Don't believe it when the media
Say my approval ratings have shrunk.

"All of my success up to now
Adamantly underscores
One of my favorite sayings, and that's
'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.'

"And when the people take you to court
For stiffing them or trying to ***** 'em,
Use your billions of dollars to pay
Lawyers to help you countersue 'em.

I love to have my fans in Congress
Eating out of the palm of my hand.
We have to merely yell, 'Fake news!'
When something doesn't go as planned.

"Regarding international affairs,
They say I'm awkward and not well versed.
It isn't about the rest of the world;
It's all about America first!

"Any group that gives me money,
Gets my support all the way--
From dangerous climate change deniers
To all my friends at the NRA.

"When my critics complain about
Anything I say or do,
I love to go on TV and say,
'I'M the president; not you.'"

-by Bob B (7-5-17)

Death propped up by lines and hopes
The fiddler plays despite docs dope
Say goodbye is his song
The inevitable won't take long

Deaths shroud, flutters in time
It's your last call, use the dime
As scrubs fade away, and doves appear
The fiddlers music becomes crystal clear

A solid beep, underscores his chords
A brief replay of life's awards
He leads me off, at a parades pace
It seems I've come, to the end of the race

Lines are cut, and the shroud covers
He embraces me, like a long lost lover
The music stops, have arrived at fate
Just outside, a rusty fence and gate

there are those that take me
at face value
which increases with my age.

the stage is set
the scenery paints itself

if we are lovers or friends,
how to begin it or where
would the ends of the earth be
if we ever get there?

I have a pending invitation
hanging in the garden
swaying on the breeze,

Babylon takes me on the
ghost train,
the see through soldier sees
through me
but no one can hide from the self
on the inside.

In reality the invitation's just a conversation
overdue
just you and I and about I and I because vanity
Is a present we give ourselves.

Everything goes desperately God
but what underscores it is the fear
we won't make it.

I save time by forward thinking,
there's nothing in the rule book
that says we can't all look
ahead.


The fear is that God does exist
but is homeless and no one takes
any notice,
sound a bit fanciful?
a bit twenty first testament?

Welcome to the new nuclear city
somewhere to the East of Eden.

Chapter 13: ‘Linking Us Together’


The values linking us together in America were timeless, and part of an unending chain, binding us together with the strength of their connection. It was a connection based on values, and those values were shared. As tough and confusing as life sometimes got, these links were a safe haven and connection to all that was good and right.  

Team Sports were a living embodiment of these chains.  When everyone was acting together in unison, agreeing on a plan or goal, the game had the best chance of being won.  If only one person decided to break away, go off-sides, commit a foul, or worse get thrown out of the game, the whole team suffered with victory lost.  In a negative way, this underscores the importance of a strong connection keeping the links intact for the objective to be met.

It was only through strong links to each other that people survived the Great Depression, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, an ensuing and devastating World War, and its low point, The Holocaust.  Today, we are still dealing with the aftermath of 9/11.

9/11 tragically pointed out that terrorists don’t only **** their sworn enemies … they **** indiscriminately!  In a dramatic statement of
inhumanity, they tried to shock the world with their misguided and disconnected view of reality.  They profaned their allegiance to God by
blaspheming him with their actions of despair and destruction.  They are links to a chain that is, at its end, connected to nothing, worshipping in many cases the same things they seek to destroy. Many of the 9/11 terrorists were out experiencing the worst of western culture, strip clubs etc., only days before they carried out the brutal attacks.

The value chain of generations past was a mutually shared affirmation. It reinforced the idea that by living together we could prosper if our values were shared. Living this way in America, we overcame all obstacles for over 200 years.  When I was a kid, and we had a bad snowstorm, my parents would always put chains on the rear tires of their cars.  The chains would allow the slippery rubber tires to reconnect with the snowy surface of the road, digging in, and creating a ‘grip’ that bare tires could never provide.  This allowed my parents, and our neighbors, to resume their normal activities and turn what was a temporary setback into a small challenge to overcome.

These chains metaphorically point out the deep connection we used to have with each other.  When times got tough, we dug deep, finding the ‘chains’ within our own psyches to get us through the tough and challenging times.  The ‘chains’ were only as strong as our belief in them and what they could overcome. Strength was based on each link and how it would ultimately fit with other links in the chain that bound us all to each other.   It was this ‘connection’ that created our sense of community, and it spread from our families, to our neighborhoods, through our states, and ultimately across our nation.  I also believe when we were the strongest this chain spread worldwide linking America with the rest of the world — a connection that in many ways has either been broken or abandoned today.

With these ‘chains of connection,’ we were able to become something bigger than just ourselves and share in the true wonder of moving mountains together.  Whether it was creating the world’s greatest economy, national infrastructure with our great dams and highways, or curing many of the worst diseases that had plagued the world for generations, we attempted these things with a unity of purpose and shared in the pride of accomplishment once our efforts were done.  Most of these things could never have been done by individuals alone.  

Today, the celebration of division is killing America.  My generation kicked this into high gear with the mantra ‘do your own thing.’  Forty years later, we see what the result of doing your own thing has become.  What happened to ‘our thing?’ the spirit behind why men died at Valley Forge, Bunker Hill, Gettysburg, Normandy, Mt. Suribachi, and the rice paddies of Vietnam.  Brave young men are still dying today in far off places like the deserts of the Middle East.  Are we supporting them in the same way we did their grandfathers and great grandfathers?  Do they fight with a clear vision and light heart knowing the country is of one mind and behind them until they come home?  Do they watch the evening news, seeing the protests and division that have driven America into a sectarian society.

Thank God, we still have men and women brave enough to go to these places finding something deep within themselves, and each other, to get the job done.  What the military has not totally abandoned is the spirit of connection that our country has lost.  These men are bound to each other in an ‘Esprit De Corps’ that transcends any politics or attempt to divide them.  They are sometimes forced to fight two wars — the one on the battlefield before them, and a second war of public opinion that no courageous soldier should ever have to endure.  

No country in the world has ever been 100% ‘right’ with a moral compass free of all blame.  That being said, no country in the world has ever been as right as ours. Democratic freedom, and its defense, is a shared idea. It’s been the defining link in our national chain from Lexington and Concord to the present day.  

If we can’t agree on who we are, and what we are, the problem stays buried deep in what we have become. We need to look inside ourselves and admit to the emptiness we feel. We can only fill that emptiness by acting together. An 8-ounce glass of water has little power, but magnified 300 million times, it turns into a powerful force that can wash over us all.    

I am here today because of what so many men and women gave their lives for over the past 250 years.  I am writing this, in a fervent attempt, to reconnect us to our American Core Values and to each other.  Together, we can reconnect the links in the great ‘Chain of Unity’ that, up until recently, defined us as a nation.  I write with the hope that sacrifices made in its defense, and its shared value system of Freedom & The Individual Rights of Man, were not in vain.    



  Kurt Philip Behm: May, 2024

"Angel?" by Atul Kaushal is a captivating poem that delves into the theme of loneliness and the intervention of divine beings in human lives. The poem narrates the poignant story of a lonely sailor who encounters an angel in the form of a mermaid. This transformation of the angel into a mermaid serves as a metaphor for the complexities of human emotions and the fluctuating nature of spiritual encounters.

Kaushal expertly weaves together imagery of the sea, the sky, and the ethereal presence of the angel to evoke a sense of mystery and wonder in the reader. The juxtaposition of the vast, unforgiving sea with the fragile, otherworldly angel creates a powerful contrast that underscores the sailor's feelings of isolation and longing for connection.

The poet skillfully employs symbolism throughout the poem, using the mermaid as a symbol of transformation and the sailor as a symbol of human vulnerability. The interaction between the sailor and the angel highlights the universal themes of yearning for companionship, redemption, and a sense of purpose in a seemingly indifferent world.

Furthermore, the structure of the poem, with its rhythmic cadence and carefully chosen words, enhances the emotional impact of the narrative. The poet's use of concise language and evocative imagery draws the reader into the sailor's inner world, allowing them to experience his solitude and eventual salvation through the angel's ethereal presence.

In conclusion, "Angel?" by Atul Kaushal is a thought-provoking exploration of loneliness, transcendence, and the transformative power of divine intervention. Through its masterful use of symbolism, imagery, and structure, the poem offers a profound reflection on the human condition and the enduring search for connection and meaning in a vast and often indifferent universe.

Was Muhammad, the Islamic Prophet illiterate? Can you elaborate on the Arabic word: ummī

The question of whether Muhammad, the Islamic Prophet, was illiterate is a subject of significant historical and scholarly debate. The term often used in this context is "ummī" (أُمِّي), and its interpretation is crucial to this discussion.

### Understanding "Ummī"
The Arabic word "ummī" is derived from the root "umm" (أم), meaning "mother." Its interpretations can be complex and multifaceted:

1. Illiterate or Unlettered: A common interpretation is that "ummī" means "illiterate" or "unlettered," implying that Muhammad could not read or write. This interpretation is supported by various Islamic traditions (Hadiths) and is often linked to the belief in the miraculous nature of the Quran, which was revealed to a person without formal education in reading or writing.

2. Unlearned in Previous Scriptures: Another interpretation suggests that "ummī" refers to someone who is unlearned or unschooled in the previous scriptures (the Torah and the Bible). In this context, it signifies that Muhammad did not have formal education in the Jewish or Christian traditions, emphasizing the originality and divine origin of his message.

3. Of the Common People: A less common interpretation is that "ummī" denotes a person from the common people, not belonging to the scholarly or elite class. This interpretation focuses on the social standing rather than literacy.

### Evidence from Islamic Texts
The Quran itself refers to Muhammad as "ummī" in several verses (e.g., 7:157, 7:158), and how this is understood has shaped much of the discussion around his literacy.

1. Quranic Verses: The Quran mentions in Surah Al-A'raf (7:157-158) that Muhammad is "the unlettered Prophet whom they find written in what they have of the Torah and the Gospel." The term here is "an-nabiyyu l-ummī" (النبي الأمي), which many translate as "the unlettered prophet."

2. Hadith Literature: Various Hadiths (sayings and actions of Muhammad) support the notion of his illiteracy. For instance, in Sahih Bukhari, there is a hadith where Muhammad says, "We are an unlettered nation; we neither write nor know accounts" (Bukhari 7:64:270).

### Scholarly Views
Islamic scholars have debated the meaning of "ummī" extensively:

1. Traditional View: The traditional Islamic view holds that Muhammad was indeed illiterate. This view is seen as reinforcing the miraculous nature of the Quran, emphasizing that it could not have been produced by someone without formal learning.

2. Critical and Historical Analysis: Some modern scholars, both Muslim and non-Muslim, have questioned this traditional view. They argue that "ummī" might have meant Muhammad was uneducated in the scriptures of Judaism and Christianity rather than completely illiterate.

### Conclusion
The term "ummī" and the question of Muhammad's literacy are deeply intertwined with the religious, historical, and theological perspectives within Islam. The predominant traditional view within Islam is that Muhammad was illiterate, which underscores the miraculous nature of the Quran. However, alternate interpretations exist, reflecting a range of scholarly opinions on the subject.

Given the nuclear weaponry arsenal today
August 6th, 2022, our collective ability
to lay waste major metropolitan areas
would make unleashing atomic warfare
synonymous with the ways and means
to annihilate, decimate, eliminate, et cetera
avast swath of the biosphere, nevertheless...

Once again, I take momentary pause
to contemplate horrific event
regarding unleashed atomic warfare
activating nuclear brinkmanship,
hence time to trot out a poem
written initially some years ago
courtesy yours truly.

Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project", 
a top secret World War II mission,                   
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type
atomic bomb dropped at 0815
exploded 580 metres above civilians
with 15 kiloton blast yield
reduced 400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets,

the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay,
(the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashed nuclear warfare
seventy seven years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration, obliteration...
when the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
pulverized vividly underscores

how trifling my current bout
with dysthymia, hysteria, melancholia...  
(from figurative northern exposure
courtesy twin peaks)
contrasted with sinister
thermonuclear reaction
malevolent evil tower ushered
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup d'état nada so graceful
spelled maximum radiation fallout,

viz collateral military mutilation
though unwelcome vision wielded hell,
instantaneous maelstrom poised
mankind to be cured, roasted, skewered
analogous as burnt offerings
subsequent generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only
poorly be described
by this mortal with curable

bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, more-so
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly
than those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties
nine years of age and younger,
whence offspring of survivors

evinced excessive genetic anomalies 
with fiery windy surface
(think towering infernos)
temperatures topping 4,000°C 
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
impressing silhouettes of victims
analogous to dark shadows
amidst razed structural remnants
ground zero birthed sinister mushroom cloud
wickedly, ominously, and eerily loomed.