What flourished beauty lives within your thought
is always silent fuel to beating hearts;
and all in melted paradise, must cease to talk
for passed in subtle air a string of farts.

My happiness is only in distractions.
It's when I'm alone
that I realize the full extent of what that means.
Another's smile makes my own spring in unexpectedness,
pleasantly surprised that it wasn't practiced.

I should be on Broadway,
with how consistently I play this role.
Of someone who gets by, whose only worry
is when to sleep and wake to work.

But this isn't me at all.
I close my nights with eyes that see a life unfold
a span of sorrow in disappointing my world.
Family that will cry at what I've failed to do
in the name of doing what I'm afraid I'll fail to live.

I'm so scared to leave this world
with nothing more than the dates I stayed.
The thought of having nothing to offer
mocks me into deserting instead of believing.
I wish for the strength to go beyond my own doubts,
the force to believe with every bit of flesh
that I can give my soul to the world.

Claustrophobic in a world without limits
From the top of the ocean to the bottom of the sea
We fight for oxygen that is free.
We limit our brain and actions to something that is expected
Unexpectedness' is pleasant in the end
But that hasn't happened yet
Only to the ones that are strong enough to be soft spoken
And carry their heart through the woods
Even if it is broken.

Let joy shall crash upon you like the waves from the
sea, heavy and full of unexpectedness.

Let love drift to you like the soft smell of hyacinth
from the gardens below your window.

Deny not the furtive scrapings of passion always
clawing and biting their way into your life.

Allow life to be lived as life, not as scripted verse, not like this.

Listen, the odd, unexpectedness of life after Covid,
the thoughts that...
surface, after the second Moderna shot,
when the conspiracy
seems suited to a new sorting of future humans,
except giving exceptionally focused long attention
spans with magician level hand-eye in REM,
which is recorded as text,
among the augmented,
the AI has an inside
peek at certain data,
the various vaccines are
making various immunity mods, that only work
on septuagenarians,
and then, for only fifty more years.
Be patient, if you fail to live fifty more years,
it's because you got the useless old person
vaccine that lets one ***** and moan
to death in < 12 months… so you won't notice.

Fifty years from now, ***** Harry.
Now, George Floyd, and Portland,
no-- fifty years from then, is that now,
we skipped that decade… I burned all the songs.
But,
but -nuthin' that zapped me ***** harry bein' fi'ty years,
and Shaft, too. Man, it was prophecy…
you gotta know those Seventies,
those was strange…

but mine were stranger. The joy of living in a lie,
where no body dies,
you can do that in certain kinds of stories,
kid versions, that
get represented for role play, as needed.
Robin Hood, most tellings, death is secondary evil.
Nobody dies in Grand Theft Auto, really,
but
it feels real, think, how much realer it feels,
at the mirror neutronic level where all imput is real
and authorized- allowing instant dopamine level
total galvanic response shock to seven in one
chakra zulu creflo dollah hollah
holy hallelujah

Seisachtheia - wait

there. that did it if it was ever done.

Reset, still ctrl alt del?
Screen froze.

She brushed a kiss she felt on her cheek
Felt a gentle hand given to squeeze
She found herself surprised by the
Sudden unexpectedness of the gesture
"Your a surviver" a soft voice called

Then she knew how afraid she was
Tears that had waited a long time to
Escape were finally released under
The dark veil of torrential rain
Big fat teardrops downpoured hurt

The sky above grumbled ominously
Then turned to light spectacular
Windchimes clattered with madness
Noises amplified by howling winds
She knew the storm was on its way

She would not surrender but maintain
Her inner strength and dignity
Her vitality was the food for her soul
Her love was boundless and eternal
Natures diversity and hers together

Which day brings unique
Unexpectedness,
Momentous  at the outset.
The day that adds a dimension.
With expectations
That fall short, meet or excede
Yesterday's forethoughts.
Start with mother's gift.
The warmth and excitement
Of  home after the first day.
A birth,  a funeral,
Excites different
Sounding bands.
Today was such a one.

A Good-bye Day.

Until her return
My days are numbered
Until  
That Momentous Day.

psychotic, she says

psychedelic, he says

tho black n' white,
tumultuous are the variances of shading,
the hints of unknown fragrances
of days yet to come when,
spring earth and spring buds
long past the point of expectation,
inject colorful unexpectedness

eyes so clear so bright,
how can she not see beyond the pale
emotionless expression of gaunt,
that all turbulence is not bad

see that streak of black hair,
refusing to be hidden, a provocation,
curling, asking to be stroked,
pitter patter it teases the lips,
but only after it grazes the eyelash
so seductively it screams
I am beautiful!

does she fail to see?
who will not permit her
to see what I have seen?

the lyric comes to mind instantly:

Well let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she'd act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there


her eyes are clear and bright,
her pen delicate and light,
she unbeknownst surrounded,
by admirers that gladly lay,
not their cape, but their whole body
across these leftover puddles of winter

will she? will she cross over?
with those eyes so clear, so bright,
there is only one acceptable answer!

*come spring, come summer,
her true nature will nurture

by: William A. Marshall

I disrobe and survey
noiseless instruments so
austere rather dreary
colored walls that reflect
unemotional elements I
ask for another blanket
so sterile a fragrance
like nothingness fill my
nose eyes float disregarding
back to the strangeness of
time moving as sounds of
feet flap in the corridor
I wait then as a subdued
knock at the door my
immortal sketch filters this
time but I broaden with
unpredicted comfort receptions
you can only receive when people
are not well an agreeable scene
professional mollycoddling
no fussy clinging of inseams
that ruin atmospheres
I go head on into obscurity
as a nurse asked in a puzzled
way about my faith she
was confused by my notes
about Dostoyevsky
I provided in that portion
of the form she wanted
to know irrespective of what
the other staff told her
I shook my head with
acceptance responding with a
vague originality the back of my
mind thinking what if I don’t
return - a way that is disconcertingly
adequate and peaceful and quiet
I notice my garments stuffed
into a clear plastic bag
to be received by somebody
upon my possible reemergence
locating a theme in time
and a lack of difficulty with everything
not interfered with but
unexpectedness actually the minutes
move away knowing that I will
not remember spike introduced
to vein as they examine the
drips of dose inhalations mounted
in my face muffled voices
fade the syringe is plunged
I know the train is now
approaching down the
track but I am not uneasy for
some reason talking more
about nothing while people move
the morning flows mechanically
without me like water
in a brook never to be
seen again chatting melodically
then calmness where I had
gone that wintertime morning
I can’t remember all I was
content though on that cradle
I know it was suitable late the process
had taken and imagined into an abode
that I no longer recall smiling
knowing it was a delightful place
where people take you into
their care peeking slowly then
through the fog when I glanced at
my wife assured by the cup of coffee
that she offered
and recovery rinsed over me
a return to my existence like returning
from death

When I turned the pages of a book
I was reminded of a friend
who longed for a certain order
in the world,
as this one could never
fulfill the hidden premises
and strange moments with overlapping
sparks of discovery
needed for an artist, or in other words,
a soul who saw through
different lenses,
could never fulfill
the enchanting turns of change and
unexpectedness needed to
ignite an artist's dreams and passions,
if they ever did
make themselves known.

among the fireworks...
i could swear i heard
a wolf howl;
witch such sensual experiences,
how, sudden,
the carnal cravings /
desires... fizzle out...
fade... entombed....
by a carcass of skeletal
grounding...
   when such oddities
pressure the mind into
allowing the non-sensible
empirical data to be investigated...
such frailty...
the breath that brings
a tomb, alive...
          ah wooooooooo!
i could swear that all
but all, that was missing
was the growling extent
of a wolf's presence...
how: wolves cannot bark...
like their domesticated
counterparts...
               but i could swear
i heard a wolf howling
among the broken notes
of the interludes between
set-off fireworks...
          death, the welcoming womb...
a library of literary
artifacts...
                 may my original sin,
be the sin,
    that i am...
             bequeathed a sabotage
of life, enduring death...
                 let the originality
of my "sin"... be:
foremost plagiarism,
but secondly,
the "unexpectedness"
of the inevitable circumstance...
my, mortal, realm,
of unpredictability
        and the sacrosanct godly:
the immovable theater...
the predictability of the gods...
suited to the nuisance of
the mortality of the thespians...
the role, the life, the death,
the life, the death, the role,
and what other variant
befits the rubric...
          
point being... am i to be thankful,
should the a priori question
arrive to suggest it would
have been better: that nothing exist?
can i negate that with doubt?
for the said promises,
given the lived experience...
       the dialectic theology is
unanswered...

                 since my choice of words:
leave me without an
acted-upon impetus...
to solidify claims,
and revel in lasting impressions
of an argument's worth.