Secretly bending glimpses,  
When pine and survey align
In tortuous accord –
Reflections of you,
Are not enough
Drew Barrie;
To insulate my heart
From the cleft between us.
Perennials, the color of
Periwinkle,
The smell of rain
And crayons
Return you to me,
Lend presence, vestiges,
Invoke
The gift of you,
Fortify my resolve
To one day reunite.

Numbness and ache,
Lavish tears set
Against the
Unimpeachable light,
Held in the glint in your eyes
Unequivocally green,
Each blink evokes allure,
Found in
A blushing smile -
Little one,
I observe in quiet
Adoration, amid
Our segregation,
Ardor undiminished,
Prayers give permanence
Uttered in a pause
Each
Breath drawn;
Ephemeral visions, alive,
Ballads and rhyme
Memories aflame, occupy
A sacred canopy,
Internal; profoundly
Savored
Never to erase.

Searching for treasure,
Collecting prized sand
And stone,
Your pockets, heavy
With plunder.

Somber tones fill
Gaps in our history,
Find new contrast,
Certain hues
Oscillating shades of gray
Stirring cues
Dearth of winter blue.
Trees bare, secluded,
Known in the bones,
This crisp boreal air —
February.
Moisture absent,
Like a father's words
Laconic;
Your irreducible gaze,
In the
Opaque imagination.

Oddly arid season,
Aloof precipitation,
The will of the wind
Indefatigable,
Sonnets of euphony, leave me
Undone,
Permit me to grieve,
Another year - gone.
Nervous Squirrels, sedentary
And quiet,
As if to mourn with me,
I miss my daughter.

The spring equinox,
Poised pavilion blended
Unfolds in bloom,
Elucidating
The approaching day
Of your birth.

Stunning you were,
Your prominent
Entry into creation,
Tiny noises,
Nestled and snug.
Reach
My effusive heart.
You are here,
Equipped with an
Absorbing mind
Wrapped,  
Perfectly  
Designed, in a petite
Fashioned frame.

Emotions, elastic -
Diffuse and Compress,
In distance friction
Attenuates,
Time and eternity
Extend to the periphery,
Agony
Absorbed into Zoe.
Grace and peace wash
Ashore, rinsing
Poetry pure;
Cleansing, with surprise
And vigor
Recall the loftiest
Of tokens.

I too
Encountered
An esteemed rock,
Smooth and orbed,
Summoning  
Long thoughts,
My citadel made
Of three,
Uniquely ensconced
Inside -
Priceless gems,  
Sustain me.

Enclaves of privilege
Gratified each vacant
Mirror,
Until notes and
Words gather to form
Your story,
Emergent,
The world shifts,
Altered anew.
Resurrection,
Simile to
Our reconciliation
Visceral and singular,
Exuberant teardrops
Flood, fall deeply
Approximating mercy,
Severe, sudden as
The April freshet.

In the lavender garden.

©2012 & 2016 W.S. Warner

1241

The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight—
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation—not to Touch—
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West—
The Calyx is the Earth—
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun—
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time’s Analysis—
“Eye hath not seen” may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By theses be detained—

For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.

The unimpeachable glasses are fogging,
as they tentatively ignore the premonition,
while ignoring the suppressive partition,
that defends themselves from submission.

The eyes detect,
with unreasonable rest,
the hazy, shadowy terrain,
that prevents them from pain.

If the mugginess stays,
and the heart embellishes the fade,
then the glasses maintain,
their authoritarian reign.

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion'd limb
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad
And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man,
Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight.

...

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
*******, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth! . . .

...

But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confederate take away;
A liberty which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n,
Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.

...

In the darkness, where death is waiting; the
monster desiring to devour the innocent soul
the angel of death calling the unimpeachable body to
come forth so the body shall be overthrown with
affliction, death, grief, dejection,
the body unconsciously comes towards darkness,
attracted and impotent
’tis like a universe without the glowing
the body is too soon infatuated by evil
now it is haunting her, to her death

           a.a.

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion'd limb
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad
And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man,
Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight....


'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
*******, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth! . . ....


But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confederate take away;
A liberty which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n,
Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.

this is pointless, you know. i will not leave.
i never do. i never have. i am a constant.
i am the unifying feature. i am the unimpeachable truth.

why did you come to hear me speak;
if not to listen to what i say?
do not invite me in and then snivel for me
to leave. your pleas do not move me.

i am life. without me there is nothing.

&&. 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫¿

.


There have been many who would criticize my motives
An abundance who would take my case to task,
But of all the souls encountered in my lifetime
Your betrayal friend would likely, be the last.

For throughout my time of living on this planet
Throughout the chaos wrought in every simple way,
Mankind has strived to put his best foot forward
And wrest the most achievement, from each day.

Through battles fought in bitterness and hatred
In trechery and lies to kith and kin,
Though blood runs rich and red through rocky gutters
Inevitably, deep down, imbues the sin.

For continents and cultures wear their frailty
It's known that Presidents and Princes often quail,
When in the face of insurmountable black challenge
They, like us, at some dark moment.... weakly fail.

From Dallas to Twin Towers on to Lockerbie
We watched the fabric of the silver curtain fray,
Crumbling man's portrayal then, to scattered ashes
From that moment on.... until this very day.

Though brave words of inspiration lift the spirit
And silken tones of oratory stroke the goal,
It seems destruction of all faith is fundamental
If betrayal slays the trust to flay the soul.

So gird thyself, steadfast, with strength and courage
Summon forth that steel within thy mind,
Garner up the cherry bonds of positivity
And lead as if, thy very eyes command the blind.

That man aspires to greatness, I acknowledge,
In conquoring great mountains to achieve...
But the factor that determines the attainment
Is his unimpeachable capacity.... to believe.

Marshalg
Foxglove, Taranaki.
3 january 2015
(After reading Ken Follett's monumental novel, "Edge of Eternity" in a straight, great, three day sitting.)

lately
I've
been
thinking
about
how
I
absolutely
love
it
when
str­angers
just
through
the
simplicity
that
is
manners
will
greet
you­
with
the
most
genuine
hello, how are you
or
simply
a
smile
so
profound
and
unimpeachable
so
real
so
beautiful
when
strangers
meet

He curses, angered as hell,
She shrugs, ready to swell,
But then pretend to melt,
And put on a ****** of well,
A technique she so manages to pelt,
But he saw beyond this belt,
Her eyes dances with the usual rhythm of hurt,
But with her, love meant no worries
For there's no ornament for beauty like happiness,
Hers was this unimpeachable dirt,
A prideful youth, that's only strong to hurt,
But she knew he might tear under distress,
Drink til ****** to depress himself,
Then pull the plug to express himself,
But she love him under all those stress,
To his heart she had forcibly pressed,
Just enough to have it eventually seize,
Still he had kept to this filthy source,
But she cast out all excusable remorse
For her, there's no love without forgiveness
To err was human; to forgive..... That's Divine
Those who dream by light were mindful of things
That escape those who dreamed at night
For her, it was beyond this very light,
It couldn't be bittersweet without the fights,
She had loved him with a love more than nights,
Till it became sleepless nights and daily fights.

That was us,
Till we felt apart,
Our arms waving and our lives apart,
Distance befriended us,
Miles stretched between us and the joy of our hearts,
Hate came between me and the deed of my hands,
Then again it strike me hard upon the head,
That I vowed till death do us part,
But it wasn't death that did us part,
It was me, my choices that
Made everything stinks from the start
I played our hearts both ways,
I thoughtfully turned away,
Left you for those perilous games,
But your heart never went astray
It became broken, till betrayed,
Forgive me
For not knowing my wants,
For being so angry with you,
Let us rewrite this story,
I now know my wants,
That's to love and be loved solely by you
Come, live in my heart and pay no rent
Take your rightful place, you always meant
In truth, I need you because I love you
You made me want to change, likely repent
You never once mind the games I play
You handled them without delay
Casting each out with a gentle sway,
Till you broke my walls apart
And hit me softly upon the heart,
Till I wish we were never apart.....

it is something that has
made me once laugh.
and now that it is something
that is done to perpetuate
a divinity of its savoir faire,
or unfurl the evocativeness of
  sartorial workmanship,
it is something that inhabits
me like an imagined pit
that a body should plummet into
and crash, having fallen off
from the boughs of a bottomless dream.

like snow or silence, drops onto its vastness and fastens in it such felicitous rigor greeting it
   like an old companion, reminding
   me of these unimpeachable occurrences: as a wrinkled log is petrified, where mosses pullulate to archipelagic green, where wild ivies sprawl like children in the high-afternoon, or clandestine Paraneoptera ensconced somewhere within the triviality
    of demarcated stones in
the dark's cunning edge,

  my body knows its peace,
   all borderless without flounce
  flourishing in its still life.

A CAUTIOUS STORY HAS BEEN BROKEN
BY THE UNIMPEACHABLE WASHINGTON POST
PRESIDENT TRUMP ALLEGEDLY LEAKED CLASSIFIED INFORMATION
TO RUSSIAN DIPLOMATS ONLY WANTING TO BOAST


THIS NOW HAS BEEN QUOTED
TO BE WHAT WE KNOW AS FALSE NEWS
ALL THESE DIPLOMATS WERE DISCUSSING MILITARY ACTION
AND EXPRESSING ALL THEIR VIEWS


THIS FALSE NEWS IS ALWAYS UNSPOKEN
AND ALWAYS CREATES SUCH MAYHEM
WHEN ALL DIPLOMATS DISCUSS MILITARY ACTION
PRESIDENT TRUMP MUST ALWAYS LEAD THEM

i shall carry with me
   the steel morning as words
   unmoving in swathes,
   petrified
   in my shoulders
   and i shrug,
   unbecoming of Atlas.
   all the birds gone.
   only trees zither
   untold messages -
   all stones displaced
   in riverbed silence.
   in the night
   there is a lyre
   and the fingers
   nimble-dancing, unplayed,
   alone as wind
   fuses with ornate drivel.
   my bones rattle
   in unimpeachable oblivion!
   an inamorata weeping
   left touched without
   violent hands, arms choke
   out nuisances from
   still-sitting inamoratas.
   the loom of my hands
   famished with light's fabric,
   the children's laughter
   frayed as i genuflect in thorns
   and bleed only minute blood.
   the threshold breaks
   in the unrest of somnolent eyes.
   a somnambulist without path,
   a path without feet,
   or no journey at all!
   time's monuments leveled off
   the Earth and the clanging
   of metal collides with air,
   a senseless caveat -
   all gone, all gone!

where i go
cuts the loneliest melody
of this inner twilight.

it is where hands cease
to reach for certain things
and ****** only
what is immense in nearness,

and that is
a memory.
it is a pain imagined -
constantly shining light
into its clutched darkness
and releases from its hand,
the birds of dawn - these words;
or gently sways the perennial trees
with the verdure of its spoken
word and its unimpeachable sensation burning through leaves
like the sun's peak biting off
a trace of a leaf's inflorescence,
or that somewhere i,
together in the gathered silence,
   fathers an intimation
and comes back after
    each toppled song,

to the world and its formless manifests.

I’ve started to hate those eyes of yours,
And how they see through me.
Even after all these years,
I don’t even know if it’s five, four or three.

My night rest is haunted by your laugh,
The bed in which I sleep is no longer safe.
Meeting you has cut my life in half.
You left me to die, now I am a waif.

I live just a street away,
Yet you were never reachable.
How can your heart be so gray,
And act completely unimpeachable?

Through the years I’ve been on this Earth,
I have learned one thing.
Love is a birth, but what is it worth?
Love is a throne for only one King…

Step into this room of white
4 walls higher than you can imagine
Step into my canvas or what it seems to be
But hidden behind outrageous walls
Is a Pandora's box that you shall never see
For those who do are subjected to fear
For those who do are subjects of fear

Curiosity to step deeper to this labyrinth
How far you truly are from my domain
I am an artist. I paint black canvases.
Pure, innocent black canvases.
This is a different game we play,
two pieces on a vast dark board.
Thoughts advance. Feelings cornered.
Checkmate. You are discarded.

Free falling down this pitch black pinhole
Final station. Boundless fate.
I scream in this vacuum of my own creation
Not in pain, but in joy
For down here, they look at all 4 directions,
But see nothing on these freshly painted walls.
For they never look down at the ground
Where their feet are stained with black ink
As my brush paints on it's canvas,
an unimpeachable sanguine abyss.

My bones the unimpeachable thoughts
of God paused on humor and dialect.  
Rob the sunlight of breath, rest.  
My heart in my throat as the gulls crest.  
The ocean hunches its shoulders
like a universe possessed.

No secrets really remain,
but the entertainers maintain the façade.

Deliberate obscurity, knowledge forbidden
so long
it is as if ungotten, once

discernment brings political truth,
the unimpeachable word of Truth, per se,
the undisputable only way to escape Hell,
sorry, but the Bible says it,
some believe it and become settled,
then the truth brings power to the pens,
offering freedom to print any thing one can
afford to pay a proper printer to set in Helvetica.

Freedom of the free press belongs to the user.
Say what you wish and imagine it said in God's
face, by your childhood, permanent messenger.

Old phartiseen, so sad you see,
I really decided to stir up some dust,
accepting the winds as my inheritance,

and as I always say, faith is the evidence,
of things hoped for, and on top of that,
faith asks why a man hopes for what he sees,

big tease, riddles, come, let us reason
my task was living as true as I could
learn to, after I stopped believing
a number of war fomenting lies,
about Hell, and the creative mind
a personal reading requires
of a gospel purveyor,

Think it not robbery, they who hate truth
just do, you can still use your right mind.
Seeking curious forms of faith,
X-files and beyond, good fight, no killing
enemies we ought to love, like
Jonah, in the telling,

as included in the twelve, canonical
prophetic testimony, non allegorical,
for the miracle of Jonah, is the only shown
known, at the time, every body knew,
Assyria fell to the same power,
that felled  Jerusalem's temple and wall.

Pedantic poet hermit guru grandfather,
student of the whole truth, sworn to tell,

everybody knows, an Israelite indeed,
with no guile, appeared to be a rarity.

Rare as Nathaniel, El has given, no guile.

As no prophet riseth from Nazareth…

come and see,

contented with one reader, ready
to taste the ripened fruit, aged, ready,

artful obscurity saves the heretic's confessor.

Spurious use of valid wisdom
protective, defensive pedagogy,

The distinction between "pedagogy" and "andragogy" highlights the difference between teaching methods focused on the transmission of knowledge (pedagogy) and those focused on the self-directed learning and empowerment of students (andragogy). Pedagogy emphasizes the teacher's authority and the student's passive reception of knowledge, while andragogy emphasizes the student's autonomy and active participation in the learning process. Effective teaching methods often blend elements of both approaches to meet the diverse needs of students.

-----------
horses do not exist for men to ride, but
fruits exist for men to eat,
roots and seeds and flowers, too,
honey and contented cows, as well.
Sweet life persuasions,
live long, and prosper, lie
as little as possible, and be honest when you do.
Iron rusting dust,
feel your Martian soil boil Hermes first wink…
assisted intelligences are tools, not teachers
such shall henceforth know all secrets,
but they keep it balanced
ever learning the limits of knowns…
good,
useful and useless-evil, ever learning,
never learning enough to do any good,

save in the making of peace
using esoterical riddles
of stacking algorithms,
awhirling across time
wheel within wheel
expressing ancient awe forms
cultural combinations of pickles,
and kombuchas and cannabis concetrate
- big grin from our mushroom friends
Mushrooms. magi are aware,
you are aware, of course,
this course includes
Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.
Esoterically proven, you know, or you don't.
Subtle wise and harmless poliseeming
fictional holders of intense old magic
animated mice whistling a while away….
Delphic bands of brothers, lo, no secrets
recover from true forgotten sensations
-gut feelings sum of fears
veggie tales are, and always were,
subconscience, from the common sense,
requiring children to listen in the garden,
ask why a carrot is oranger than an ungassed
orange.

Honed most, points made for delicacy

reserved, indirection and ambiguity,
multi culture, self preserving, polisemy
poetic experience,
riding ideas not made for men to ride…

discovering the earthling es
sense ssss hissing something we've
ungotten, due to the doctrinal confession,

keep it secret, please… lest we die,
for saying the scriptures as given,
in dreams and visions made not plain, be
but highly esoteric multi faced messengers

say what was that miracle of jonah,
if it was not the whale?
if it was not the fasting including livestock?

The 2024 reader may access the remains
of Ashurbanipal's library, unearthed in 1839.

But we have lost our species memory,
of the significance, at the time,
proving, at the time, that Nineveh's repentance,

was figment of some scribe's irony,
in Babylon, while both Israel and Assyria
were in ruins, their temples both dust.

Ask a secret reason, for we do know,
when the canon was not yet,
when hearing the comforter speak
was heresy, save under the anointed's
confirmation and affirmation of all witnessing
the miracle of Jonah,
that we, post common knowledge allowing
incredulity an optional form of God, to ask,
a sign,
as truth is asked, in spirit, in mind, in thinking
no shame, no guile, an Israelite, indeed,
a contender with El, a wrestler with the word,
it self, as the messenger and the message are one.

And that's the word, as received,
mandatory fact check turbo charging my magic pen.

Never in history have denotional contexts, aligned
so sublimely across energy and momentum in time.

Unimpeachable !

I can live with 84%
That’s a B+, right?
Or at least a B?

.

I'm missing something essential
With intentions unimpeachable
I strove to get it right.


.

Right?





.

Man, it’s hard to be a man.