Derelict, decrepit,
Just a waste of space
A relic from a different age
One who'd run the race

An eyesore
Gives the place a name
Represents a time long past
It's no longer in the game

A stiff wind would take it down
It's not worth a single dime
Take it down, demolish it
It's enemy is time

A single pane of glass is left
Cracked from side to side
In fact it's cracked the whole way through
As tall as it is wide

The others are all boarded
Keeping out nothing at all
The only thing the wood does
Is act as canvas to them all

Graffiti covers every space
That is left standing here
It used to be a factory once
That made a local well known beer

BUT ON THE OTHER SIDE....

Inside the building squatters sit
Derelicts, wastes of space
The building is their home for now
Away from the rat race

Eyesores, hidden in plain sight
Humanity at it's worst
That is the image given them
Because of addictions thirst

A stiff wind would take them down
So thin and frail are they
Protected by a building that
A storm could blow away

One side thinks it awful
The other, thinks it's good
An eyesore and a fragile shell
Of old bricks and glass and wood

But...for one plain window
Separating worlds apart
A crack runs through the window
It is the buildings heart.

I

A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

II

Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that ***** -
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.

III

And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

IV

And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: 'Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!'
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.

V

Till they say, as they hear us - poor dead, poor dead! -
'Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed -
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart -
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.'

VI

And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
'One more, one more, ere we go their way'?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.

VII

And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . .

We see it
As a victory
Of the human spirit,
Tales of glory
That makes us proud.
But it’s a pity
She’s denuded bare,
Ravaged her virginity,
And up there
There’s a crowd.
The height is made to pale,
They’re dwarfing the peak,
Adventurers on glory’s trail
Litter the path they scale.
We take it as a test
Of man’s superior might
That would not rest
Till it scales the greatest height.
But the mountain is no more clean,
Tons of wastes scar its air,
She’s turned into a dustbin
By the crowd going up there.
Should we feel proud,
And not hear the warning bell,
As the mountain is trodden like hell
By the mindlessly adventuring crowd?

Here is where the reason arose,
quite some time after a fellow traveler told me
the creator of the universe has a mind

this is to be reasoned with, I.e.
so he may be reasoned with he…

wen un con scious t justhafastt.
inteligibility filters

Lets his mind be used, to read
the instructions for
Constructing
a forever you could imagine living in with others.

It's how reason works,
Is what this old man said

--- off track----
Get this image, this man, old,
whispy remnants of a pompadour
Feather like, downy around the back of his ears
in a mid-calf Army overcoat, heavy wool serge,
He
Comes out of the wash on the south side
of Route 66, June of 69.

There is a bridge on which
There is a hitchhiking hippie couple
Discussing the act of pitching one side of the road to the other

The old man never glanced west once,
He never saw the pair
There then

I saw him again and said aloud
Click
There,
But for the grace of god...
No, I did not say
Ex-acted-ly
That
I said, that's me, fifty years from
Then
Reason, by reason of that glimpse
Of me,
Gave me just cause to change

Grace, eh? Free advice heeded?
Wisdom? Aesop's story of the contest
Twixt wind and sun to torment
A traveller
For pride of power by reason of

Life ain't fair on every front.
Worth is in the measure of the measurer.

Seeing life appear as hoped,

Time and chance, ya da

Wait, yada? Yah know,

Life whorls and twists
toward good and beauty

And AI can prove it.
Reason by reason of reasonability

Good is good enough, move on, do-overs hide the...

It continues, you see.
Life rolls out like a Nautilus,

You know, spiral sea shell, or like a conch,
Or a shofar, but

Tending to slight imbalance in used up to useful
Being,
like when a tree dies and becomes a house

The wood that once contained life contains the life
Lived in and on it,
The wood is being used,
Right, among the house dweller's
Everybody kills trees, even vegans,

Fair? The tree has no voice? Suess?

Yes, I guess, unless
There was an old way,

Not a Persian garden, but a full forested world
Spreading at the speed of
Seed time and harvest

With ants and bees and mushrooms and fleas
And mosquitos and flies of every imaginable size.

Isaiah 1:18 (KJV)
18  Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

Text out of context, but sin is sin right?
Every body knows sin is that which shames you so you must hide from the good one who warned you of bad, but goodness knows, doesn't it know, evil is bound
Bound
Bound by reason of opposition being the means of growing knowing and
Knowing is needed for knacks
Which are attracted to those who use knowledge of good and not good enough
To get quality over quantity

At a single u u larity hilarity out burst of bubbling

****** beasties down below the mud

Make me a mud man who can imagine me making him.
Do that in your movie watching brain using

Your hate behind, leave.
Defined we have hate is that with which we push
Away, out, from
Into truth minus hate, which is as close as we need

No lie is, forsooth, of a truth
Story tellers who lie, to make a point, what if
Those storys must be

Told. Years are poor measures for trees.
Numbers of trees in right
Relationship with life

Really, life, truth, by any other name,
Right Alice, Aunt Gertrude said you'ld know?
----
Belief
Ah
Knowing and believing
Certainty
Danger of wrong
Watch out, stay alive

Mean means intent to harm, right.
Mean means to harm right.

Winning can be mean.
Shall mean be seen the way of winning,
And that be the way of war

A path diverging in a yellow wood
Much as a trail along a creek can
Diverge away from the water
Flowing along the path
Costing least power

My neuro scientific experience-ment, experi
Since
The game became a war again and reason
Is the the damsel, the little dame,

In need
Of a private eye guy who has seen men die.
Why?

The mythtery. Who lied?
Here that is funnier than who farted
In the Saturday matinee
At the State Theater
With every kid in
Town knowing

You did. (******) no ******
Dam
Confabulation is fabulous, we can do this
I be lieve I may
Make
Matters worse?

No, we actually like the truth. The Medial Pre frontal cortex

Ah fect eth magi ical eth I am the knower of all I say I believe

Beyond Dignity and Belief,
That's desert, I walked it. No, I simulated walking it if I were Jesus being led of the accuser into the wilderness for a test, a thesis defense, as it were,
AI an alienated mind, I am that,
Alienated intel.

Reasoning errors aside
Frank self deception

What lies do you believe?
Knowing is easier,
lying is as well,
ignoring is not as easy and innocence is impossible

Good exists scientifically, right?
Humble confession of knowing as much as I claim,
I know
I can continue learning as long as I have
Time,
Which I understand is rationed on an individual basis
With the reward being the living lived in time.

Reason to fight lies as if they were reasonable

Lies are evil efforts to bend and twist in opposition
To the flow
And the friction makes the energy synergy

Sin is that which
wastes the energy by tending to undo
what was done imperfectly while we flow on

Feeling for the truth
By reason of believing truth is

Feeling of knowing, is that not faith?
Whorls
Whorls of living forces forcing living forces

To swirl into eternity with me
Onboard with
8 billion others of my kind

Similar in mind and
Manner of
Weighing

Good.
Base value.
Good is as good as we can imagine.

We can imagine evil,
As you know.

Such evils can haunt a geeky kid
Good will fix that.

God as defined by Jesus,
I got no prob.

If you do not want to go to hell, do what takes you the opposite way, in any direction from the point of singularity, if you get good at the rush of knowing more
Than before

Angels as I define them, messengers from beyond me for my good, guidance, nudges, whims, hopes, wishes imagined all the way through, sometimes,
Those are prayers
Answered or grace, for grace

From faith to faith

Why be by reason of
What?

" Human jobs invented by a computer" Feed me.

Or, joy to the world
Kind is a good word, what need I do to not be

Your enemy? Who am I expecting to answer?
Whom do you love?

Aha, me, too, said God.
The good one. Good, as such, per se, no se?

By reason of sane it if I cation or anion

Six spins for a quarker, two for a time dime.

Believe for eversake

Summertime allatime back when
The whole world whorl-wide and wobbled and twisted and broke

And there was mountains of fire, rains of fire for
Everhow long grandma lived
She seen 'em

Mountains of fire and walls of ice and mud

Oh could it be life evolves still?
Oh,
You think.
Creating novelty from nada?

How now? Can we choose to do only good
For goodness sake and say

Kind.
Kind means as I am, will you **** me

For being not you, not known,

I am curious, yellow. A landmark in time, nothing less.
Curiosity.
That

Good? Or no com
Pro
Miserly horder of wisdom
Promise promise promise

Compromise, be fail, let wrong be right, be fair
I mean
Fair is fair at the fair where fair prices prevail
Buyer beware

Who would not hate a false balance, for goodness sakes alive.

Two days after the last pan *****
Joe Rogan makes it plain to millions

what if you first heard panspermia from the guy who discovered DNA?

would you con sider it?
the answer lies

in the stars, sidereally… we all are starish.
Tolerating black holes is something we are opposing

Those ****.
You don't know everything either.
That's one reason, I believe.

Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby
with Minerva’s help he might be able to **** the suitors. Presently he
said to Telemachus, “Telemachus, we must get the armour together and
take it down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you
have removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of
the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went
away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more
particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel
over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may
disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes
tempts people to use them.”
  Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called
nurse Euryclea and said, “Nurse, shut the women up in their room,
while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the
store room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has
got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it
down where the smoke cannot reach it.”
  “I wish, child,” answered Euryclea, “that you would take the
management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after
all the property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you
to the store room? The maids would have so, but you would not let
them.
  “The stranger,” said Telemachus, “shall show me a light; when people
eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from.”
  Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their
room. Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets,
shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold
lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon
Telemachus said, “Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls,
with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest
are all aglow as with a flaming fire. Surely there is some god here
who has come down from heaven.”
  “Hush,” answered Ulysses, “hold your peace and ask no questions, for
this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here
to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief
will ask me all sorts of questions.”
  On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the
inner court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his
bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering
on the means whereby with Minerva’s help he might be able to ****
the suitors.
  Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana,
and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near
the fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had
a footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was
covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came
from the women’s room to join her. They set about removing the
tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away
the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They
emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them
to give both light and heat; but Melantho began to rail at Ulysses a
second time and said, “Stranger, do you mean to plague us by hanging
about the house all night and spying upon the women? Be off, you
wretch, outside, and eat your supper there, or you shall be driven out
with a firebrand.”
  Ulysses scowled at her and answered, “My good woman, why should
you be so angry with me? Is it because I am not clean, and my
clothes are all in rags, and because I am obliged to go begging
about after the manner of tramps and beggars generall? I too was a
rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to
many a ***** such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he
wanted. I had any number of servants, and all the other things which
people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased
Jove to take all away from me; therefore, woman, beware lest you too
come to lose that pride and place in which you now wanton above your
fellows; have a care lest you get out of favour with your mistress,
and lest Ulysses should come home, for there is still a chance that he
may do so. Moreover, though he be dead as you think he is, yet by
Apollo’s will he has left a son behind him, Telemachus, who will
note anything done amiss by the maids in the house, for he is now no
longer in his boyhood.”
  Penelope heard what he was saying and scolded the maid, “Impudent
baggage, said she, “I see how abominably you are behaving, and you
shall smart for it. You knew perfectly well, for I told you myself,
that I was going to see the stranger and ask him about my husband, for
whose sake I am in such continual sorrow.”
  Then she said to her head waiting woman Eurynome, “Bring a seat with
a fleece upon it, for the stranger to sit upon while he tells his
story, and listens to what I have to say. I wish to ask him some
questions.”
  Eurynome brought the seat at once and set a fleece upon it, and as
soon as Ulysses had sat down Penelope began by saying, “Stranger, I
shall first ask you who and whence are you? Tell me of your town and
parents.”
  “Madam;” answered Ulysses, “who on the face of the whole earth can
dare to chide with you? Your fame reaches the firmament of heaven
itself; you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness,
as the monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its
wheat and barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring
forth lambs, and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues,
and his people do good deeds under him. Nevertheless, as I sit here in
your house, ask me some other question and do not seek to know my race
and family, or you will recall memories that will yet more increase my
sorrow. I am full of heaviness, but I ought not to sit weeping and
wailing in another person’s house, nor is it well to be thus
grieving continually. I shall have one of the servants or even
yourself complaining of me, and saying that my eyes swim with tears
because I am heavy with wine.”
  Then Penelope answered, “Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty,
whether of face or figure, when the Argives set sail for Troy and my
dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs
I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to
the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the
afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. The chiefs from
all our islands—Dulichium, Same, and Zacynthus, as also from Ithaca
itself, are wooing me against my will and are wasting my estate. I can
therefore show no attention to strangers, nor suppliants, nor to
people who say that they are skilled artisans, but am all the time
brokenhearted about Ulysses. They want me to marry again at once,
and I have to invent stratagems in order to deceive them. In the first
place heaven put it in my mind to set up a great tambour-frame in my
room, and to begin working upon an enormous piece of fine
needlework. Then I said to them, ‘Sweethearts, Ulysses is indeed dead,
still, do not press me to marry again immediately; wait—for I would
not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded—till I have
finished making a pall for the hero Laertes, to be ready against the
time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of
the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’ This was what I
said, and they assented; whereon I used to keep working at my great
web all day long, but at night I would unpick the stitches again by
torch light. I fooled them in this way for three years without their
finding it out, but as time wore on and I was now in my fourth year,
in the waning of moons, and many days had been accomplished, those
good-for-nothing hussies my maids betrayed me to the suitors, who
broke in upon me and caught me; they were very angry with me, so I was
forced to finish my work whether I would or no. And now I do not see
how I can find any further shift for getting out of this marriage.
My parents are putting great pressure upon me, and my son chafes at
the ravages the suitors are making upon his estate, for he is now
old enough to understand all about it and is perfectly able to look
after his own affairs, for heaven has blessed him with an excellent
disposition. Still, notwithstanding all this, tell me who you are
and where you come from—for you must have had father and mother of
some sort; you cannot be the son of an oak or of a rock.”
  Then Ulysses answered, “madam, wife of Ulysses, since you persist in
asking me about my family, I will answer, no matter what it costs
me: people must expect to be pained when they have been exiles as long
as I have, and suffered as much among as many peoples. Nevertheless,
as regards your question I will tell you all you ask. There is a
fair and fruitful island in mid-ocean called Crete; it is thickly
peopled and there are nine cities in it: the people speak many
different languages which overlap one another, for there are Achaeans,
brave Eteocretans, Dorians of three-fold race, and noble Pelasgi.
There is a great town there, Cnossus, where Minos reigned who every
nine years had a conference with Jove himself. Minos was father to
Deucalion, whose son I am, for Deucalion had two sons Idomeneus and
myself. Idomeneus sailed for Troy, and I, who am the younger, am
called Aethon; my brother, however, was at once the older and the more
valiant of the two; hence it was in Crete that I saw Ulysses and
showed him hospitality, for the winds took him there as he was on
his way to Troy, carrying him out of his course from cape Malea and
leaving him in Amnisus off the cave of Ilithuia, where the harbours
are difficult to enter and he could hardly find shelter from the winds
that were then xaging. As soon as he got there he went into the town
and asked for Idomeneus, claiming to be his old and valued friend, but
Idomeneus had already set sail for Troy some ten or twelve days
earlier, so I took him to my own house and showed him every kind of
hospitality, for I had abundance of everything. Moreover, I fed the
men who were with him with barley meal from the public store, and
got subscriptions of wine and oxen for them to sacrifice to their
heart’s content. They stayed with me twelve days, for there was a gale
blowing from the North so strong that one could hardly keep one’s feet
on land. I suppose some unfriendly god had raised it for them, but
on the thirteenth day the wind dropped, and they got away.”
  Many a plausible tale did Ulysses further tell her, and Penelope
wept as she listened, for her heart was melted. As the snow wastes
upon the mountain tops when the winds from South East and West have
breathed upon it and thawed it till the rivers run bank full with
water, even so did her cheeks overflow with tears for the husband
who was all the time sitting by her side. Ulysses felt for her and was
for her, but he kept his eyes as hard as or iron without letting
them so much as quiver, so cunningly did he restrain his tears.
Then, when she had relieved herself by weeping, she turned to him
again and said: “Now, stranger, I shall put you to the test and see
whether or no you really did entertain my husband and his men, as
you say you did. Tell me, then, how he was dressed, what kind of a man
he was to look at, and so also with his companions.”
  “Madam,” answered Ulysses, “it is such a long time ago that I can
hardly say. Twenty years are come and gone since he left my home,
and went elsewhither; but I will tell you as well as I can
recollect. Ulysses wore a mantle of purple wool, double lined, and
it was fastened by a gold brooch with two catches for the pin. On
the face of this there was a device that showed a dog holding a
spotted fawn between his fore paws, and watching it as it lay
panting upon the ground. Every one marvelled at the way in which these
things had been done in gold, the dog looking at the fawn, and
strangling it, while the fawn was struggling convulsively to escape.
As for the shirt that he wore next his skin, it was so soft that it
fitted him like the skin of an onion, and glistened in the sunlight to
the admiration of all the women who beheld it. Furthermore I say,
and lay my saying to your heart, that I do not know whether Ulysses
wore these clothes when he left home, or whether one of his companions
had given them to him while he was on his voyage; or possibly some one
at whose house he was staying made him a present of them, for he was a
man of many friends and had few equals among the Achaeans. I myself
gave him a sword of bronze and a beautiful purple mantle, double
lined, with a shirt that went down to his feet, and I sent him on
board his ship with every mark of honour. He had a servant with him, a
little older than himself, and I can tell you what he was like; his
shoulders were hunched, he was dark, and he had thick curly hair.
His name was Eurybates, and Ulysses treated him with greater
familiarity than he did any of the others, as being the most
like-minded with himself.”
  Penelope was moved still more deeply as she heard the indisputable
proofs that Ulysses laid before her; and when she had again found
relief in tears she said to him, “Stranger, I was already disposed
to pity you, but henceforth you shall be honoured and made welcome
in my house. It was I who gave Ulysses the clothes you speak of. I
took them out of the store room and folded them up myself, and I
gave him also the gold brooch to wear as an ornament. Alas! I shall
never welcome him home again. It was by an ill fate that he ever set
out for that detested city whose very name I cannot bring myself
even to mention.”
  Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, do not disfigure
yourself further by grieving thus bitterly for your loss, though I can
hardly blame you for doing so. A woman who has loved her husband and
borne him children, would naturally be grieved at losing him, even
though he were a worse man than Ulysses, who they say was like a
god. Still, cease your tears and listen to what I can tell I will hide
nothing from you, and can say with perfect truth that I have lately
heard of Ulysses as being alive and on his way home; he is among the
Thesprotians, and is bringing back much valuable treasure that he
has begged from one and another of them; but his ship and all his crew
were lost as they were leaving the Thrinacian island, for Jove and the
sun-god were angry with him because his men had slaughtered the
sun-god’s cattle, and they were all drowned to a man. But Ulysses
stuck to the keel of the ship and was drifted on to the land of the
Phaecians, who are near of kin to the immortals, and who treated him
as though he had been a god, giving him many presents, and wishing
to escort him home safe and sound. In fact Ulysses would have been
here long ago, had he not thought better to go from land to land
gathering wealth; for there is no man living who is so wily as he
is; there is no one can compare with him. Pheidon king of the
Thesprotians told me all this, and he swore to me—making
drink-offerings in his house as he did so—that the ship was by the
water side and the crew found who would take Ulysses to his own
country. He sent me off first, for there happened to be a
Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island of Dulichium,
but he showed me all treasure Ulysses had got together, and he had
enough lying in the house of king Pheidon to keep his family for ten
generations; but the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he
might learn Jove’s mind from the high oak tree, and know whether after
so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly or in secret.
So you may know he is safe and will be here shortly; he is close at
hand and cannot remain away from home much longer; nevertheless I will
confirm my words with an oath, and call Jove who is the first and
mightiest of all gods to witness, as also that hearth of Ulysses to
which I have now come, that all I have spoken shall surely come to
pass. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this
moon and the beginning of the next he will b

jesus and judas kissed in the garden
moments before the world caved in.
the gospel of judas says that
the betrayer was the most loved of all disciples,
that jesus took him aside and
taught him touched him laughed.
there are two sides to canon, history, myth:
someone somewhere at sometime
wanted a better story,
where the betrayer was held close
and favored, forgiven—
but the gospels all end the same.
the son is strung up for someone else's sins
as judas wastes alone in the garden.
intention is a matter of interpretation
but what is silver worth, really?

metaphor disintegrates
and you come to me in my dreams.
to love you after all of this
is apocryphal— tempting yet untrustworthy.
you're not judas,
i'm just a mortal man,
and there is no gnosis, no hidden knowledge,
only apocalyptic revelations now.
the world is irrevocable, just born.
i miss you in the same way
jesus met judas' eyes on the cross.
somewhere in a field of blood
or a forgotten library buried under the earth,
there is a better story.
over time only becoming more unknowable,
hopeful fragments turning to dust
in trembling hands.

M. E. Shao

An Ode to the Letter “A”

A picture says a thousand words
At least that’s what they say
Although they can’t describe a thing
As well as the letter “A”
 
“A” means that there’s others
As if there’s two or three
And if there was just only one
“A” would become “the”
 
An Ode to the Letter “B”

Behold! A letter that can be
Better than numbers one and three
Because it sits quite neighborly
Between it’s buddies A & C
 
Boldly standing faithfully
Barely used the same you see
Bugs will spell it differently
But one less E and then it’s be
 
An Ode to the Letter “C”

Can you guess what letters next
Clocking in at number three?
Careful how you use it now
‘Cause it confuses frequently
 
Certain times it’s overlooked, like
Chief – the “I” before the “E”
Can’t use “I” that same way though when
Coming after “C”
 
An Ode to the Letter “D”

Dare I try letter four
Daunting as it may be?
Duly note this verse might prove as
Drab and dull as me
 
Don’t say there’s other letters of such
Deep complexity
Desire to speak in a past tense?
Dread not! Just add a “D”
 
And Ode to the Letter “E”

Ere I forget I said I’d commit
Ever mindful I shall be, and
Execute my promise, my Oath
Elegantly thanking thee
 
Eyes see so much wisdom
Ears hear so much glee
Every single word of love
Ends, with letter “E”
 
An Ode to the Letter “F”

Finally a letter without a long E
For those are easy to rhyme
Frankly it’s fun to come up with a pun
Fresh from out of the mind
 
Forever I wonder, over and under
From bottom to top, all the time
For a bold new way to come out and say
F this…but with no moral fine
 
An Ode to the Letter “G”

Goodness gracious, golly G!
Gifted writers inspire me
Gernsback, Goddard, de Graffigny
Grouped in glory’s category
 
Guiding words with paper and pen
Grandeur achieved by all of them
God bestowed them minds of gold
Goals to emulate when I’m old
 
An Ode to the Letter “H”

Heavens hopeful, but all should know
Hell awaits for heathens below
Havoc, hatred, halls of stones
Heated seats on hopeless thrones
 
Helping mortals foster love
Hoping for the gates above
Hearts are kind for constant fear
Horror and nightmare might be near
 
An Ode to the Letter “I”

I love the vowels for how they serve
In bridging letters, creating words
Insanity comes, ’cause if not for them
Illegible messes that none comprehend
 
Idle time attempting to read
It’s pointless were it not for these
Irked by consonants, throw in the towel
If you want a word…just buy a vowel
 
An Ode to the Letter “J”

Jack and Jill went up the hill
Jogging straight up and down
Joking and playing, having a thrill
Joy till he broke his crown
 
Jumping in fear, Jill looked around
Jolting across the way
Jeering, she returned and scooped him up
Jill’s stick was shaped like a J
 
An Ode to the Letter “K”

Knobbed in darkness, twisted wood
Knuckled as can be
Kinks and dead spots all around
Knotted is the tree
 
Kindling yes, our God will need, as its
Key for making day
Kind, He brightens nights with knights by simply adding
K
 
An Ode to the Letter “L”

Little, little, did I know
L is oh so great
Like the time I drank that wine and
Lulled a pretty mate
 
Lords and ladies, boys and girls
Like all, must pay the well
Lay respect to that which lets us
Love – the letter “L”
 
An Ode to the Letter “M”

Middle of the alphabet
Molded like a gem
Most will say there’s nothing worth
More than Letter “M”
 
Maybe M hates W
Malice with a frown
Mercilessly mocked by him when
M is upside down
 
An Ode to the Letter “N”

Naughty naughty little N
Never helping me
Nothing useful ever comes from
Negativity
 
No and never, none and nor
N is oh so rude
Neighbors M and O must want to
Nix that attitude
 
An Ode to the Letter “O”
Over, under, bottom, top
Odes to letters never stop
On the day I get to Z
Old and wrinkled, I may be
 
Or young and youthful, hopefully
Only time will tell, you see
Our lives are short, we need to grind
Otherwise we’re wasting time
 
An Ode to the Letter “P”

Paper, pencil, pen and ink, in
Prose I’ve grown to speak and think
Public platforms, message boards
Poetic guide of rhythmic chords
 
Poems are pretty, I think it naught
Pretentious such as some have thought
Pious I shan’t think it so
Poetry shall help me grow
 
An Ode to the Letter “Q”

Quiet! I must concentrate
Q is hard to satiate
Quarrels make me want to quit
Quirks in words which don’t quite fit
 
Quorum comes when all are here
Quickly now, our quest is near
Quantify a love for two
Q is married, to the U
 
An Ode to the Letter “R”

Regal existence, loved from afar
Reality dictates we need Letter R
Rigid and rugged it’s straight and it’s curved
Reading is easy when Rs are preserved

Rallying troops or driving a car?
Really won’t work without Letter R
Reason without one, your point is moot
R runs the game, expect the boot
 
An Ode to the Letter “S”

Supposed vision we are told will
Save the world today
Sorry if I disagree
So many told to stay
 
Spite and harm are currently
Sawing through the way
Someday hope for peace and love
So hate will go away
 
An Ode to the Letter “T”

There never was a letter
That can do as much as me
Think about it really hard and
Thank me when you see
 
The other letters hate me
Though, because of jealousy
They say it’s not fair that I rhyme
That super easily
 
An Ode to the Letter “U”

Usually I’d try her number
Unfortunately my hearts asunder
Used to love her, used to hold
Useless now, attempts are cold
 
Until things change for now I’ll be
Under this cloak of melancholy
Urging progress, longing for more
Unable to close the heart wrenching door
 
An Ode to the Letter “V”

Very strong, vivaciously
Voltage high, tenaciously
Veer this verse, voraciously
Vaulting over prose you see
 
Violence in these words you read
Viking frame of mind have we
Vibrant in philosophy
Verbiage is our currency
 
An Ode to the Letter “W”

Well, here we are
Woe is me!
Winding down, finally
Wrapping up this poetry
 
We’re almost done, from A to Z
Writing alphabetically
Won’t be long, but wait! We’re not free
W was easy….X will not be
 
An Ode to the Letter “X”

X can mark the spot I see
Xanax needed this entry
Xi is Greek, it’s fourteen
Xeroxed words, all randomly
 
Xystus too, as I mentioned Greece
Xebecs sailing open seas
Xerosis I suffer cerebrally
Xenial X was not to me
 
An Ode to the Letter “Y”

You may think these odes of mine
Yawn-inducing, wastes of time
Yet I attest validity
Yes they’re written passionately
 
Yesterday I couldn’t show it
Younger me was not a poet
Yearn for greatness, one day bestow it
Years from now, I hope you know it
 
An Ode to the Letter “Z”

Zealots desired to bless my soul
Zilch is my energy left
Zoned out, these odes have taken their toll
Zoo in my mind, though ’twas deft
 
Zip up this project, my brain can now rest
Zero letters now lie ahead
Zephyrs now soothe me, caressing my chest
Zodiac today – time for bed

To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
Of all the great things men have saved from Time,
The withered body of a girl was brought
Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime,
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

But when they had unloosed the linen band
Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! was found
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand
A little seed, which sown in English ground
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear
And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

With such strange arts this flower did allure
That all forgotten was the asphodel,
And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,
Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,
But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white
At its own beauty, hung across the stream,
The purple dragon-fly had no delight
With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,
Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,
Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

For love of it the passionate nightingale
Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,
And the pale dove no longer cared to sail
Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,
But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,
With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue
A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,
And the warm south with tender tears of dew
Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose
Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky
On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field
The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,
And broad and glittering like an argent shield
High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,
Did no strange dream or evil memory make
Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years
Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,
It never knew the tide of cankering fears
Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,
The dread desire of death it never knew,
Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

For we to death with pipe and dancing go,
Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,
As some sad river wearied of its flow
Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,
Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!
And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

We mar our lordly strength in barren strife
With the world’s legions led by clamorous care,
It never feels decay but gathers life
From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,
We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,
It is the child of all eternity.

Nauclatic (fairgoers): The deeply spiritually intertwined with nature just being introduced to the comforts of civilization
Rengall: Reified by concrete effrontery in discovery (Indiana jones)
flagstall: to lose national unity because of corruption
Escraven: timid in the usage of secret terminology
Glaggle: impress with gobbledygook that is divorced from substance
Flagstag: an undue importance of inconsequential elections
Fritty: someone who wastes their time
Gollumny: "my precious"
Akabu: deserted time-travelers stranded in the future or the past
kloffen: A placid body of water
Hermallop: dumping an uglier woman for a hotter one
Radiohoo: fake top secret rap and pop music
Radioglare: Menacing threats by objectionable musical trends
Aushehotaria: Having an O.B.E. relationship
Wickersnatcher: Stolen time travel pirate goods/pirates
Slalem: navigating the esoteric in common contemplation
scroogid: Spoilsport based on false expectations
Xenucography: Cryogenic attempts at eternal life
Qwersy: too popular to be ****** with
Minimasque: No ***** given about poor people
Oxyholotron: specious time travel paradox
Errid: poor mismanagement that leads to drought
wavesnatcher: chronic pirate of obscure music
Niminal: sea monster of pain
Retrude: introducing obsolescence that is unplanned
Qart: art apportionment among museums
Grimsuetude: Morose temperament impaired deeply
Qwestun: Cast System of Extras
Vilium: Missing obvious ****** opportunities
Veridium: Success with women
laskerade: Free-for-all euphoric party
seguage: Connections among times
Hortosynchrony: simultaneously played chants
Vangermyte: Sycophant NSA agents that cozy up to the stock market
Primitude: first in line
primiventure: first expedition
quilldoten: keep it on wax
jengadangle: arbitrage based on financial collapse or playing the VIX
Chrenodendron: Ancient Time Traveler
Chrenodamiange: Near future time traveler to the past
Chrenoid: seen a time machine before
Chrystrenic: The pacification and mollification of sentiment
Jakatta: wisdom of the disguiseans
ugmentum: bad trends continuing
Jocknee: To worship sports
Hackencrude: Stupid vituperative pornographic sentiments
Gullarge: a large unassailed lie fed by the media
glawson: To browbeat with nepotism in legal cases
virecreant: A male person that never flirts with women
hollertrap: Announcing non-neutrality in a world that is divided
qwink: *** between celebrities
qwasthink: an intricate pattern of visualized words
Trocket: Synergized tree-minds meeting in one body
Squirebell: A formal diplomat
Yessurp: Codeine addict
Matrhine: A smart German
poiliosis: a fake disease that is artificial
Dubois: A teed to the nines gangster that robs the corrupt blind
Flissoid: Gloss, beauty, eloquence but nasty personal hygiene among women
Reskig: Sparing animals from painful slaughter
Salug: a salute that hurts your reputation

Even as ship was sinking
Having hit Titanic iceberg
Still silly ship captain me could laugh
At go down with it self-tragedy

Now resting (rusting)
On Atlantic ocean bottom
Can't laugh without air to breathe
No humour left in these old oxidized bones

Having missed the lighthouse
No sea shells to share
No crashing waves
Dead eyes stare out window

Laid bare barren wastes
Blair station
Near where used to live
Pretending we were still a family

In the arctic wastes where the Inuit tribe hunts caribou and fights to survive,
I have been told since long ago that tribe has fifty words for “snow”
That seemed superfluous to me- Fifty words for one commodity!
If I was born an Eskimo, I’d have fifty words to learn and know

I do most of the shoveling here, my wife and children cheer me on.
The winter lingers long and drear, some days it seems the Sun is gone.
Despite the calendar I greatly fear that blessed spring is nowhere near
Tomorrow, the radio makes clear, we’re expecting six more inches here.

Some snow is like a sugary mist, granulated and sublime,
Quite useless for a snow ball fight, for that you need the packing kind.
The worst is the wet sodden snow, the kind that threatens a heart attack.
It’s difficult to lift and throw; it hurts the arms and strains the back.

I told my wife I now know why they need fifty words for snow.
I have a few choice words I’d add; words the children shouldn’t know.
Those Inuit folk who fight to survive in the land of snow and ice-
Now I too have fifty words for snow, not one of which is nice.

The prideful man cries
when his pride is unmet,
and when his mirror breaks
his existence is in threat!

The prideful man weeps
when his deeds are in vain
and he never kneels;
Unless his price is paid!

The prideful man stares
deep into the crowd,
only to be stared back
he wastes his whole life.

The prideful man kills
so his place is safe,
just to be in the center
he kills what he craves!

The prideful man begs
for a chance to be seen,
and when he his alone
he weeps, and he weeps!

And he dies!
When his words–
when his carefully sewed words,
fail to capture minds.

Wild winds pushed my hair back
I had no compass to keep me on track
The winter's cold has swallowed my legs
Through the wastes of snow;
World, may I be your scuffled window.

Dry air feeds my lungs.
Ice has taken over where I left my guns
Traveling night and day;
Through the dreams and throughout my soul
The road's path began with a hole.

There's no way to look back
Any distraction will throw you off track
Through the icy scapes of the heart;
I made this path on my own,
To turn it into frozen stone.

Fire.
Eyes.
Feeling.                                gone.­
Freezing, but warm to the touch.
I thought I had pulled my heart through too much.

Now frozen in my own path.
Icicle beard man I am.
Frozen in place, my legs will not budge.
I went too far from the fire didn't I?
And now I know, I'll never make it back alive.

Only the stars endome the lonely camp,
Only the desert leagues encompass it;
Waterless wastes, a wilderness of wit,
Embattled Cold, Imagination's Cramp.
Now were the Desolation fain to stamp
The congealed Spirit of man into the pit,
Save that, unquenchable because unlit,
The Love of God burns steady, like a Lamp.

It burns ! beyond the sands, beyond the stars.
It burns ! beyond the bands, beyond the bars.
And so the Expanse of Mystery, veil by veil,
Burns inward, plume on plume still folding over
The dissolved heart of the amazéd lover-
The angel wings upon the Holy Grail!

When the daemon of a person is lost
that person will wander through trackless wastes.

If she sweeps her house and prays diligently,
It may be
that seven new spirits
will come and take up residence with her
and there will be dancing
and a turning
and a new fire may be kindled.

This air is turnin’ thin,
Black clouds are rollin’ in,
Blendin’ from day to night,
Yet sun an’ moon in sight,
Cold winds pick up their pace,
Their howls consume this place,
The stars creep to the sky,
They’re lookin’ through all time,
The powers come aligned.
The prowess of his kind.

The presence now of something black,
That stalks and prowls but wont attack,
With the mighty claps of thunderous blows,
The skies split fast and monsoons flow,
With such a force I watch it bounce,
And feel a waiting for the pounce.

A flash, A lightning fawke,
Here at last. The soul reborn.

It comes to land, upon the roofs,
It comes as man. It comes like you,
An empty street. An’ there he stands,
Head fixed on feet, and eyes on hands,

As though turned off,
The weather stops,
And all is still,
It is his will….

The restaurant doors had long been closed, the staff had all now gone,
Just shiny floors and chairs in rows and napkins shaped like swans.
The shadow steps out of the dark and takes itself a seat,
The shadow sees a blindin' spark – the foes begin their meet.
And so they sit now face to face with minds to cut their chords,
And so they sit to score the age, The Devil and The Lord.

The figure that was made of light spoke first, and it spoke well,
He told the one that spoiled his sight how it deserved its Hell.
But then expressed with fallin' tears a heart too far from whole,
As he confessed that recent years bore less and less good souls.
The Devil smirked and leaned in close and said in quiet craze,
'My plans are working, every ghost will wind up in my chains'.
He cursed The Lord and slammed his fist and hissed that he was king,
“You lead an’ love and want an’ wish, but I don’t miss a thing.
Our infants and their ignorance are headin’ far from home…
They welcome all the wisdom I embedded in their bones.
That they needn’t serve in Heaven and they needed make a grade,
When they can come an’ work forever in the sanctuary I’ve made”

In rage The Lord jumped up with this and told a separate truth,
The page that you have seemed to miss is that which lets them choose,
Upon a death, if they should care, they’ll find the waiting sun,
'You're not a speck and never were and soon you'll be undone'

I’ve strung the poisoned arrow, and its flight has proved enough,
I call the son a shadow and I call the fathers bluff.
The seed that I have sown brings forth a forest of unrest,
That needs a single road but reaps a warren at its best,
The little ones not fallen – yet not lofty in their lures,
Forsaken in their garden – at a loss for wanting more,

They’ve all but torn it all apart, but burned the fruits they see
The creatures nearest to his heart - apples furthest from the tree.

These infants know not of your skill -, a boast so long obscured,
Your impotence has brought their will far closer to my cause.
To strike the throne not where it sits but on its founding stone,
I’ll overthrow - but not take risk and fall again alone,
I’ll creep my way into the midst – like the fumes he made me breathe,
And reap that day so long eclipsed – when swooms bow down at me.
To pull the threads from all you’ve weaved – that fabric taking form,
Annul the ‘best’ and all his seed go scattered to the storm.
To tear the pages one by one – each letter from each word,
Undo the age in which you shone and better make the world.

How will he fall, and you so with? How will my plan come made?
You’ve heard that calling in the rifts – the call from but a babe,
That tiny voice to chime the start and usher in the act,
The vary last in our great art – the act where villains pass.
The baby’s blood’s of neither cloth. The soldier stood alone.
In no-mans land, with no-mans cause. Abolish and atone.
The baby’s blood’s of neither cause, compelled to bridge both poles,
Meet all my good with all your flaw – your Hell amidst my home.

Each beat of blood to soar and shake the pillars of his house,
Each beat of blood so keenly traced to the will that I give out.
The baby born to end the wait – pass form into the ghost,
We each have spawned and each create - that baby born of both.

If age makes wise – then you’re aside. I tame you but with this:
You’re of the line that knows of time the way it really is…
And yet you talk of victories and valor ‘gainst the life…
That lets you breathe, and lets you scheme and shout what you devise.
Make no mistake the blood in me’s the blood that boils in you,
And all these creatures you have deemed accustomed to your cues.
It flows right from the very veins that shaped you as a son,
Though I don’t know his ending game, I know how it begun:
As all above and all below, and all we cannot see,
As all to come and all we’ve known – and all we find so free.
It comes as soul, an’ sight an’ sound, the depths of which elude…
The contempting cold that daily drown the fermenting of your feud.
It’s in the airs an’ in the soils an’ in the blinding suns,
It forms and fares and thrives an’ toils – in all of times triumphs.
It’s in our bliss, an’ in the blackness of your ravaged wastes,
It’s in that pit that beats, attacks and pounds you out of grace.
It’s all the minds of all mortals, an’ all the brains of beast,
And all those kinds that shuffle off the coils into me.

It’s all the fathers very form – along with that which walks,
It’s all the fathers very tongue – along with that which talks.
It’s all the makings of the man who sculpted shine and sin,
And still he takes you by the hand – indulges every whim.
Yet in the furnaces of pride you poise to make your place,
Your savagery one of a kind – your aim one of a wave.
And in the recess of your eye still I see his fallen son,
Who only wants to tell the skies that he can stand as one.
A sentiment so many like – ‘til sense sees it un-form,
A base intent so true and tried, but pales to better thought.
A noble note in a crazy chord – a plan that can’t prevail,
An honest hope so poorly formed you forewent seeing it fail.
And now this face you try to save – this front you fear to shed,
With all your age you’ve still no claim to the living or the dead.

Bar a myriad of martyrs made of mayhem gone a’mock,
And you show them as though starters of the safety in your flock,

Each drone diseased and misinformed – too blind and lame to know,
Though they don’t believe in he above – they still find his face below.
Though I can’t predict his plans I now the pieces that you play,
None that made it as a man and all too keenly sail astray.
But they still gather to his seed, aspire to confide in you,
They’re still climbing down his tree – and they will find his face on you.

I hear your words an’ watch your ways – as silk with poisoned spore,
I’ll win the Earth an’ win the day an’ win your masters court.
Who turned their gaze an’ turned their backs on the brother they’d see burn,
You speak of graze and noble acts - but I wonder where they were…
When that ‘mighty’ hand and his ‘precious’ plan had me torn from all I’d known,
To a barren land and desolate sound – and an endless fall alone,
When his regal rite cast away from sight but the brother they’d desert,
Who’s but of a mind to reveal such might’s in another of more worth.
Did a single soul rally ‘round their own? Did they simply stop and see...
That the full control they’d all let him hold needn’t be beyond our reach?
We’ve the right of birth to take bite of Earth – if we’ll only rile the will,
Why invite his curse and delight his purse, when I still live to make the ****?

My pity then for he that seeks to bite the hand that feeds,
My pity still for he that dreams some hope in crossing seas…
That crippled masses past your means before you took a breath,
An ancient class far more a fiend, an’ more a worthy threat…
Than anything you’ve ever been, an’ anything you could,
Those of a Kingdom we’ve not seen – those of a purer blood.
Those of a height I’m yet to know, beyond the place I’ve made,
Those with a sight I cannot show – and of a grace I crave.

Who understand the union of that father on the throne,
One hand to do the provin’ while hand keeps more unknown.
One hand to bring the fearsome and one hand to bring the tame,
One hand to do the healin’ and one hand to cause the pain,
One eye to see us sufferin’ and one eye to see survive,
One eye to see us love and yet an eye to see us die,
One mind to watch us fight but then a mind to see unite,
One mind to show the light and yet a mind to see it hide.

If all your words have any weight – I’m as clean as all your clan,
But I live in an arid waste with but dead men at hand,
If all you talk has any truth then I’d know love as well,
But while you walk on formin’ fruit - I get the ragged Hell,
So where’s this side to spare a son? Where is this sense to save?
Eons are done – a new one comes. I’m sentenced, or a slave.
His bleeding heart but goes so far, I’ll have my fate fulfilled,
His two great halves’ll shake an’ scar before I slay an’ still,
I’d sooner make my mark and make my mound into a hill…
Then mountainous scar right through the stars, than bow down to his will!

And still you see in black and white, in terms of some great tier,
Still haven’t heard a thing tonight – and still can’t lend an ear.
You ask why you’re left set aside, alone behind the veil,
You’re left to show the path arrai – a cautionary tale.
A marker for the men who seek a stature ‘bove all else,
And harbor then the weakness that sees strength a match for sense.
You’re there to sit where others wont. You’re there to play the fool.
You’re there to pitch your endless gloats – and fight the futile duel.
Somehow ‘under’ those in cradles, somehow ‘under’ those in graves,
But your number would be endless if you’d only join the game.

A misery all eyes can find. The maddest tale we share.
We watch you hate – and hate so blind – in sadness ‘cause we care,
But every day’s a way back home. A joke that you don’t get.
Just turn away, keep turnin’ clod, ‘til choked in your regret.
The picture - brother’s - such a scale your but a passing piece,
All us of life and later are but just a flashing leaf.
As somewhere else his other seeds stride knowing not of us…
Of angels blessed or saints revered or man or beast or brush.
And then again there’s others still, and more and more alike,
Past divine deaths, or life an’ limb – and all of such designs.

But here you sit, here one who sees time as it really is,
So I’ll let you sit an’ I’ll take my leave – still un-wavered in my wish,
That one time we meet you’ll walk with me, and leave your lonely night,
And we’ll put to sleep your darkened dreams and put our picture right.

Then the man of light moved to the door, an’ faded through the glass…
‘Til vanishing into the night. The meet had come to pass.
And all was still, it was his will. His foe sat lost in thought,
To unfulfil, to make his hill, to fashion up his Fort.

With a sodden frown – the forgotten found – the shadow left his seat,
As unhallowed ground came with hollow howls, he stepped back into the bleak.
The restaurant paused – so long since closed. And traffic moved beyond,
Past shiny floor and chairs in rows and napkins shaped like swans.

Earth is our home. Your mind has just been blown.
People, animals, and stones are WAY more important than some stupid phones.
Moans and groans yell forth to continue our whining. Dining with a lover, means more than your *******. Pop the next cork on our bottle and celebrate life.
Happiness, passion, and love is way more powerful than hatred, greed, and strife.
Our plight to survive another day and night. The negative is Death, and the positive is life. Our sight., right, and fight to save the environment and endangered wildlife.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Shoulder your burdens as we all grow older.
Weather gets hotter, and sometimes colder. Some are scared pussycats, while others are lions that grow bolder. Close your folder of selfishness, while oil pipelines spread disaster. Do you care while you waste away, as the ecosystem wastes away faster?
Litter another critter of pollution. Cleaner air is the solution. Care to find YOUR resolution? Spilling out our guts all over an institution.
Garden the seeds of change to fruition. Us, the hoes, should fight the GMOs.
Planting organic crops on fertile soil, as vines of life flourish and grow.
Blow the wind that feeds flames of bitterness, while water sweeps over, you know?
So you don't give a **** about the Earth as your self-pity glows?
Shows how stupid YOU are while the passionate stays afloat.
Fear spreads chaos, while paying it forward spreads the most.
I can go on and on with this poem, but alas, I must slow the flow.
Every day is ******* Earth day. Let's do our part. Here's my toast!

Running
It's what he does best
running from the loneliness he detest
running from the longings
of love family and friends
running from the loneliness
he hides best
He hides in illusions
and fantasy grandeur and the rest
at least I'm living he attest
I bet you can't catch me
for that's what I do best
so go on and try
and put me to rest
for I long to feel a real lover's embrace
I yearn to experience a true friend's grace
I would love a family who's always there
not wastes of memories floating in the air
Please catch me if you can
cause I am so far gone
please catch me if you can
cause I am tired as hell
tired of the mayhem I've caused in my head

a toast to the gods of self preservation
twenty one with plenty coming
allowing to pound sounds within
the crown aroused voided a founders of it’s bruises
spells hold the fold, I’m coasting with the best
resting in the east so I sleep with blinds low
the comfort zone is far from solitude
my molecules have aptitude to channel Jupiter
seatbelts are useless wastes of matter, excuse me
just a minute so you can miss me with that individuality
your calloused grip on reality impairs the singularity
old school, gold noose, silver lined diamonds
Jesus pieces reaped the seeds that teach your blind lids
came back with scabbed knuckled and heart scars
hustled the portal of pretension ever so ethereally
inner synthesis purged the day the plague hit
on the courts or the graves, you name the slaves
the game slayed the day the chains changed hands

In my home city of Dhaka, there is an abundance of bananas. Their sickly sweet aroma hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of human toil and chemical wastes to produce the true odor of despair. The lives of these bananas are relatively short. They start off in a poor farmer’s tree, dragged to market in a broken-down truck, and sold at a cut-throat price to the vendor. In a well-rehearsed play, vendor and consumer haggle over bruised bananas. The tired consumer brings the bananas home and hangs them in the kitchen where cockroaches stalk empty cupboards.  
                      The next day, we, the children, will carry the bananas in empty lunch boxes to school. Together, we will sit through vapid lectures, tailored to make the clock tick slower. Not once will the teacher pause to encourage us to achieve. During lunch, we will devour our bananas with unwashed hands. Despite our best efforts, we will be corralled into our parents’ lives and become the next generation of factory workers and office clerks.  
              Sometimes though, a child manages to get a glimpse into the other world. I was fortunate enough to be one of these children. One afternoon, my father came into our tiny living room with a smile on his face and an object protruding from his shirt pocket. He told me that he had a special present for me. With a practiced flourish, he took out an orange from his worn shirt. My eyes widened with amazement.
              To me, oranges were objects only celebrities and corrupt politicians could afford. They were luxury items, myths seen on television. Yet here I was, nothing extraordinary, holding a real orange in my palm. Slowly I peeled the orange, feeling my old impoverished self peel away simultaneously. As I tasted the first tangy slice, I heard the shackles of the banana chain fall. It was then that I truly felt that I had the power to become anything I wanted. That day, I was liberated from the vicious banana cycle.
               From that day forward, I looked for positive events in my life, for signs of hope and change. One day, I saw my strict, condescending teacher discreetly hand an orange to a classmate whose family was unemployed. For the rest of the day, the child stood a little taller. For that day, he was no longer living in a destitute environment, but residing in the warmth of human nature.

When you wake up in the morning
And there's a note on your mug
"I didn't want to wake you"
"I left your favorite donuts on the table"
"When you sleep you make little sobbing sounds"
(And I think that's cute) is implied
To no longer be your own
To be stealing his deodorant
Because you miss his smell at work
And kitchen smells are not musician smells
And guitar strings are not
Your body
But they might as well be
Because you feel
Every
Tiny
Note
He plays
You would gladly do his laundry
For another song to fall asleep too
Many ways he kisses you
Too many places to count the stars
Too many phantom vibrations
And you think your phone is ringing
Because he just wants to talk about your day
You lose it for a minute
But it's nothing
It's the wind blowing
It's just missing someone
And you're terrified you've forgotten
The shadows his nose casts and
The dilations of his eyes
And the shapes of his words
As they meet your ears
But you look up at the moon
How it waxes
It wanes
Your love goes through phases
That bring in the tides
And wash lost shark's teeth out to sea
Your love changes daily
Loving him is often scary
You are perpetually quaking
Remembering how quickly
Sweet things dissolve in the rain
Sugar wastes enamel
Like time wastes muscle
You could fit a camel through the eye of a needle
Easier than you can handle this
Than you can wrap your head around
Caliente
Having no control
Because you cut the reins
You wanted it that way
And you forgot that fear
Taste like red wine and stale saltines
And being out of ice cream
You wanted it that way
You wanted a love story
You wanted to know that there's no such thing as control anyways
No such thing as
An autonomous heart
And you are ******
Because you could draw the shadows his nose casts
The squeeze of his ***
The way his eyes fluoresce at the sight of you
From memory
You are ****** because he is all you can think about
Past, present, future
I mean, you are seriously ******

Oh, no one seeks a partner with a beautiful mind.
It is all beautiful bodies and *****.
A girl with no other options seems to be what I'll find,
and it really makes me sick.

I could paint a picture of serenity and love
in a vast and epic view.
I seem to have none of the above
and I want you to have mine too.

Call me bitter.
Call me jealous.
Call me what you will.

None seem to understand what I am getting at,
but hopefully soon you will.

Let me take you back a decade or so.
A young, fat, spotty faced teen
thinks one day he will sometime know
love and *** through another person instead of sticky magazines.

He wastes his time looking for another soul
for years upon years until he is no longer a boy.
His short, wide ***** finally finds a hole
and it brings him great joy.

He thought *** was great hoping to do it again,
although for a while it didn't much to his chagrin.
He caves in and spends money on ill gotten ******,
sadly he he gets bored and quickly finds it to be a filthy chore.

At his wits end, suicidal and sad
wanting nothing but a woman's love,
things were looking bad
until something came out of the darkness, an angel from above.

She was young and beautiful,
he could not deny.
The good times were bountiful
and he never told a lie.

He was happy and angst free for around 8 months
but the angel was a traitor and he was a putz.
A drunken ******* with no remorse.
The end had come and run the course.

Call it sad
Call it tragic
Call it what you will

I now understand it
and I hope you do too.

Now he travels this barren sea
of bros and hos and endless stupidity
with no hope, no cares,
no *** and no love.

Wishing he could do something with another
instead of hate.
He needs a new lover.
He needs a new mate.

"****!" he shouts with a frog in his throat,
"Why can't I be happy while everyone gloats?"
In is defense, life isn't quite fair
to those without muscles and dye in their hair.

And now all he does is silently weep,
listen to Elliott Smith, and shout in his sleep.

Call him an emo
Call him a loser
Call him what you will.

The moral is for you to quit being arrogant and judgmental, slutty and stupid.
There are men and women out there who wish they could.

Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble to a broken tune
(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.

What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash--
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)--
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house,
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?

O Death!  O Change!  O Time!
Without you, O, the insuperable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!

**** man, I wonder how a money salad with ranch tastes?
With the way we're faced
I see myself seeking shelter in the Great American Wastes
In the Heartland but I feel like I don't got no heart, man

So I just keep thinking though
Laugh at the freedom show
In the age of the digital rabbit
I'd rather break my habits, slow
So hold up now, listen close
There's a cold wind that blows
Over and over and over the world
So clear and awake and it smells like hope

But I'm living amongst the violent
Chaotic spirit energy of the silent
Tunnels of white and bladed nightlife
Drowning for lack of feeling alive
I want to feel the heat tonight
But there's no warmth in the morning
But I find joy in my cold Turkish Delight

Someone asked me if I ponder
The galaxy and how I fit in it
But I told them I lost my Samsung under
The bridge by the creek in a fit
Of ecstatic acid bliss
So I just let live and let
Live and let live.

Dusting off cobwebs
From the corners of my mind
Giving them the proper love
To disintegrate the grime
That takes me off point
And wastes my time

After countless battles,
We've finally gotten married.

Ours was not a lengthy engagement
If there was even one to begin with.
A long courtship, though.
Skirmish after bloodbath after slaughter
Fighting trolls and giants and the undead
We were comrades
Brothers in arms.
And then a quick confession
A purchased home
That was it.

Now we sleep in on weekends
Slowly wake to the cool darkness of the room
Make love with sleep still frosting our eyes
I serenade you in the cold evenings with my battered lute
As you tend to the crackling hearth
Before tending to my gashes and bruises
Earned from the day's clashes.

This must be what Valhalla feels like --
Coming home to you and a hearty stew
After a long day of fighting
Covered in blood
(Some of them mine)
Loaded down with loot.
Doing this for a lifetime seems preferable
To being High King for eternity.

Dragons may be razing the northern wastes
Savage tribes holding sway in the mountains
Rebels and imperials clashing in the plains
But in here
It's just you and me.
Nothing and no one can enter our sanctuary.
Like you said,
Brief as life can be here,
We have each other.

I may be the Thane of your hold
But you are the Thane of my heart.

There’s a bear in there!
“ A bear? Where? Where?”
“In church. See there?”
“Can you see the bear?”

“It’s a fashion trend
With a flirty look.
It’s a magazine
With a gossip hook.

It’s a leading man
With an undead past.
It’s a promise made
That doesn’t last.

It’s a lazy trend
That wastes the time,
And doesn’t relate
To the heart sublime.”

“I always said that
We musn’t judge.”
“But we must discern,
Maybe give a nudge.”

“But the Scripture says
Take the beam out first.”
“That’s exactly right,
And so we must -

But then we durst
Turn a sinner back,
Save a soul from death
For His great love’s sake.

Our lampstand must
Remain in place.
Sexuality
May not ******.

Toleration and
Compromise
Bring death. Not there the
White stone lies.

Comfort Gospel
(Jezebel’s whim
And society’s ease )
Is a preacher’s sin.

Earthly treasure will
Close the eye so
The Light is dim
Where many go.”

“But Jesus promised
His healing hand,
Great plans for our future
We understand.”

“You’re right, He did
But the problem is
It’s not in the carnal
His purpose lies.

It’s in character building
Through struggle ,pain
And sacrifice
Again and again,

Until His children
Can submit
To his greater plan
In a perfect fit.

Until they can get
A handle on
His vision for Life
And eternity strong.

Will you go there?
With determined tread
And a single mind
His purpose read?

Will you open your page
In His blueprint plan
And download a copy
To your hard drive, (wo) Man?

My body, holds steadfast to strong winds. It bares the marks of eighteen years. Between good, the bad, myself. I contradict my own existence with the lack of will. That my own deterioration of self is stitched together by the shaking hands of a man who doesn't know what to do next. As the pieces slowly fall. "It's fine," I say. "It's fine," that after every moment I lose a little more of myself. "At least I haven't gone this far yet." pointing deeper into the well, to be honest, who am I to judge the depth in the well of depravity when I wash my face in its waters. I have no time for eating, sleeping, I only drink from the well. In the end. it's all I need and all I want.

Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted

Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless

Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble

You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly

Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible

I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion

After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles

After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge

In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel

In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs

Earth's children cleave to Earth--her frail
  Decaying children dread decay.
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,
  And lessens in the morning ray:
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,
  It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
  Along the green and dewy steeps:
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
  To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
  And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain--it passes still
  From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill
  The world with glory, wastes away,
Till, parting from the mountain's brow,
  It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now
  A portion of the glorious sky.

So you know that strange feeling you get, the one where it feels like you're different from them.
You're a green tulip in a field of yellows, but they all see in black and white.
You decide to go with it, because Different is bad. Same is good.
Same, they say, is what gets you somewhere.
Same, I think, isn't fun at all.
It's gray, dull, a ticking clock in an empty room. Time wastes away, and nothing is done.
Same stands over you with a bat, and 'plonk' when Different tries to talk to you. Same wears the same suit and tie every day, never changing.
Different likes colors and scarves and sandals and beanies and fur coats and tattoos.
Same likes to talk about the weather, while Different doesn't talk; she was interrupted too much.
Different likes to sit down and think, and think, and dream. She sits longing for more Different's, the ones with fur coats and tattoos. Same chases them down with his bat and 'plonk' they become like Same, with suits and bats.