Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil
if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words
some significant percentage
may
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed
much as one would redeem the time.

One of us.  One of our mortal kind.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No ****. **** happens.
All the ****** time,
and **** and God, those two get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme
does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty. God, they say, and die.

By my leave, I say,
I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers.
Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words.
Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named
for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when **** happens

at just the right moment

in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is
whadayacallit

Vetted.
What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb?
After school freedom and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons, aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, not at us. W


e Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,
tax-free.

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF
(unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed to us, the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
those cartoons were meaningless, prewar propaganda
unless we match adult laughing recoging the exaggerations,
The Betty Davis eyes and Frankly M'Dear bigears
"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"
Clark Gable, wow.
Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a **** guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,
intrixically.

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning. This is
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to **** hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
songs,
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary
ref-use.

Referee.
Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not stupid,
you are not powerless. If you are stupid, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not stupid. God knows, right?
Stupid people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.

You're blind when you see me,
I'm on my knees and broken.
I remind you who I really am,
Remember these words I've spoken.

Unshakable you see me,
You see me standing tall.
Like a statue made of stone,
You see a rock who'll never fall.

Unbreakable you see me,
You see me effortlessly bold.
Like the stars will always shine,
You see power you think I hold.

Unstoppable you see me,
You see me fighting without fear.
Like relentless worriers conquer,
You see a hero who never sheds a tear.

I make my strength shine bright,
Shine to cover up my weakness.
You can't see past my Confidence,
You refuse to see me my meekness

Even stone can't stand forever,
The world will beat it down.  
I remind you I'm only human,
The world can make me drown.

Even stars can't shine so bright,
So bright to shine through the clouds.
I remind you I'm just another face,
Another face in amongst the crowds.

Even heroes can't withstand all,
Hold the weight of the world alone.
I remind you I can't hold on forever,
Excessive trials will break my backbone.

I refuse to let you believe,
Believe who you see is perfect.
A pedestal I don't deserve,
And don't EVER say I'm worth it.

suddenly I'm able to see
everything. too much.
its all there. right
in front of me
everything is
elucidated

I just wish someone would
come back, and fog up these windows
I use for eyes and maybe
put back some of that
sweet mystery
into the world

I wish I was back in that
candy shop. When my only worriers
were the cavities that Dr. Patanaud
would discover
hiding in the dark crevices of
my mouth

But now, along with those cavities
in the deep and infinite caves
of my whole are secrets
that hurt more than cavities
that I wish my dentist could
fill. but he cannot

and so now, here
I am. with a
sore mouth. and sore
eyes. and sore
ears. sitting at the only
lit table in a romantically dark
room

Written in the language of the hard hats and dedicated to each and every one of us who have endured this horrible ****** Winter weather*

Rain in gouts from June till now
There's blue clay mud forever,
Orange excavators ply
With sturdy tracked endeavour.
Lakes of water, turgid brown,
Are Swirling  with the flow
Of four inch pumps in overdrive
With ****** all to show.

Streaming rainfall day by day
As dogged men press on
To concrete saw and generator's
Screaming, nearby song.
Welders, under shelter, flash
Their lurid silver light
And ghosts of reinforcing bars
Reflect like day is night.

Mightily the ironwork
Descends by crane to trench
And snaking snout of concrete pump
Disgorge their load to bench
The magic of the bentonite
Performs it's subtle dance
And the concrete locks for centuries
As thunderous skies advance.

Knee deep in the morass
With perplexed furrowed brow,
An engineer is pondering
A sticky problem he has now
How to isolate contaminants
From mud to water flow,
How to guarantee the purity
As seaward tonnes of it does go

And still the deluge thundered down
Relentlessly it poured,
Day to day and month by month
Despite the plea's implored.
Relentlessly the hard hats
Bent their sodden backs to task
And forged a mighty work of progress
.... More than anyone could ask!

Amazing the endeavor,
Just amazing how they work
How men can face adversity
And simply will not go beserk!
How bounteous camaraderie
Generates between ranks.
When the hardship is shared
And the boss smiles... thanks.

For the roof beams are settling
And those deep holes begin
The tunnel takes shape
As slanting rain whistles in
And the big trucks do loiter
To idle there for a bit,
As the loud water blasters
Clear the clogged wheels of ****.

And the public all clamoured
To wait and queue in the stall
To watch and to witness
A quite remarkable call.
For the old Birdcage tavern
On that grim cloudy day
Promptly lifted her skirts
And slowly scuttled away.

All the glue and epoxy
And the rivers of nails,
And concrete trucks queuing
As the ******* flails.
And steel by the megaton
All rusted and twitched
And worriers worrying
Till the problems are fixed.
And the augers are drilling
In a great tandem arc
And nobody knows
Where the **** they can park!!!
  
Then the bright sunshine breaks
And the smiles all appear
And the work rate accellerates
For the way is now is clear
To inter that  dear old Vic tunnel
Down deep in the sod
Then you'll hear us all chortle
"We've ****** done it ...Thank God!"


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
3 October 2010

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com


            Tropes, Dopes, Middle-Earth, and Culture Worriers

          I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of
          Aryan extraction: that is Indo-Iranian; as far as I am aware
          none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or
          any related dialects. But if I am to understand that you are
          enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I
          regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.

      -Tolkien, from a letter rebuking a German publisher, 1938


One does not imagine Tolkien schlubbing about
In a garish cartoon tee and baggy shorts
A Glock strapped to his 50-inch waist
Shopping the dollar store in a Trumpy cap

One does not imagine Lewis following QAnon
Encouraging Peter to take an AR to Latin class
Or quartering the Cross of good Saint George
With a *******’s spidering wheel of shame

Not all evil comes from outside the Shire –
Sometimes evil is our own internal desire



On the time J.R.R. Tolkien refused to work with ****-leaning publishers. ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)

Why does Lord of the Rings appeal to the radical right? – The Irish Times

Behind the Catholic Right’s Celebrity-Conversion Industrial Complex | Vanity Fair

Oh
Men lend me your years
You have been trapped
In a world
Where
Fantasy
Rules everything
Religion, culture
Have been neglected
Due to
Infection of others
Forgiveness
Is forgotten
Inculcating
Hatred and jealousy
Humanity’s
Being forgotten
Due to
Cruelty and selfishness
Demanding
Warring and soldiering
Than
Peace and harmony
Making the land
A land of worriers

-The Daily News

Before the opening of the sky where three men sat
asking questions why,
of where the King of men would sit among the shepherds who could pit their wits against the wolves and worriers of sheep.

Asleep and yet in sleep I woke before the Oldest Magi spoke and talked to me in parables, as if I understood the riddles,being middle aged and hard of hearing.

In the clearing by the burning bush as hushed crowds looked on,with fish and bread and baptist John, a Rasta man from Birmingham, stood Salome daring me to take off veils so I could see
her nakedness and blood that dripped black off her hands,
These Holy lands,
this righteous band,these writers of a history that we delivered to the three.a triumphant trilogy that we become before the opening of another sky,another sun that burned names deeply on a cross of wood
and beggars in the hallways full of Baptist John,who with no head or eyes,could not imagine what was going on
but ripped out messages from the scriptures to paint pictures that he'd never see,while Salome intercoursed with Roman scribes and perfumed men and if to be as if she could,
When her name was carved into the wood,  as if another cross to bear would do more good and her screaming could be heard in prophecies by Galilee,as people gathered on street corners,to hear what they could never see and not believe,
and lepers grieved by river banks,their thanks and blessings washed away,their only ray of hope
hung out to dry
as three wise men sat and wondered why, the world moved on
Forgotten is The Baptist John,another prophet dead and gone and are we any better off for all of that?

I put a penny in the hat that's passed around to keep the upkeep of some distant consecrated piece of ground I'll never see
but hedging bets is what we do,
and make lamb stew
because we're all wolves with appetites to match.
I ****** another bleating sheep
and keep my thoughts
silently
stewing.

Sometimes, when bad thoughts plauge my mind at night
I shake my head
in a rapid succession of movement
my attempts to empty the excess

Every night of my childhood
I made a Vegas worthy deal with my father
He took my worries at night
and I took his

He claimed us the biggest worriers on the earth
Dubbed me queen of the Worry Wells before
carefully placing a kiss on my forehead

You see, forehead kisses
were my fathers attempt
to **** out the unseen youthful damage
of a brain constantly panicked with worry

Every night of my childhood
my father left me with his suitcase of fears

I was always too worried to open it

For the group that is notoriously almost synonymous with
lost or troubled.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.

For my friends who can’t seem to speak with
eloquence,
yet pour out their soul on paper,
who spell out their heart in ink.

For anyone who uses a pen as their medium
and words as their art form.
For those whose blood turns to ink
or words on a bright screen piercing through the dark.

For those whose eyes glaze over as their minds furiously enact a story
or piece together just the right phrasing.

For those that are only okay and constantly exhausted.
For those that mutter, “I don’t think I can,”
or “I’m just tired.”
For those with a firm grip on insanity and caffeine.
For those who make plans but rarely follow through.

For those who too often hear,
“Stop worrying,”
“It’ll be okay,”
and “I don’t know how to help.”
Or “You have to let it go,”
“Just go with it,”
and “It doesn’t matter.”

For those with tired eyes, blank faces, and rare, genuine smiles.
For frazzled insomniacs or narcoleptics.
For those who laugh too loud but often stay silent.

For those huddled in blankets in bedrooms,
in corners observing the outside world.
For those who love small settings
and avoid large gatherings like the plague.

For the worriers and the wanderers seeking to find themselves
in a perfect combination
of letters.

For the groups that seem to go together
like a typewriter and frustration;
or a pen and paper.

For my people-
the poets and the lost.


~SES

There's been nothing to look forward to
The days seem intertwined
My dreams have become diluted
Stuck in the perils of my mind

I'll sleep the day away
Stay wide awake throughout the nights
The darkness hides the pain I'm in
And any remanence of my plight

What's out there lurking in the shadows
With the stars my only light
I stare into the emptiness
Weighing wrong from right

Questioning my role on earth
And which fire to ignite
To set in motion my devotion
And launch my rocket into flight  

I am merely a speck of dust
In the grand scale of our 'verse
Our existence just an afterthought
That mother earths' disbursed

Sitting, waiting, watching days go by
The outcome looming large
An inevitable grave tragedy
As tears fall from loved ones eyes

I chuckle at the thought of legacy
For the future passers by
What a twisted complexity
This fragile thing that we call life.

The hustle and the bustle
The ladders we must climb
To reach the top, the utmost peek
Why even waste the time?

Where is the silver lining?
What mysteries left to find?
What discovery of all discoveries
Can amend this somber paradigm?

Love you say!?
I hasten to agree
How does that explain my disdain
For the person that is me

I, of good heart and soul
And adored by a grand descent
Still have yet to wet my whistle
By way of the clouds above my head

I feel I must confess my passion
To set the worriers at ease
Not for the sake of saying so
Nor for the galleries esteem

But for self and perseverance
The underlining good
So what, pray tell do you say?
It is that of motherhood

The nature of its being
The uniqueness and individuality
Of every single human being

And love, in this pretext
Is a love that I can bare
That of every living thing
In to which nothing can compare

A metamorphosis of thought!
For you and I alike
The yin and yang unearthed
The meaning of life.

Tired of time
   Tools and
      ticks,
Zipping up the
   perished cracks of
   heads
          distracted;
Maybe gone for good.
   The arms of our clock
       keep racing
      
           Hurried,
Hurried,
      Hushful
         Scurrying
            Worriers
Come on,
I want to hear
     the last word
       of a confident poet.

I cross the bridge to nowhere, in the cold, in my underwear
Intense winds push me to edges, where I contemplate ledges
Looking down, spirits swim and stare; icy waters are their lair
I levitate and meditate; medicate with mental dredges
Such mundane nonchalance; my bridge leads to idiot savants

I would be crowned their King, kindred soul of unsound meditations
We've left our lost souls unburied, unhurried to right the carriage
Take a deep breath of the ether of dregs and suppurations
Take the one whom you love, not in marriage, in *******
On the bridge, I pass a young ponce and hear echoes of "Bon Chance!"

Purple rags greet me at the gate, royal flags of highest distinction
Winking my eye, scratching my head, the dead are now forgotten
Deep in my pit, so deep I forget, a pang of extinction
In my palace of darkness, no light will shine on the rotten
In the court of fools, coarse avowals can't be washed by the fonts

So lines are drawn by idiot courtiers and indigent warriors
Cities with no regret or sorrow, tomorrow trampled to tatters
Through smoke and burnt flesh we *****, we hope to soothe the worriers
We are all Babylonians, babbling on as if nothing matters
The bridges to nowhere we cross, we cross bridges to Babylons

this is a poem for the warriors
and for the worriers.
for the children whose eyes have grown so big
they cover their mouths.
"children should be seen; not heard."
children should open their hearts;
their minds.
they should follow their dreams
and whey they are asked: what do you want to be?
they should know
that in this world, there is not one thing
they cannot do.
it's time we raise kings, and queens,
poets,
lovers,
dreamers.
it's time we teach them
that when they run away,
the fastest way to chase their dreams
is to take the train into downtown tomorrow
for there lies a world of possibility
and promises.

this is a poem for the kids
who flew too close to the stars
and were left with scars
across their cheeks.
for the teenagers who are lost
inside their own minds
and their stories that are lost
on the tips of their fingers.
this is for the wanderlust
and the starry eyed.
for the boys who have fallen too hard
for a girl who was never strong enough to catch him.
and for the girl
who is too afraid to say goodnight to the moon.

this is the time
to throw your heart on the line
and blow caution to the wind
with the seeds of a dandelion.
this is the time
to forget the nights that sing "maybe tomorrow"
and jump on a train with a one-way ticket
to a world of your forgotten promises
and know that when you hop off
tomorrow will be today
and today is the rest of your life.

Can you see how much
we need each other?!

All this “I am a rock
I am an island”
solipsistic claptrap
exposed
cos we need Joan and John
at the supermarket
and the folks at A&E
and the techies
streaming lifelines
while we figure how to be

Now, behind our keyboards
we might not be warriors,
but worriers who realise
how close we are to crashing

and yeah, some **** cash in
but let’s not forget
so when the panic lifts
we figure novel penance
and say our goodbyes

So hugs are currently virtual,
but our care for once
is real

Maybe that’s the virus deal

Maybe we’re done with
u ok ***?
so when we re-emerge
we can see clearly
**** sapiens
are one species
and switch on to each other,
sisters and brothers alike

Being nice is for life

Oh how far my eyes can see,
moonlight and stars after sunset,
Oh but, how blind I've been,
to see this world as happy.

With every mind introduced,
every being I meet,
all the stories they have told,
and all the pain that they share.

Every smile and wave,
from the people in the street,
all wane when out of sight,
because all hide discontentment.

Happiness is not a state of mind,
it's a drug freely given when conditions are right,
it's a chemical so organic and pure,
and in such short supply.

We are worriers,
we are prey,
we are victim.

We did not come to exist in a happy world,
we were born from one of hunger,
where hunters stalked the night,
where big cats and wild dogs took us if we grew weak.

Without disease, war and famine,
what else do we have to fear.

Adrenaline pumps,
endorphins race across chasms,
its not cynicism, its synaptic.

In a world free from outside forces we grow to fear whats inside,
depression is not new, it is vital,
we evolved to be scared,
but we have nothing left to be scared of,
so we fear our own humanity,
because it's all that's left.

To the east paves insurmountable demons
To the west leads on to inevitable legends
To the right bows the fierceful battles
To the left lies the darkest lands
Roosters crying , ghosts staring
Lava erupting, devils bursting
No bridges, no aids
No ridges, no helping hands
From east to west
Right or left
A miserable life
On a barren tract
And there exits and entrances
Of worriers and warriors
There lies guesses and chances
And both tigers and terrors
Oh Sis! Now you sign an accord
Of success or failures
Cause the time has come
Blow out the unrecognized potential
Step in a world
Where you're the lord
And you're the only angel
.......Gosh! A havoc foot is itching
To flunk you down
But you're a warrior enough
Dump it out of your town
There..just 2 steps more
Your success with an overwhelming tribute
Just 2 steps more..

There are worriers in their homes
Singing praise to the most high
As the sun rises
Sending notes as offering to the sky
Starting from the dark untill the light
Leaving their enemies out to dry
In a small corner
Away from prying eyes
In the silent night
Louder their outcry