It’s a day on the calendar. That’s all it means To someone who has no home and nowhere to go. And it means nothing also to someone like me Whose contempt for most humans sometimes one can see. It’s a day for a break from the bountiful flow Of societal cues that have made us machines.
It’s a day to be thankful. That much I’ll admit. Yet, that is true for every day that I exist. It’s peculiar to put aside one day a year For engaging in thankfulness, some out of fear That if they don’t partake, they will hardly be missed. Among culture and family, one must commit.
I am thankful that God has shown me a new day Full of wonder, excitement and joy unsurpassed. I’d be thankful too, had I not lived through the night. There’s a time for my leaving this world and its plight. I am thankful my time here is not meant to last. Have a blessed Thanksgiving, my heart does obey.
It’s been dry here for ages. The land is so parched. And the trees are all wilting. The grass has turned gray. That is what I don’t want. That is all clear to see. Why I do want the rain is much clearer to me. As I separate out my desire in this way, To the tune of alignment my soul will have marched.
Why I do want the rain is because it does good To all that which it drenches in lavish supply. It does soak the ground well and makes healthy the soil. If I think in the negative, I’m sure to spoil Any chance of it raining for me lest I try A divining type stick made of magical wood.
I can’t talk about how bad the drought is today Then expect that some rain will come. That makes no sense. I must accept the day, though it’s hot as can be And stay focused on gratitude most heartfully. I will gather momentum considered immense. Then, I am the rainmaker who cherishes play.
“Have Engine – Will Poet” shall be my motto. When it comes right down to it, it’s one with some tread. As I travel this highway, my ride must be smooth. When my word road is bumpy, how can my work soothe? I require Full License in trust that I’m read Like a bird at its leisure with some place to go.
I’ve a License Poetic to prove I may drive My machine in whatever way I judge to be Beneficial in getting up just enough speed But not so much that reading becomes a hard deed. I am easy to read, and I cruise radar free. Way ahead of departure, I’m good to arrive.
There’s no Highway Patrol for the poet in me. They say it’s not my day job. I’m too small a fish. I have not earned my letters for poetic arts. Thus, I don’t have the right to endear people’s hearts. So, I’m wild on my highway. I do as I wish. I can poet my ass off and do it with glee.
Have I spent enough time with my sick self today? Seems I’ve used a reserved word from DSM twelve. Some will tell me I’m sick by the things that I write. They’ve a right to be right. I will give them no fight. I shall keep on creating. My true heart will delve Into all that I must be. I’m structured that way.
There’s a time for believing I’m worth every bit Of the life force and consciousness focused through me. That time is, as always, always, and I’m sure That if I took the time to make sure I’m secure I would freefall through life like the leaf from the tree. Life’s momentum is fated so I cannot quit.
Yes, I spent time with self today, searching my soul Not for reason of purpose or conscience remorse But for meaning in how I relate to this day. Did I learn anything new and have fun at play? That is nobody’s business except mine, of course. Yet my sharing it with you is part of my goal.
I’m one cat who is lovesick. My heart is in tune Well to your heart’s desires, whatever they be. Though I sing like a sick wheel and play pretty bad I am having the best time that I’ve ever had Pouring my heart before you and for all to see That I am at my best when I’m touched by the moon.
I’m in love with my loving. Not so much with you Though you happen to be at my center of gaze. I’m in love with my living and being carefree. There’s one purpose to living, and that is to be. Then whatever ensues will enlighten my days. I can share that with you but I can’t say, “I do.”
There are no strings attached to our living the bliss Of communing in harmony throughout our years. I do like you somewhat. Let’s just see how it plays. What will come of our joining, our hearts will appraise. May we forge our way forward and conquer our fears. We’ll begin such a journey upon our first kiss.
Early Christians torched lambs as a sign of respect. None was meant for the lamb, though. It was God’s alone. We’ve since ceased burning creatures we’ve butchered at stake. We have stopped killing witches because of that snake. There are numerous habits that we have outgrown. It makes sense that we’ve done so. Our path is correct.
We are creatures of customs and quaint ritual. I remember the frankincense when I was young. And the Mass sung in Latin was such an affair. It was all very mystical. None can compare To a High Mass where congregants feel they’re among Heaven’s angels and all known as spiritual.
Earth is Spirit As Well as the angels who dwell In that other world where we’ll return to someday. All things are of spirit. There’s nothing that’s not. There’s no call for my feeling that I don’t have squat. I have spirit to play with and put on display. I take notice that I’m a well-fed infidel.
There are two or more gathered. It could be in grace Or in consort with cunning in weaving a spell. Many people united can become perplexed With that ‘chicken or egg’ thing and which will come next. That lame argument is a façade with a smell. It was implemented to keep fools in their place.
People are much like chickens. We scratch and we peck At that which is below us, as we judge it so. As we gather together, we make such a fuss Over just about anything meaningless, thus Most the worms we’re consuming will not make us grow. Social clusters are often a pain in the neck.
I am not xenophobic. I cuck with a few Of my species because alone I’d not survive. Each one pecks in one’s own way. There’s no reason why One should peck like another. No rules here apply Except those of the cosmos wherein we may thrive As we had well intended when we were brand new.
Dear Diary, what a long day it has been. I spent time with some children, but that part was short. Since I’m older, I take social duties to heart Although, what I would teach kids is how to take part In their own self-becoming. I’d fully support What their true hearts desire again and again.
It’s adults who are headaches. Our spirits are dull When it comes to most anything. What can we teach To the little ones who are much closer to truth? We could turn off the bible and study our youth For a little while until we are what we preach. Life is not my migraine. It’s a point to the skull.
It’s been all about finding some honor today. And that seems somewhat meaningless even to me As this long day recesses. I am an adult. I behave like a child. That is not an insult. Most adults I know couldn’t hold shit to a tree. What I learn most from most children is how to play.
Who enjoys a good puzzle? I think we all do. It is good therapy for the indigent mind. I don’t make life a riddle. It is on its own. I can complicate matters, but what I am shown Is a whole world of images, some ill-defined, But all reflecting all that reflects all that’s true.
There is manifold evidence life is a bore If I trick myself into believing it’s true. I could turn on devices and get them to share What we most have in common that we can compare. But devices turn off just like real people do. Life’s a game and a puzzle obsessed with a score.
I can’t stimulate others to what rings my bell. That’s a matter of free will I’m doomed to respect. If this world knew about me, you’d be in my case. You would find somethings on me to cause me disgrace. My most valued reflections of life are suspect To the mirrors of scrutiny I know too well.
One can speak kinds of nasty by number or face Or by what makes the innards convulse for a blast. One can sit side by side on the toilet with friends Who, of like mind, are never caught wearing ‘depends.’ Stoolers would be for seniors who tend to outlast Most their body parts, as if they’ve won a lost race.
I’d hang out at a Stoolers with those of my kind Just to get a good dump on, and speak of it some. There are those who would listen and tell me their tales Of their challenges where constipation prevails… Either that or of issues that make the mind numb. Social Shitting, at present, may be hard to find.
I’m a stay-at-home shitter by nature, I guess. Would I mind sharing details of intimacy Among people who are always glad that I came? I’d not mind crapping with them, but don’t know my name. I’m for Stoolers, and some old folks might well agree That a place for group crapping would mitigate stress.
Poles unlike can repel as this picture will tell: One kind heart made for loving; one mean one for war. We behave on all spectrums we feel may make sense. Our magnetic reactions are our chief defense. We are bipolar creatures who strive to be more Than our natures can handle at times, but we’re well.
Are we well on our way to whoever we are Without knowing the heart’s place in living life well? The invisible flux lines we claim as our force Can bring us true alignment or steer us off course. At the seam of life’s structure is where I can dwell… Where extremes in my makeup are never too far.
Unlike poles do attract, as a matter of fact. My perceptive comparisons are just a way To make sense of the magnetic soup I swim in. Although noble a task, the task is to begin Living life to its fullest with focus on play. It’s a whole different thing, though, when like poles attract.
Though it’s e before i when i comes before r And between d and w, weirdness can be Found in any arrangement of words as they’re played. Broken down into letters, our words seem to aid In describing what’s otherwise quite hard to see. Making magic of words is my best game by far.
With perceptions approximate, how can one know Without language how closely we get to what’s real? We don’t grunt at each other as matter of course. We can talk our way through things without using force. But, too often, we lose track of how people feel. Words may offer to us a firm platform to grow.
My dear friend, the Weirdwordnick and I are a team. We together bend logic as far as we can. I look after my letter tree. He makes the words And makes sure that our letters aren’t eaten by birds. He comes up with some weird ones but not weirder than Ones that I care to give him, sometimes in a stream.
How this past year has been can be put into words: Yellow buttery bleak and red necks gone ablaze. Some who thought we’d get better still think that we are. Yet, we’ve got something bitter. That’s swamp change by far! Through commanding by Twitter, we’ve entered a phase Where the media lead us like innocent herds.
“I just cannot believe it’s not better by now,” Say the ones who had trumpeted triumph in hope That the swamp would come clean again, like long ago, And that coal mines will flourish. Great pride we will show To the world’s many nations whose leaders don’t grope. Things are still pretty cheesy, but not from a cow.
Things are better for me, but no credit goes to Anyone who holds office and squirts on its walls. I am better because my true self lets me know. As I keep on improving my mood, I’ll outgrow My propensity to grab the bull by the balls. I can churn my own butter well, as many do.
A gigantic turntable exists in the sky. It is called the ecliptic. It is the sun’s path That outlines its circumference in such a way That it marks off twelve slices in polar array. It becomes not a hard task to learn all the math That is needed to figure out where planets lie.
Seems it is both or neither a science nor art Though its practice dates back to the dawning of time. Those who think it is folly are set in their ways. With the scientist’s method, sometimes progress stays On the cusp of discovery, stuck in mid climb. Yet the mind and the heart are not lightyears apart.
The Celestial Susan is put into place As a piece of a clockwork in sync with the ways Of behaviors of people according to when And where time introduced them to this life again. Our precise correlations can awe and amaze. We are live on a turntable nestled in space.
Gosh – Darn it! This clump of clay turned out a mess. I have done nothing with it yet, but just the same I can’t put my hands in it. They might well get stuck. Then I’d have to do something with it. I’d have luck If it turned out to be something that brought me fame. But I’m too damned afraid to go through the process.
When I first plop my clay down with audible splat Should I stand back and judge how my work has turned out? I think not. That’s the easiest way to give in To the notion that I don’t know where to begin. I shall get my hands dirty. That’s all it’s about. I can’t call this a work of art yet. It’s not that.
I can mold this dense clay of my life as it spins On its axis completely through touch of my hand. If my hand becomes idle, my fine work may fall. Yet, that’s never a tragedy. And, above all, It’s no reason for hanging my head in the sand. When I mold my own clay of life, everyone wins.
Can my now take on substance and gather some moss As it rolls onward free of no will of its own? As I speak the word ‘now,’ am I speaking what’s true? Because as I speak nowness, each now become new. Can I pinpoint this now moment that can be known By my feeling it only? I am at no loss.
The tall peak of my now is the top of a wave With some level of low grass delighting my base. Right on top of the peak is the surfer I know Who can balance upon now and ride with the flow Of the now that seems ever to stay in one place. Every moment one savors is easy to save.
My best now begins not as I warm up the scope Of the mind with controls that can sharpen the view Of the signal that lets me know I am still here. That the signal is present, my vision is clear. I can ride this great pulse of life all the way through. Where my soul is well centered, there’s no need for hope.
It’s a Flaming Petutia. Minutia fulfills All desires the human mind idle can bare. Though the fragrance is earthy, true colors do bloom As a function of how much the mind will consume With the purpose of sorting out what one can share With some others in hopes it may trigger some thrills.
The Petutia, a sphincter with petals unique, Can release, as it opens, what lies under foot. It is not to be looked at. It’s grosser than hell! There’s no flower quite like it. How does it compel One to while away blissful with feelings well put In a fine floating boat that is headed down creek?
It is done by my knowing the world makes no sense Except for the ones who have found a good space In a field gone prolific in manifold smell. I partake in whatever will ring my heart’s bell And will make life a fresh one immune to disgrace Every moment, in light of no need for defense.
It’s no fun! I am done with my didgeridoo. It turns out it’s a nightmare carved from a tree branch. Though there are those who play it and do it quite well I do better with gut gas. All nearby can tell. Both our blowing could trigger a fine avalanche In a world where such things can come out of the blue.
I’ve a didgeridoo as a gift from a friend. He is not from down under but from across town. Might he have some agreement with them on the side? Does he think I might learn how to play once I’ve tried? Well, I’ve tried it enough times to put the thing down. There’s just too much hard work and ill will to transcend.
So, I’m Didgeri Donewith. I did what I did Thinking I’d have the patience to do as those do Who have talent for getting good sound to come out Of a tube wholly hollow. I’m left with no doubt That my lungs need no workout. My didgeridoo Done did all that it needs to. It now will be hid.
It’s a fact we spend much of our time in some queue. Though we seem to be busy, we’re standing in line. It is so unproductive to waste so much time While we’re being held captive. No moment is prime When there’s no movement forward – no sense of a sign That my prison will free me for more things to do.
Does it seem to be moving? I can’t really tell. The Illusion of movement can play with the mind. Where in the world else but in non-moving lines Can the mind shut down gracefully as it resigns Itself to the reality that I’m confined In a life situation a half tier from hell?
Like most relics, lines have evolved at a slow rate Notwithstanding their increasing length over time. We are Stonehenge-like creatures when frozen in place. When I’m loose in a mindscape, I feel no disgrace. I should zone out as my time seems not worth a dime. Life is much more worth living than having to wait.
Bring that water to boil one degree at a time Over centuries. That ought to get me to cook. I am fat, dumb and happy, but I tend to squeal When I feel I’m not getting a fair and square deal. You, the chef, satisfy me. I won’t take a look At what’s happening to me. I’m feeling sublime.
Love the pills that you’re giving me? Maybe you should. They are ripping my cells apart. My mind as well. And they’re making you rich beyond anyone’s dreams. I’m a pig in a blanket of filth, so it seems. We, the three hundred million-fold, can’t seem to tell If we’re being well-porked and if that’s to our good.
Does my better self-see things the way that I do? Surely Not! It’s a view that it knows has no truth. So, it’s up to my lesser self to find a way To find positive aspects to brighten my day. I prefer to be self-controlled and in my youth. Although life can affect me, I’m not in its stew.
Mother Earth’s skin is gorgeous. She cares for it well. She does not use cosmetics, cold creams or the like. But she’s beautiful as people see her from space. She’s a greenish blue marble with such a clear face. And she does what she needs to do, should disease strike. She can get people moving like bats out of hell.
We The People are ones who infect her fine skin And cause blisters and blemishes through disregard For her womanhood. We treat her like an old bitch. Yet we’re willing to rape her so some may get rich. When her face gets too dirty and too deeply scarred She will wipe herself clean so new life can begin.
The Earth’s skin is an organ – the largest of all. That’s in terms of her surface where all life takes place. As we help care for her skin as we do our own She may see us as not a disease overgrown. All the damage done to her, she well can erase. She’ll get rid of us too, and it seems it’s her call.
My life path doesn’t run me nor walk me at all. It is not like a treadmill where I can pass by The same scenery, never to see something new… Where the mind needs fine earbuds to see the path through. Life is not like a chore I must do or I’ll die. It’s the way that I walk or run, and sometimes crawl.
Sometimes things on my path seem to follow along Like lost puppies, or butterflies or disturbed bees. They are just on my path. I could leave them behind. They will not come around again if I’m inclined To look forward and outward with care to the breeze. That’s a path I can follow. That’s where I belong.
When my life is a treadmill, it just does not work, Though there’s plenty of effort and movement and sweat And the heart and lungs pump like there’s no end in sight. But that doesn’t quite get it. I’m nowhere despite All the hard work I’m doing, though I don’t regret Inner growth as a byproduct and a nice perk.
It’s a parallel gaming. There’s shit going on That we can’t know enough about. There’s just too much. Airplanes going through buildings cannot make them fall. As you watch it again, demolition is all That is clear in the mind. We are eager to clutch Onto whatever game plan is meant for the pawn.
Yes, there is some world order that is being planned But it’s been going on since the Church game board came. There are steep hierarchical ladders and chutes Woven into life’s fabric and up through our roots. Games we think we are playing are not quite the same As that of the few ones with the world underhand.
We could just mind our own business. Maybe that way We’d disrupt the game process by not feeding hype. The news media, big pharma, ‘organized’ crime And so many more game boards will wither with time. These are times that are turbulent and fully ripe For an ultimate game playing toward our doomsday.
A time bomb is not something that’s already made. It takes years to develop one effectively. Like the one that goes ‘cuckoo’, this time bomb will tell Anyone within earshot that he is not well. With his symptoms ignored, he goes on a blood spree. In his heart, he believes life is viciously played.
Now, this is a fine time bomb; we all can agree. It’s not hard to construct one. It does take some time And some diligence at making him feel depraved Of all semblance of worthiness dreamt of or craved. Our society makes them, and it’s not a crime. When backed into life’s corner, how can one feel free?
Making time bombs of people is such a fine art. It requires a knack for discrete social cues And a cool, subtle disregard toward those not cool. Don’t let any guilt get involved. Don’t be a fool. It’s a shame that we know not when he’ll light his fuse. It’s the products we nurture that blow us apart.
There’s a reason I didn’t start speaking ‘til four, As my family began to think something was wrong. I just needed more time. Language didn’t seem quite Like something to take lightly. That didn’t seem right. I was rushed into speaking so I’d get along With society’s programs and culture and more.
Perhaps I took enough time to learn language well Long before I would stutter and make some mistakes. My perfectionist attitude slowed down my pace. Had I known living life well amounts to a race I would not have been tricked into playing high stakes In a game I know nothing of. I am in hell!
I would want future poets to see I made sense On some level, despite my most retrograde mind. Have your way with my style and do call it your own. Do Not tell them it’s mine because my life is blown. Anything attached to my name is ill-assigned. Make a carcass of my work and at my expense.
I attract what comes to me – no doubt about that. When I find myself frazzled by what’s in my way, I do tend to go off. I’ve been known to get riled When I feel that my honor is being defiled By someone with control issues and much to say – Not with words but with attitude like a bobcat.
Tough black cats at the drive thru is what I will get When I doubt what my better self knows fully well. That is: No one can damage my ‘honor’ but me. What goes on in the real world is not mine to see. I can get through this fine day without letting hell Have her pleasure at my expense and much regret.
Self-control is a skill to be practiced and honed And this world does provide opportunities great. I can move most my muscles; that much is for sure. I command subtle energies never obscure To my worthiness as well as those whom I hate. My distaste for the drive thru is hereby postponed.
Well, of course I am right, you malignant disgrace To my intellect! Why would you think I am wrong? I am right about many things. You are as well. Why is it when I speak it becomes a hard sell? Shall I submit to feeling like I don’t belong To the rest of this universe in the first place?
Yes, I’m right about things. I am wrong sometimes too. There’s a sameness among us all. Why am I cast In a world outside yours. Don’t you know that’s not right? That’s why people go ape shit and get so uptight. If you want your ephemeral friendships to last Then respect what folks have to say as they would you.
People’s rightness or wrongness can be loosely based On one’s subconscious preferences that cloud the mind With fallacious assumptions and fractured impressions. If we dislike someone we give subtle expressions Of disgust and judgement that aren’t very kind. One’s contempt for dishonor seems never misplaced.
Mrs. Twidglene McSmidgen is of the old school Where control in the classroom is gained by brute force. She could not have grown old watching Sesame Street. She is like Foghorn Leghorn and doomed to defeat. She can not swat the tots and then stutter, of course. She would love to use some kind of ‘discipline tool.’
But the ‘tools’ today are much like bargaining chips. And her chips are down usually by display. She can’t muster the will to negotiate with Such inferior beings. To her, it’s a myth That the little ones might become people someday. It seems teachers and tyrants are joined at the hips.
Many teachers are parents, so they have some clue As to what makes most little ones act out in ways That are deemed not appropriate and impolite. And they do have some sense of what’s wrong and what’s right. They are people with voices. Their minds aren’t a maze Nor a puzzle with which we know not what to do.
I have digital ties, and much to my surprise I’ve no need to make contact in any real way With the people in my life and throughout the earth. I’ve been trick-fucked by fellowship ever since birth. I have God on my Facebook wall. That’s how I pray. I have no need for sense. Social discourse is wise.
Although digital ties may lead to my demise I just can’t do without them. They’re part of my act. My whole friendship endeavor is too loosely based On how many ‘page views’ and ‘likes’ that have replaced My own sense of self-worth. I spit out the harsh fact That would have me believe I’m a fool in disguise.
My damned digital ties may in time make me wise To the bullshit behind all the ‘thumbs up’ I chase. If I can’t find fulfillment within my own soul I have no sense of value – no means of control. I’ll continue to live life, yet fully embrace Social Media’s squalor and all it implies.
As most archetypes merge and evolve into more Well-submerged in subconsciousness, earth drives the soul Toward fulfilling its haughty desires unscathed Until true life departs oneself. Then one is bathed In a fog unbecoming a person who’s whole. Even though one is chawless, there’s much to adore.
I know nothing of chaw. I am in no debate. But by rogue curiosity I can possess Some faint insight benevolent to the chaw heart. Chaw is nasty to me. We are lightyears apart. I can see people packing it when under stress. When they’re chawless, they enter a psychotic state.
I’ve respect for the chawless and chawfull as well. Rather than keeping tongue in cheek, they keep a ball Of the foulest, most fecal of substances made. Yet, it’s not by my scale that another is weighed. Whence a chawpauper’s chance could be measured as small It’s the breath that might kill you because of the smell.
I’ve stocked up on B’Jesus. I keep tons on hand. I am sometimes scared out of it due to my not Having faith in my knowing that harm can’t occur In my life unless I turn my cheek, as it were, From the wellbeing present. In fact, there’s a lot Of ways to keep B’Jesus intact as I’d planned.
If B’Jesus were marketed in such a way That it wouldn’t wreak havoc within the mass soul, Then maybe all God’s people would trade fear for love. That would be kind of boring for souls up above. They would rather we kick back and watch super bowl. With B’Jesus so volatile, keep lots and pray.
My B’Jesus supply is my ticket to health In a way that no doctor in my life could be. All B’Jesus is warehoused and shipped from the place Deep within self and to self in radiant grace. Any feces that’s fan-borne can’t terrify me. So, in terms of B’Jesus, I wallow in wealth.
These darned kids, nowadays, must have Soap On The Brain. It’s that newfangled illness that’s talked about much. No one knows where it came from. Perhaps it’s from soap. They are clearly too full of themselves. I can’t cope With these youngsters who sound off to adults and such. Is their purpose for living to drive us insane?
Yes, it’s Soap On The Brain Syndrome without a doubt. There’ve been studies on soap suds of various kinds. One would think they’d all brainwash to make the kid good But they do just the opposite of what they should. One good reason for pills is to shut down their minds So that they are obedient. That’s the best route.
God knows children today are so matter of fact. They will speak their truth loudly so that they are heard. They will take to life, each in extravagant ways And remember a lifetime of wonderful days. Once our need to control them is seen as absurd We will see we’re the ones who should clean up our act.
As the coil whistles wild tunes and rattles the nerve Of what rest of self savors – an ease about flow, The mind could think that wellbeing has a firm grip On the body, or it could go bonkers an trip On just why it seems, all the time, it has to know To what purpose the whistles and rattles might serve.
It’s a coil, after all, in the form of a bowel. I will steer clear of jargon that steers from what’s clear. A tight coil is less spring-like, or more, by the way I devote my attention throughout the long day. If I take notice that no bowel movement is near Then my day is a menace; my language is foul.
Thirty feet of a snake that will never stretch out Nor will never see light of my day from its place Well-concealed in its chamber, content in its ways, I should cease my condemning it and give it praise For the work it does ceaselessly in its embrace Of whatever I put it through without a doubt.
It’s been said truth sounds like hate to those who hate truth. Now, if that ain’t a paradox, send me to school! Does this mean that falsehood sounds like love to the ones Among us who serve mendacity by the tons? That one’s truth is another’s excuse for a duel Is a symptom that manifests from early youth.
I am prone to dig deeper to get to the core Of that which is excitable, pleasant or not. When big planets drop by and move in for a year I could choose to expand my affairs without fear. There are things about passion that scare me a lot. Though I keep on complaining, I do ask for more.
When the elements fire and water touch base The emotions are heated to levels above That which cannot withstand being liquid in form. They expand with a power apart from the norm. We can be broken down to be rebuilt in love. It’s a Jupiter/Scorpio thing taking place.
The Pi-th root of infinity, should it exist As a variable that traverses the mind, Is a root counter rational. And it’s not real. Even though it’s not real math, it does have the feel Of the essence of living among humankind. Within seas of infinities, none are dismissed.
Any root of infinity should be the same As the sum of infinities, meaning, them all. That is, if it could be quantifiable stuff Where one gets to the point where one says, “That’s Enough!” Yet, indeed it’s a concept one couldn’t call small. It does draw the mind close like the moth to the flame.
By the numbers, I number among the ignored. That is nothing to cry about. I will be heard As my meaning has function with my heart and mind. Might that happen this time around? I am resigned To a life of fulfillment transfigured through word. There are worlds of infinities to be explored.
That resistance is much like impedance is what I believe non-hair-splitters believe is absurd. Opposition to current flow through any coil Is not like through resistor where current must toil. Free electrons are volatile – easily stirred Into motion. They book when their path is clear cut.
There’s resistance to life. There’s impedance as well. I’ve both AC and DC afoot through my nerves. When I wish for my dreams to come true, but I doubt, I’ve got AC creating impedance throughout My inductive creativeness. My flow deserves Resonance in its purpose wherein I excel.
I can deal with resistance in life when in tune. I can sense the direction my life force has faced. When I feel heavy heat loss with energy low, I’ve got too much resistance impeding the flow Of the best life that I can live with heart well-placed Within earth’s human circuitry where all commune.
Many landscapes and seascapes avail themselves to Simple pleasures of living that people enjoy. Many lips go for kissing or catching the breeze. There are spaces for tulips along friendly seas. Whether tulips or few lips, each harbor the ploy Of accessing the inner self like an old shoe.
Two lips land locked could be but one half of a quad Where the missing half seems not a task to conceive. Or two lips can be literate, light and at ease With the spirit of nature who’s willing to please. With some tulips between lips some hearts do achieve Some small measure of happiness. Does that seem odd?
It’s the toss of a coin, sometimes, how things evolve. Often life seems a game of chance hostile to will. But it seems, at the same time, that I’m in control Of what happens in my life and with my own soul. That control comes from within – the voice that is still. With a lifetime of life scenes, I’ve nothing to solve.
I do most things online. I get digital sex Through a modem equipped with touching technique That sends chills up my spine when I’m getting things done. When it comes to my laundry, my cycle’s begun. I upload it to DigiClean once every week. It downloads clean and folded, according to specs.
But sometimes I have trouble converting my load To dot lnd format. This causes me stress. I know Customer Service will lend me a hand. They are always so friendly, and they understand That although my ill applet has me in a mess I will soon have clean laundry within my abode.
Often times it’s the codec that culprits my cause. They get changed much too frequently due to the way Bits of data treat fabric, synthetic or real. They know nothing of texture. They can’t up and feel. A fresh codec for cotton does brighten my day. When one does laundry online, one obeys the laws.
“Nuke the HELL out of life, but God, save those stem cells!” If one thinks I’m a nut case, just look where I’m from. I would not call one nigger who’s blacker than me Unless done in endearment most positively. One would think common sense would out weapon the norm. That, it seems, is where I am – between parallels.
We’re a species of contrast all up in the face As the web of technology quickens its crawl. Worldwide media trigger most worldwide events. We’re confounded with coverage at our expense. Hair still stands on my neck when I hear someone’s drawl. I’m a nut case as well as the whole human race!
I can’t fault human nature. I’m one of its kind. What I can do is closely observe what takes place. I’m a student of human behavior. As such I delight in interpreting life very much. And I do that quite well. I can always embrace My well-cultured indifference and firm peace of mind.
Have I been of good service? I’m nervous to know Because I’ve grown so old in a very short time. Have I done unto others what they’ve done for me? Have I taught them – or they, me – a new way to see? Have I wasted my time with my making verse rhyme? Valued Customer, should I remain here or go?
Many crossroads or turning points scatter my way. They reflect my decisions made well in advance Of my birth in the physical realness of earth. Each new vantage point offers one choice of self-worth Or the other one where soothing has not a chance. When I choose incorrectly, do self I betray?
My reflection on earth does not fear to be wrong. It is but a mere image of all I’ve become. I cannot make a bad choice. No end is in sight. Consciousness is eternal. My future is bright. My decisions in life amount to the grand sum Of a soulful surviving. My life force is strong.
There are zillion quadrillions of stars, so they say – All the ones who have counted them one at a time. I believe them. I’ve no call to doubt their fine work. I respect them for work that would drive me berserk. From stardust to star system, each star lives its prime Then returns to its dust state for instant replay.
Now, how many fresh thoughts does one think in a day? It turns out, not so many. Our habits say so. We think thoughts we thought yesterday, most of the time. More than most of those thoughts are not worth a broke dime. We think thousands of thoughts a day, yet we don’t know How to think them effectively, to our dismay.
Every thought ever crafted from day one ‘til now Still exists in the cosmos in its stardust form. When our stardust-like thoughts trigger others the same, A new thought with momentum will burst into flame. Still more thoughts that are like it converge in a storm. We can keep our thoughts bright as far as we allow.
Should I carry my tool in a spare vestibule Under armpit or next to my lower left nut? I could hide one inside my collapsible shoe Then when I click my heels I could put a hole through Any short mother fucker who thinks he knows what Makes him bad enough to take on such a damned fool.
I’ve a right to conceal it – my fearfulness streak. It’s a feeling I’m used to. It makes common sense. Everyone has one’s own set of circumstances Wherein fear reinforces and heightens the chances Some gun will go off in the name of defense. I must conceal my fearfulness or I’ll feel weak.
So, do carry my way. Guns are here to stay. And it’s not like we’re civil. We’re wicked and wild. We’re a cumbersome species who can’t get along. We need plenty of weaponry to make us strong. Guns and gun control can be left up to the child Who would see them as folly and wish them away.
To maintain a wave function, there’s unction involved, Of the kind that is foul like the breath of the bowel. When gratuitous bodily functions persist, Then events that are current should drift off my list Of life scenes I engage with. A healthy avowal Is one I’ll not take lightly if life seems unsolved.
Live does seem rather gross. There is spit in the air. Folks are hocking their guts out for others to see. But it’s just my perception. I see it that way Only if it is helpful in making my day The way I and those like me would like it to be. Were there not others like me, life wouldn’t be fair.
Life’s a function phenomenal – much like a dream Where the mind excretes heavily upon the soul. To endure a wave function would take strength of will. To collapse one effectively, one must have skill. In the grim art of winning at every sought goal, There’s a point where one thinks that one’s will is supreme.
A long series of ups and downs marks this sort trip Through a life that is lived induced into the next. One half cycle is joy, and the other is pain. I experience both to my truest self’s gain. But my true self in spirit can never be vexed As the half cycle negative, true self will flip.
Any life situation I see in some way That is not to my liking – a pain up the path My true self doesn’t go there. That’s why I feel pain. It does see things quite differently, without disdain. As it processes sine waves, the cool aftermath Is full rectification with zero delay.
Life in spirit is positive – nothing but good. It’s our good times – and bad times – that do make it so. I can translate the pain any way that I may. But I know that my true self just knows a great day. Though my negative half cycles hinder my flow I can know they will pass as I will and well should.
Without faith and with shoes on, I walk across time. Half way past holy bullshit, I always find more. From the fake polls that tell me that Clinton should win To the priests who spunk little boys (Ain’t that a sin?), I know faith is a mystery dressed as a whore. It’s complexity makes for a rich paradigm.
I can take what seems solid and firm to the touch As mere referral points that in time will dissolve Into nothingness, just like the space in-between All particulate substances that can’t be seen. God has given each soul its own puzzle to solve. As for seeking consensus – it doesn’t mean much.
Yet, it means much to those who would have me believe There’s a God who’s outside me who’s bigger than mine. We are followers. That’s why we’re tended like sheep. We are strung out for someone’s commandments to keep. Any fool with a message will suit the world fine. Faith is oft’ an elixir to numb the naïve.
One would think I’m a colon or that it is me As I move about backed up with scowl on the brain. If I find myself trapped near the end of my gut, Seems my bowel is an asshole who’s tired of the rut That we both made together while waxing insane. My behavior’s atrocious, as I can well see.
I gave up on the action paths. None will work well. I’ve popped shitters like Skittles and chased them with milk Of magnesia. I’ve tried tons of ex-lax and more. I’m so hell bent on crapping, I’ve got my own store. I would like stuff to flow softly through me like silk. But it seems that my blasted pipes are shot to hell.
On the other hand, though, that may not be quite so. I create my reality whether I’m trapped In a body that feels like it’s felt its last days Or in one that feels wholesome in all natural ways, When I clean my vibration, that bowel will be zapped With a blast of pure energy. This I well know.
I would hippity hem-haw and yippee tie yea If I had but in inkling of what is in store. With my ass in a sling that’s attached to nowhere I’m a fumbling freak phantom no one can compare. I’m a goofball – a catcher’s mitt right to the core. Yet, I’m not in a ballgame. I can’t even play.
Serendipitous circumstance falls upon me In a way that seems clumsy – like part of an act. But no one can screw up quite as well as I can. I am male and I’m hetero. Am I a man? I can’t take people’s judgements as matter of fact. I am here to seek balance. Thank God I can see!
A Fantabulous Fumbling through life like a breeze Through a house of cards ready and willing to be Cast in disarray, yielding to requited bliss, I’m a laughable life. There is naught to remiss. So, perhaps I was born to get others to see Maybe nothing. In such case, I’ve naught to appease.
I am radio active. I am a half-life And a wavelength that’s shorter than my eyes can know. I am half here… half not here for each moment passed. Some converge into now, and I wish those would last. I’m an incomplete being most moments although Every moment’s reception is sharp as a knife.
This is not Dress Rehearsal. I’m rarely on stage And my act is not drama, for that can be judged. I believe in this half-life I live here and now And I chose it wholeheartedly so I’d allow Ample room for becoming. But I haven’t budged Since believing I’m measured by some other’s gauge.
It’s a half-life for me. I won’t get it all done. A complete fully functioning being I’m not. I prepare for the next life. This life is not all Life that I’ll ever live. That would be living small. As my world sees right through me, I could be forgot. I’m at home with my half-life. It’s better than none.
I’ve got too much too chew. It came out of the blue Or oblivious. I don’t know which one it is. Simple greetings befall me as well as small talk. By default I’m committed. There’s no room to balk. I’ve been offered a chewing as well as a quiz Once again I’m amazed by what I’ve stepped into.
This huge bone I’ve accepted seemed small at the start. Or perhaps my small eyes see most anything big. My eyes get me in trouble. My loose tongue as well. I do act on my own and create my own hell. If my eyes could see big things as small as a twig Perhaps then I’d be shielded from hurt to the heart.
I should bite off a large chunk if I think I can Get my jaws wrapped around it not seeming the fool. Yet when I find that I’ve bitten off more than I Could digest in a lifetime, I’m ready to try Anything that might stop my becoming a tool. I can be of good service and still be a man.
It’s a match made in heaven, this cosmos and I. We delight in each other’s benevolent grace. Unbeknownst to no one, I’m engaged to pure fun And my life is worth loving and living ‘til done. There is more time for rhyming with leather and lace. If I could, without wings, I would take off and fly.
If I but allow it, I will feel all the love That flows to me and through me and makes myself whole. When I love myself first, then my cosmos responds Often instantly. This surely strengthens our bonds. Our relationship is such that we are one soul. There is heaven between us as well as above.
My dear universe sees me when I am unseen In my own separation from what it knows well. I am loved by this universe and understood. When I’m out of alignment, my silly thoughts could Cast upon me some cheap psychological spell. My soulmate is the universe with heart serene.