Haystacks of resistance adrift on my bench Like bugs with antennae but nothing more Except sharp colored bands that determine their value. They’d make for cool jewelry, that is if they’d allow you. They can handle most any electronic chore, But they’re scattered all over; my head’s in a clench.
When I got them a year ago, should I have known That these creatures could wonder all over the place? Now I’m finding these buggers concealed in my skivvies. They’re no threat like The Borg, still that gives me the chivvies! Some semblance of order might resolve this case. I must not be disturbed; I must unplug the phone.
My vision for color’s the same as before But sometimes their markings are hard to read There’s a site where I go and just click on the color Of each band, but if they fade and do appear duller I’ll then enter its value and it does its deed. This task will be easy. Satisfaction’s in store!
With meter and test leads poised to my avail I’ll get them all measured and properly labeled. They’ll be easy to store and a pleasure to find, And I’ll no longer have this small mess on my mind. My scattered resistance is no longer tabled My sense of accomplishment’s beyond the pale.
Just a while before Christmas and what’s to be said? Should one write down all matter expelled from one’s head? Not a stocking is hung; there is no chimney here. It’s not really by choice, yet perhaps I don’t care. Christmas time is for sports and for people and stuff. It is not time for assholes who’ve not loved enough. Am I really a loner? Well, let me just check… Some friendlies on Facebook… no hick on my neck. …A few cordial neighbors who smile when I say “Merry Christmas.” If that’s all, it’s better that way. Dope man called me today; hadn’t talked in a while. He was lonely… just wanted to hear a real smile. …A few spicy old boomers who meet for a brawl Most Tuesdays, yet for them, I’m always on call. …And this site that I keep like a mildewed mad hatter May someday reveal what the hell was the matter That nature allowed such a creature as me To express in a way maybe few people see As verse that is worthy of scant inhalation Among those acquainted with thought transmigration. Now, the story told here (There should be one, I know.), Is that of another who lived long ago The son of a duo who knew only good They raised him up rightly as all parents should Yet, much wiser than man, he knew well all along That the kingdom within guides the soul with its song. His humble birth quite embedded in love… His whole life is brilliant with light from above… When caught in dilemma, I’m not proud to pray And don’t care if others don’t see it that way. As for cute Christmas cards and the business and bustle To meet the clock’s tick in the mind like a muscle – I don’t do that no more and I can’t recall last I broke bread with my family for fear of the past Seeping in where it does not or will not feel good So, this cycle, again, I’m a howl in the wood. How would Jesus have acted were he my big brother? What a question to ask! With that said, here’s another: Now seated in glory in heaven above Can he show me the way of unspeakable love In such a way when I sit down to write I take note of this special silent night? I have plenty to speak with no shame in the way. Am I foolish for some of the things that I say? Judge ye not, or be judged, is the way of the Cloth It’s a paradox, though, like a flame to the moth Where in judgment a writer has right to expound On whatever infiltrates and feeds common ground. So, enough of this nonsense; by now I’m quite bored. I know that because I oft’ bore our dear Lord With incessant pleading for help with my writing. His humor and wisdom is ever inviting. This practice is hot chicken soup for the heart As I sit alone, cozy… not really apart From all people worldwide and throughout all dimension, To learn how to love is my greatest intention.
A few days before Christmas and all through my house Tiles are dancing and prancing and acting the fool I’ve been on hold for more than an hour I’m trapped like a madman without any power I’d be much better off with a two-legged stool Or a clock with no hands or a heat seeking mouse
What is up with you folks? I’ve had problems before With your chicken kits packaged and ready to buy I begin to assemble, but to my dismay The giblets are missing; I’ve wasted my day I never could get your damned chickens to fly Even with third party feathers and more
These tiles have gone crazy; they’re out of control Having glued them and laid them precisely on deck Did I sing to them wrong? Did I not wish them merry? Should I call tech support or commit hara-kiri? I’ll stay on the phone with you folks. What the heck? I’m no one to be sacked like a lump of gift coal.
When Hitler was a toddler, did he dream of killing Jews? The question comes from not a child, yet youngster-like in mind. When homeless man locks eyes on me, why does my heart stand still? Is it because my easy life for me lacks strength of will? It seems no life’s a piece of cake. All have sorrow of some kind Whence babies all learned how to crawl to suckle sickled views
A continuous perception we each see as our short lives Attracting what we feel about for better or for worse. If Bin Ladin sits in heaven now, do I pout and throw a fit? Well, if I did I’m certain how my God would look at it. When something comes that you don’t want, put feelings in reverse. A better thinking-feeling mix is how the soul survives.
Forgiving is a human need – not one of deity For in God’s eye no harm was done that needs to be atoned. The ill that I perceive in life is real yet nothing new. For better or for worse, it seems, it’s best to change my view To something else. Indeed, my God has never been dethroned. Allowing is a sacred creed evolved of seity.
There’s earth, of course, and then there’s Source – The battery of terminal good It pulls Its life through us from ground. When once realized then peace is found. Living flows as well it should It runs things well without much force.
Were a cunt-controlled fool to be used like a tool In the way that it happens at Scarlett’s Place, Yet among human being, male-willed in its ways, Would the people of earth yet have seen better days? Women, take back your power! Recover your race! Give us weaker of sexes a sample of cruel.
A bug sucking man-soup pureed through a straw Right soon after mating – no smoke break allowed It’s bad for the babies and you too, perhaps With her own present parceled, she smartly gift wraps For a guest room display to impress any crowd If you slip away safe, you’re the luck of the draw
Some species revel in female control With males kept in check in a pheromone haze Among them there’s order – no big mindless wars No hate for the one just for whom he adores Woman, show our rat minds how to exit the maze Do make of my dickness a scarlet flag pole
Scarlett’s Place is a space for all women disgraced In the heart of humanity’s humbled plight When you see my eye distant erect up the sleeve Take me up for a fucking, then once you conceive You’ve a meal with appeal to the young not in sight As they come of age we are all then replaced
Bless my mouth with a stew of red raspberry goo Wrapped in manna delight straight from heaven’s front door. Ain’t no preachin’ for me lessin it’s ‘bout eatin’. With them crepes on my mind, I ain’t up for no meetin’. My purpose in life is to taste and explore All them fancy concoctions like better folk do.
I’m beholdin’ to berries just like simple birds. The rasper the better; the tarter the taste. Folks is tribal; I’m liable to invite disdain. I keep my dream silent to avoid the pain Of other folks lookin’ and judgin’ in haste. My desire is scripture; its crust are my words.
Folks is raisin’ up Cain? That don’t bother me none. I’m accustomed to tastin’ the salt in the earth. Maybe I ain’t like you. A croissant will not due. My craving erupted not out of the blue. With a raspberry crepe I’m a man of great worth. I’m a crepe rapin’ raspberry scone of a gun!