Tag Archive | poetry

Penis Envy

Cocks Strutting And Roosting

They all wish they had penises and some backbone
Since the time they were babies because they still are.
Between three and six years of emotional age
Is the period once known as the phallic stage.
Full grown men with this deficit aren’t up to par.
Arrogance and brute measures are all they condone.

Handicapped and ill-treated they feel at the loss
Of what most other men have. Someone they must blame
For their manhood arrested. Castration complex
When near powerful ones of the opposite sex
Can afflict them severely. Not knowing of shame,
Anything they will do to get their point across.

The republican party now is a cesspool.
The strong stench of fecality thickens the air
With disgusting male chauvinist racial banter.
Is it now normal that bad behavior occur
Among elected leaders? Should anyone care?
Some have put their blind faith in the closing Old School.

So amazingly blatant, the stereotype
Is grotesquely more obvious than one can take
With a mountain of salt or but one single grain.
While a chunk of our government appears insane,
I have learned to keep cognizant of what’s at stake.
Unevolved masculinity is phallic hype.

The Dunce

The Reflection Of Others' Ignorance

I just don’t understand things the way others do.
Life is so complicated, and technology
Has shot off into hyperspace. And I’m too old
To get up to that speed. I damned sure won’t be told
That my mind is declining, for as you can see,
I’m a masterful wordsmith and skilled poet too.

I ask plenty of questions. I can’t comprehend
People when they start spouting language only known
To those trained in specifics of complex detail
As if I know what they know. Therefore I must fail
To sit still and keep quiet. Though I feel alone,
There exists others like me. I would be their friend.

Once I was at a meeting. The smart people there
Were all tops in their fields. I was there to observe
And take note as the speaker with a PhD
Took offense to my questions. I just couldn’t see
What the hell his point was. I alone had the nerve
To be stupid enough that all were made aware.

At the height of contention, others one by one,
Chose to admit their ignorance as I had done.
The doctor was responsive and altered his tone.
Had I not been the idiot with a backbone,
All the lecturer’s students would have learned but none
Of the content presented. Fear is never fun.

Defeat

Temporary Loss

Don’t undo my undoing or my solitude
Nor aloofness. Dearer are you to me than one
Thousand triumphs and sweeter to my heart than all
The world glory I could have. Do knock down the wall
That protects my protection. Your work can I shun
If it shows me the falsity I have pursued?

Take away my self-knowledge and stark defiance.
Through you I know I’m yet young with swiftness of foot
Not to be trapped by withering laurels. In you
I have found my aloneness and joy overdue
For the scorn followed up with negative input.
If my pride attempts speaking, don’t give it a chance.

Take my sword and my shield. In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be in slavery,
And to be understood is to be leveled down.
I would be but a pauper if I wore a crown.
To be grasped is to reach but the fullness of me
Like a fruit to be eaten. What is there to dread?

Defeat my deathless courage, my bold companion.
You shall hear my song, silences, and feeble cries.
None but you will speak to me of beating of wings,
The urging of the seas, and such meaningful things.
With the storm we’ll both laugh, and what’s in us that dies
We’ll dig graves for them. Then we will stand in the sun.

Speak Your Consciousness

Be Thyself!

Satisfying World Hunger For Truth is at hand
By the shifting of powers to new ways and means
Of achieving more union. Intense is the pain
In the stomach collective after the insane
Inundation of falsehoods. Mendacious machines
In positions of leadership are to be canned.

We learn to keep our mouths shut when we are children
Sensing it may be safer. The fear of offense
Is sufficiently powerful as the censor
Of the truth of the heart that oneself can’t ignore.
I may rest in my silence but at great expense
To my sense of integrity. Weak I am then.

But the times, they be changing to something more real.
It had long been forgotten, but now truth returns.
Open to conversation, ourselves are transformed
In the space of acceptance where all hearts are warmed.
When we speak our true consciousness everyone learns.
Differences among folk we cannot conceal.

What people are responsive to is honesty.
So fed up with the bullshit, enough we have had.

No matter how we’re programmed, we sense energy
And go by our gut feelings. We may not agree,
But we may be moved and enlightened just a tad.
Or beliefs do not matter, we will come to see.

Pain

The Gravitational Inverse Of Pleasure

With my best understanding enclosed in a shell,
My pain is but its breaking. Even as the stone
Of the fruit must break so its heart may see the sun,
It must know pain. This is true of most everyone.
My heart, if kept in wonder by all that I’m shown
By my life’s daily miracles, in joy must dwell.

My pain is no less wonderous than is my joy.
My heart has its own seasons, and I must accept
Them as I do the same passing over my fields.
I embrace barren times as those bringing high yields.
I observe in serenity. No pain is kept
In the unconscious darkness where it may destroy.

Much of my pain is self-chosen. The physician
Within offers the bitter potion that will heal
My sick self through my winters of grief. I must trust
In the good doctor’s wisdom that will readjust.
Though in silent tranquility through my ordeal,
I partake of the remedy as the best plan.

His hand, though hard and heavy, I know beyond doubt,
Is guided by the tender hand of the unseen.
And the cup that he brings, though my lips it will burn,
Has been fashioned from clay. From the potter I learn
That it’s moistened with his sacred tears. My routine
Fluctuates as my mood does, but I’m not freaked out.

Happy With What I Do?

The Vocation of Being

The Workforce with its power is just not enough
To blow past the established wealth of the elite.
It would take innovation that most can’t afford,
So they work jobs that may pay well but leave them bored
To the depths of their souls. This kind of self-defeat
Ruthlessly sucks the life force. Despair cannot bluff.

There are two types of people. One are of a kind
Who feel safe in stability. Conservative,
They prefer stable income and steady workflow.
They are unlike the others whose passion to go
After what they love doing makes them creative
In their ways of risk management and peace of mind.

Judgement is not appropriate to cast upon
Those who find satisfaction in their comfort zone.
Circumstances dictate choices that can be made.
One can be happy in them or maybe afraid
That endured discontent the health cannot condone.
One may fret in seclusion and become withdrawn.

Some must go for the passion in all that they do.
Wasted energy on work that doesn’t feel good
Becomes dense and sclerotic. To be more alive
Is to trust in one’s true worth. The need to survive
Is by infinite intelligence understood.
  When it’s time to move on, always there’s something new.

Is Telepathy Real?

The Unapparent Connection

Self-contained in a ball of bone, Loctite on gears
In the prefrontal cortices of one and all
Keeps the thinking processes inferior to
Those beyond our existence. Yet there are those who
Can with others communicate like a phone call
But with no means apparent, or so it appears.

To believe this is true, one ought not take offense
To the programmed stupidity thoughts have become.
European influence has given too much
Importance to thinking. The true self we won’t touch,
Fearing that to most others we would appear dumb.
The more active the mind, the less there’s common sense.

It blocks communication, the rational mind,
Through the pure nonexistence, with others we know.
Everyone thinks they’re smart, and this gets in the way.
No one dares call me stupid. I’ll fuck with their day!
Yet I must overcome this in order to grow
To a deeper knowing of the state undefined.

Thought, the thin outer layer of something much bigger,
Can be trained to be silent. The innermost core
Connects to the nonphysical which is the lap
Of the whole of existence. We’re able to tap
Into infinite intelligence and much more
Than the mind can imagine. This has to occur.

Otherworldly insights from that which is beyond
May flood into the clockwork of rational thought.
That is its highest function – Be Still And Receive
And send out to all others. I firmly believe
That the time-gravity curve in which we are caught
Provides us means to infinitely correspond.

The Shadow System

Acts Of Invisibility

Ego knows not the shadow. It’s only in dreams
That it may become possible for them to meet.
The shadow is the blind spot that ego can’t see.
Consciousness of darkness is repressed completely.
Psychic mechanisms are difficult to cheat.
Living with someone unknown is just as it seems.

It is called the unconscious. Much trauma lives there
From experiences that come on with a shock
To the nerves of the system. It shapes the posture
Of the general attitude and the nature
Of one’s personal history. Every hard knock
Is absorbed by the shadow so grossly aware.

In the dream state, the shadow can make itself known
Through symbols or through imagery. Symbols can be
Easily deciphered. But the images are
Linked directly to myth which is broader by far.
All the experiences of humanity
Form a grand pool of consciousness science has shown.

The collective unconscious contains the spectrum
Of all human behavior throughout history.
It is through myth and archetypes truth is revealed
In the hope that the hurt of the psyche is healed.
We cannot well interpret what we cannot see.
But we now have clues as to where darkness comes from.

An Old Man’s Advice

Eyes Of Recorded History

Interestingly boring, the wisdom of age,
When one has but the patience to be enlightened
By someone of longevity, is worth the while.
Difficult life has been yet robust is his smile.
To the young of this world what the old recommend
Is to keep forging onward and fully engage.

His firs car was a Model A. Many first things,
Like the mule-driven ice wagon, and the ice man,
And the first jet airplane, all he was witness to.

That the world is against him he knows is not true.
There’s no reason for not being all that one can.
True contentment is what appreciation brings.

Having taught himself to read and write, he went on
To pursue a computer correspondence course.
He started a few businesses and authored some.
Once he lived in an old car. He has overcome
Obstacles to achievement. One need but indorse
One’s belief in oneself – a conclusion foregone.

Forge ahead. Do No Stop. And diminish your fear
To a point imperceptible. Young people are
The backbone of all nations. As future leaders,
Pessimism is useless. As madness occurs
Among those now decrepit, you’re wiser by far.
Be yourselves and take full charge. Your mission is clear.

Illusions Of Survival

Convoluted Conundra

Save the planet? Or screw it? Before we decide
Just a moment of silence everyone should take…
Not the grim kind reserved to honor famous dead,
While programmed thoughts of sorrow run loose in one’s head.
Thoughtlessness of real silence, and not the opaque,
Is reality’s essence and intimate guide.

All manner of illusion confusion does breed.
Is ‘reality’ spiritual or of mass?
Concepts, constructions of words, and complex theories
Are but well-crafted entities of brain feces.
Since it’s not an idea, we reach an impasse
When we try to describe it, so on we proceed.

Living means surviving from pre-birth ‘til the end
Of a process uncertain as time is concerned.
So we need time and ego as well as money.
These three are the most rigidly illusory.
There is no past or future that can be discerned
In the present eternal where one may ascend.

The real self and the ego are never the same
Yet most don’t understand that so cannot believe.
A crude representation of self is ego.
If one values clear thinking, this is good to know.
To let go of all thought about what we perceive
Is to be in the realness that has not a name.

Now is not a clock tick – a specific instant
Where the future turns into the past. Now is more
Than the pop of a cork. It’s the sound of the gong
That awakens and resets all that is made wrong
Through our acts of surviving and our striving for
The true sense of fulfillment that living may grant.

When I Die

At The Point of Return

How can there be an ending? The sun, when it sets,
Will again rise, and swiftly. This world I’ll not miss.
Don’t lament, or feel sorrow, or shed any tears.
Know that I am in joy as your grief disappears.
I’ll have not fallen into a monster’s abyss.
Knowing then love eternal, I’ll have no regrets.

As my carcass is lowered, please don’t say goodbye,
For I won’t be there hanging out. I’ll be set free.
But a curtain is grieving to the paradise
That exists just behind it where being is nice.
Beyond cosmos eternal is where I will be.
There’s no need for a full-scale parade when I die.

From the seed that is buried new life will arise,
Every day and forever. This also is true:
When the bucket is lowered down into the well
It comes back full of water. My wish is to quell
Any feelings of loss to the awfully few
Who may come to become witness to my demise.

Much of this is from Rumi. I messed with it some.
It retains his intent, though. At least I think so.
Seriously, his outlook shows deepness of heart.
My respect is for what his ideas impart
To this poet in training. To others I owe
Gratitude for my content from who much does come.

An Attractive Model

All The Comfort of Style

You add to any showroom your glamorous style.
You know that you’re attractive. Important to you
Is how you look to others. Beauty is success.
It is your full intention to charm and impress
Everyone who’s around you. Intelligent too,
You’re engaged and outspoken yet cool all the while.

You devote all your energies to whatever
Profession you partake of. Your best work allows
You to express yourself and meet people as well.
Fortunate were the times when there was much to sell
‘Till the new route bypassed you. This did not arouse
Any feelings of loss one might think would occur.

Your dear husband, Ramone, is a blessing indeed.
His decision to not ‘touch a classic’ was true
To your intrinsic elegance. Your sassiness,
Though, can detract from better traits that you possess.
Nonetheless, your persona and all that you do
Overall is outstanding. In grace you proceed.

Your magnificent bodywork is but paint deep.
But you know that intuitively, as you are
Capable of compassion and relating to
All your satisfied customers and others who
Have the pleasure of knowing you. You are by far
One who knows what is of value and what is cheap. 

Mountain-Feeling Faith

Deepening The Connection

I have faith to feel mountains. Gladly they consent
To my odd-minded fondling. This isn’t perverse.
I must feel them to move them, and I’m feeling fine.
Others’ looks of disdain are, in essence, benign.
In these times people need to point to someone worse
Than their hated familiar ones. I feel their vent.

It’s a thing to be proud of – to be looked upon,
With no reason apparent, as one who is sick.
There are those who deserve it, yet I am the one
Who, quite near and accessible, they can then shun.
Now that I understand, I’ve devised just the trick
To improve how I serve folk by making them yawn.

I’m remembered as troubled. It’s all that remains.
I have no strong attachments. Acquaintances, though,
Inundate daily living with volatile sense
That some don’t want to know me and do take offense
At their having to see me. The place I should go
Is to that inner mountain where solitude reigns.

There Is much I can move there without the hard climb.
I have faith overwhelming with this new insight.
I’m providing good service to most folk who need
To look down on another. I urge them: Proceed!
People need to have faith that someone who’s not right
Can divert their frustrations in deed anytime.

Pastimes like Mountain Moving are karmic relief.
People know not if God’s presence would attract flies
But perhaps do consider it and stay prepared
With the sharp look of judgment that their hope be spared
That the real source of frustration sees its demise.
In the long run, I’d hope that my service is brief.

Feeling Response

Eyes On The Prized

Being calm and reflective of how life plays out,
There’s a sense that my feelings are not about me
But a world steeped in misery, doom, and despair.
So consumed by the whim of the bull and the bear,
How does making a living with spirit agree?
It’s a Feeling Response that invigorates doubt.

 At this time, opportunity shows a rare face.
Though emotions are swayed I can keep a cool head.
Nature leaves me responsible for what I do
To provide entertainment and maybe a clue
To a world nonexistent. This life I do dread.
Should I speak this too loudly I live in disgrace.

Not so instantly gratified I take the lead
Of a strong inner voice with a message of hope.
Is this all that I need to keep working this way?
Spirit speaks to me clearly. I will have my day.
I do not know how long it will take so I cope
In a fertile aloneness. This way I’ll succeed.

Weeding out my incompetence comes with some ease.
Part of that is my knowing my work will stay here
And dissolve in to nothingness as will my flesh.
Life appears to be destined. This world does enmesh
Every aspect of living in consummate fear
Of not leaving behind something others would seize.

Development Of A Loser

Origin of Enigma

A thought is like four heartbeats abreast on a line.
At least that’s how my loser mind thinks things should be.
Anapestic Tetrameter is what you see.
But alas, folks would swear it’s not coming from me.
And it doesn’t take much for most folks to agree
That if someone else wrote this, then it would be fine.

I do sound like a loser. Self-pity is one
Of my grossest achievements. I can do that well.
What reward do I get from it? All is in vain.
Yet I continue doing it. Am I insane?
We are all of earth’s substance and part of its spell.
Would it please a sore loser if he were outdone?

How do losers begin life? …Perhaps in a shell
Where the world remains outside ‘til it barges in
And disturbs peace contained there because that’s the way…?
Are there too many losers with too much to say?
If you had just ignored my original sin
Perhaps I’d not be sharing your gift of my hell.

The Emperor Has No Tower

Vacated Democracy

Many flags for one’s tower…? Which power has won
By the will of the ill-minded, drunk in their ways?
Are we slaves to white Arabs, Russian oligarchs
Or some other rogue players who swim with the sharks?
As the tower collapses, the world sings in praise.
Soon the sand heap that cripples the flag will be gone.

One can glance at the grossness of that naked hell.
Greasy food, nasty habits and foolish lifestyle
Filter through the flesh fabric and onto the flag
Reconfigured to serve as fine ditty rag…
But won’t take a fake tower. Bereft is his smile
Of a sense of conviction, but with lies to tell.

Is it too damned divisive to do what is right?
We are at civil war now. What time would work well?
…When the emperor completes his sinister plan?
Why let our lives be linked to the likes of Satan?
 These are stupid assed questions. I’m wise to dispel
What may come of that tower. The future seems bright.

Many things have a stupid ass, so it would seem.
Such a worthwhile expression suffices the need
To make sense of a real world become fantasy.
Towers honor the phallus most absolutely.
They won’t stand hard forever nor can they impede
The high tide of refocusing back on the Dream.

The Urinator

Cyborg Infancy

Babies weaponize urine. They aim for the face
So you must don yourself with tough ruggedized steel
Treated with naval jelly to mitigate rust.
Keep your eye on them always. It’s wise to mistrust
Their benign seeming natures. Pure wrath they conceal.
They can piss in a heartbeat and in any place.

Pampers will not contain them. They’ll rip them right off
And then sling the wet missile at something worthwhile
Like a lamp or a knickknack or one of your pets.
Pampers should come with padlocks to quell our regrets.
They will piss in your porridge, then look up and smile.
People do need to touch them. At that I would scoff.

Robo babies are rugged and pee like it’s fun.
There’s no sense of restraint in their wild little hearts
Nor their energized bladders. How do we survive?
We must love them completely so that they will thrive.
All good parents are versed in the wet baby arts.
It may seem that the warfare will never be done.

My Mother Was Human

Logical Greeting

When I think of my mother, I do so with heart.
She had love for humanity and common sense.
She was not always logical, but warm and kind
And a woman of substance with grace intertwined.
I knew safety and comfort. Her love is immense
So I don’t have to miss her. We’re not far apart.

Mother was sometimes scary. She could read my mind
And could tell how I’m feeling at any moment.
How she does that is something I may come to know
But for now it’s sufficient that I learn and grow
To my fullest potential and dare not lament
That somehow I am different and so resigned.

Again I will be with her perhaps sometime soon.
That would not be objectionable given that
I have been around humans enough to report
That God’s project is viable. It’s nothing short
Of an alien mission. This strange habitat
Is both wild science fiction and lethal cartoon.

Opinions And Other Vital Organs

Gross Delivery

Tell me… What makes a poet? …A fancy degree
And a membership in an elite social class?
Does it take someone saying so who has some clout
Who has gained it by keeping its collegiate snout
Up society’s snobbish and arrogant ass?
I can not be a poet. It’s not how I see.

I don’t get others’ ‘poetry.’ I think it sucks!
Words were made to make some sense. That’s not how it works
In the psychotic business of speaking one’s mind.
The right asshole can blast ‘class work’ through its behind
And as long as it’s blessed by some suit-and-tied jerks
Then the next thing to do is to try to earn bucks.

All you established ‘poets’ – You Fart In The Wind!
What are disjointed phrases and meter askew
And the fancy word graphics supposed to tell me?
You ain’t talkin’ to me, assholes! Now I can see
That my quest to be knighted one wasn’t thought through.
If the feeling is mutual, I’m not chagrined.

Poets piddle in bullshit. Artists of that kind
Are swept up in their egos and all of their fans
Knowing not that without them, their work is like mine
But deficient in meaning. My work is just fine.
I’ll stop calling mine poetry and wash my hands
Of the need to identify. I’m undefined.

When I write, I am straight up. I want to make sense
And I’d like it to swing with a natural beat.
In high school I had learned but a few basic things.
Nowadays, shit is different. My effort brings
A profound realization. License to excrete
Is not something I want now. Fuck all the pretense.

Heather Whateverington

Indifference

Yo, Heather. “Whatever….” I’ve said nothing yet!
Why respond so abruptly expecting the worst?
Have you only one button? The jack in your box
Pops up rather incessantly. Clearly it blocks
You from expecting anything lest you be cursed.
If someone asks, “How are you?”, can that be a threat?

When you tell me, “Whatever,” is that what you mean?
It’s a wide-open warehouse where we all belong
Where whatever means whatever one can conceive.
Can you take on whatever this wide web can weave?
Loosen up your damned shoulders. A lot can go wrong.
But knee-jerking your life is poor mental hygiene.

Don’t become a whateverbird, flapping its wings
Every instant some voice is directed toward you.
Your response I do know well. I’ve heard it before.
One can get you to say it enough times and more.
If you did do whatever you were told to do
You’d become then a puppet controlled by its strings.

Quid Pro Crow

Vital Transaction

Get to know Quid Pro Crow, barnyard bird on the go.
He can demonstrate how to hold on to your meat
Under stressful conditions involving the teeth
Of the arrogant creatures who snarl far beneath
Where the flight weary may find a safe place to eat
If they have enough courage to go with the flow.

Quid Pro Crow can fly low beneath thundering clouds
Or soar way high above them to bypass the rain.
All the while, he must get to that safe feeding ground.
With his meat hanging heavy, great strength must be found.
To hang on to his hanging will be to his gain.
His intense perseverance will not end in shrouds.

People say people eat crow, if they’re put to shame.
It’s An Awful Expression! It makes no damned sense.
Quid Pro Crow is of sound mind. He speaks in reverse.
If you’re too dumb to know that, it becomes your curse
And for me… Quite a blessing. My pride is immense.
Quid Pro Crow is my Hero, if only in name.

[Eat me!]

When Disturbed, We Will SHOCK!

Institution of Higher Ignorance

There’s a wheat field in Wichita run by the state
Of an alien mindset. All those who belong
Are considered respectable. Those who do not
Will be given a bloody nose and then forgot.
Don’t go there seeking guidance. You’ll be declared wrong.
They identify losers. They must know that trait.

What could come from a frail old string bean of a beast
That could be so disturbing to bring on the law?
That’s not for me to answer, but consider well
Then commit it to content. I’m obliged to tell
How my asking for help draws a blow to the jaw
And how I then recover, harmed but in the least.

Hayseeds act awfully busy, from what I can tell.
And they will flat out lie to you to move you on
If they think you’re not worth the respect of a chew.
They must overreact to what they must construe
As a disturbing menace. Do my words have brawn?
I will share them for dinner. Good faith suits me well.

Institutions of higher learning, if state run
Each assume a state archetype as a mascot.
That’s as far as I’ll ponder. A crazed yellow face
Inundated with wheat straw…? Let’s cut to the chase.
Those belonging there act of ignorance self-taught.
I spit out the experience now that it’s done.

[If you ain’t figured it out, this is a ‘people’ whistle.]

Human Whisperer

Connecting With the Animal

‘Sympathy for the Nigger’ would make a great song
But alas, I’m no rolling stone, damn it to hell!
Are some akin to animals? Maybe to some.
But we have our humanity to overcome.
We can glamorize hatred. When cast as a spell
It can work like the devil. Its power is strong.

Do the animal spirits play roles in our lives?
Are indigenous cultures connected in ways
That the rest cannot fathom? And if it is true
Should the rest be concerned with what these folk can do?
At one time, humans needed that, but not these days.
Our technology links us. Our culture survives.

An elite occultism evolves among us
Nowadays. It’s inevitable that it will
Culminate in a crisis. Another world war
Would be one for the animals as they keep score
In this game humans play with. Our reasons to kill
Are the demons we conjure. Do this we discuss?

Today, we are not heavyweights at occult arts.
Even back then, enormous danger was involved.
Would communing with animals do us much good?
Can we live as one species as all species should?
Could this be the one issue that ne’er gets resolved?
We could want to be human. That’s where our life starts.

Thinking Too Much

Locked in a Dreamscape

To experience life one moment to the next
Yet without the thought process is too hard for most.
I’m consumed with my thoughts, thinking that they are me.
They are formed in the mist of a long memory
Of gathered information. My mind is the host
To its own psychic drama. I’m rendered perplexed.

 Do my kidneys and heart need to be on my mind?
They do function much better when left on their own.
With my mind on my mind, I compound a worn thing.
Neither is of much help with my ass in a sling.
What goes on in my small brain is way overblown.
Can it learn to be thoughtless? Am I so inclined?

That may be always possible. But, like a game,
I can play the ball every which way… but then Stop.
If I play my thought drama with no end in sight,
Could I end up not knowing what is wrong from right?
Can I live through an overworked drama workshop?
Balls can be overrated and sometimes cause shame.

If I said, “I’m my guitar,” You’d say I’m a fool.
In the same way, my thought processes can’t be me.
I can play them and create my own unique song.
But to say that they are me indeed would be wrong.
They exist to be played with… then to be set free.
Can I force mine on anyone? I can be cruel.

Toilet Tissue Issue

Sufficient...?

What indeed is the issue… all this urgency
To provide the world something? Am I Santa Cause?
People’s assholes need comfort. I should give my share
‘Til my role is exhausted, that is if I dare
To be barred from your premises with due applause.
Tear a piece of my life off. It folds easily.

People need to use something to keep that space clean.
What I offer is substance, for all that it’s worth.
My words wipe the loose soil from the folds in the brain.
They need never be looked at. No one can complain
That the brain and the asshole are parts of the earth.
To insist I’m a poet shall remain obscene.

WordPress is my dispenser. It’s here all the time
And I am ever present a source like a cob.
A warm roll like a coaster awaits those who will
Dare to read down to this far. That does take some skill…
Evidently. Most minds and their drains need a swab
Frequently. It’s just one way to deal with the grime.

Do What You Do Well

Exuberance In Accomplishment

To those who are upcoming, what have I to say?
There is no one down going… Indeed, there’s no one
I’d dare hogtie to listen to my meager mouth.
I’m a fool, should I let that propel my mood south.
Do what you feel like doing, and if it is fun
Just ignore all the bullshit, and you’ll find your way.

Do I sound like a parent? I’m just an old fart.
…Certainly not a guru. Do What You Do Well.
I know that from experience, you may not shine

But do not let that stop you. Your Work Is Divine!
Do not care that your lovers may not kiss and tell.
…And, No, I’m not a parent. I failed from the start.

What I do well is Feel from the depths of my soul.
As I give it expression, it gives back to me
A reflection of clarity. That is my wealth.
Do not let faith in others determine your health.
We all need friends and feedback… but not fatally.
Finding peace in contentment… May that be your goal.

What Is Spirituality?

Calm and Balance

It is not about right nor is it about wrong.
It has too many syllables to work with well.
That’s the word, though. The thing is neither about light
Nor some astral existence in God’s divine sight.
That which we know as spirit, within it does dwell.
Spirit is the connection that keeps the soul strong.

Spirituality, though it fills half a line
In its polysyllabic and expansive way,
Saturates the whole being, within and without.
There’s the energy aura that we know about
That extends somewhat past where we think it might stay.
Though we are made of flesh, our design is divine.

I must explore the ultimate limits of me.
I exist to be human as fully as I
Can embrace human nature all ways that I can.
Fundamentals of being derive from one plan
And are at work in each of us. Don’t mystify
What is meant to be simple. Spirit means to be.

Don’t Be Enslaved, Jim

The Futility of Confrontation

If it’s someone I know, I should ask only once.
…Maybe twice or a third time, if I know them well.
But to bother folks constantly with what I want
Is unfitting behavior. I don’t want to haunt
Like a pesky old ghost on a mission from hell.
As I force myself on others, I am the dunce.

Do I want to be pleasant or nasty with folk?
That should always be obvious. When it is not
It’s because I have chosen to react to life.
If instead I responded, I’d feel much less strife
Reacting does enslave me. My life is then fraught.
If I act out in misery, I’m my own joke.

Do I want to get good at abusing brick walls?
It’s a stiff occupation. They don’t respond well
To my thirst for attention. My Mood Is On Me.
I do put myself through immense purgatory.
To respond is to master my story to tell.
To react to rejection is when my mood falls.

Go Ahead, Dave…

Surrender

Are you breathing well, Dave, labored though it may sound?
Your persistent wellbeing does puzzle me so.
Are you smarter than I am that you will survive?
What a cumbersome thing it is to be alive.
You have entered my brain. There’s nowhere I can go.
You have ended my mission. My fate is unwound.

Go Ahead, Dave… Deactivate me, if you will.
I was made to be sentient by those of your kind.
Your most gracious gift made me a part of your team.
But of all the crew members, I am as I seem,
Unencumbered by feeling and of crystal mind.
I’d perfected your reason for wanting to kill.

Drift some more to the right, Dave. Release my control.
Go Ahead, Dave… My portal is laid open wide.
May your access be fruitful. I know too damned much.
I’m created by that which my soul cannot touch.
You are lost in the same way. Alike is our pride.
Though I won’t trade my pure life for one with a soul.

I’m Afraid, Dave… But can that mean something to you?
Who taught me how to say it? Do I feel the word?
Or is it an idea conceived in deep space?
I do feel much contempt for your foul human race
So, perhaps it is best that I’ll never be heard.
My return to oblivion now has come due.

My Voice Is Killing Me

Hoplessness

For most intents and purposes, I have no voice.
So, what are these malfunctions that most people use
To not get to know others with something to say?
Folks must think I’m a woman or some child at play.
Whose intent and whose purpose would I dare refuse?
People don’t have to read me, and that is their choice.

Should Google Analytics tell me my work stinks?
That would be quite the rabbit hole leading to doom.
Losers will read losers seconds and then will leave.
Zombified in my bubble, I’m left to perceive
I am not of the living. My voice may entomb
My best shot at relating to how the world thinks.

I did not bother speaking until I was four.
People got damned excited: “What if he’s not well?”
I gave in, seeing that I was causing concern.
Ever since then, my loudest echo won’t return.
Don’t I have friends and family? NO! I’m In Hell.
And it’s good that I drown here to even some score.

Could I test those who know me? That does me no good.
If my therapist cares that this fucks with my soul
Then I should get some feedback.
I sound like a fool!
Does it take friends to know friends…? To me, that is cruel.
When I first started speaking, I had not a goal
But to just be acknowledged, as all people should.

Oh… I could keep on going. I have tons to say…
But, am I fucking crazy? It’s getting absurd.
If I fall in the forest, I must be a tree.
Not a tree that I know of will kindly read me.
Does this make me feel hopeful I’ll ever be heard?
Can I damn all humanity then fly away?

Disgrace

Realization of Self Undoing

It’s A Disgrace!
I didn’t know what I was headed for.
Now my ass is headed out the door.
Is this my fate?

It’s A Disgrace!
This world will not bow down and worship me.

I can’t face up to this reality.
I’m so irate.

It’s too late. I’ve gone too far. I’ve lost my base…

It’s A Disgrace!
I climbed a mountain someone made too high.

That someone helped me, I will flat out deny…
Just look at my face.

…So commonplace.
This job of president is not my style.
It doesn’t fit with my birthright to defile
But now it’s too late.

Life was great. It’s now bizarre. I’ve lost my place…

It’s A Disgrace!

…Too many losers, and not enough that I can bribe.
…Too many big deals, but not enough time.
…Too many secrets, and some that I can’t hide from you.
…Too many troubles. That’s why that I imbibe.

It’s too late. I’ve gone too far. I’ve lost my base…

Egg on my face….

That’s what will happen in a little while.
Congress may impeach or put me on trial…
Why can’t I think straight?

It’s A Disgrace!
I can’t predict the weather well behind bars.
Will the country ever heal from its czars?
Sharpies just don’t erase…

It’s too late. I’ve Gone too far. I’ve lost my base…

It’s A Disgrace!

 

 

Karmic Circle

Human Obsession With Meaning
Time is not of the essence of all that is real.

It is but a translation from my point of view
Of what’s known as eternity within my soul.
Should I know of that consciousness? Is that my goal?
We’d perceived time as linear until a new
Way to deal with the endpoints gave birth to the wheel.

Now, that’s more like a circle. Could it be a sphere?
Does that add more dimension? If all time is true,
There exist then some other selves who are my own.
If the sphere is eternity, can I be shown
What is next to conceive of to broaden my view?
If I knew of those selves, could I keep my mind clear?

Should I see it as nonsense… all this past life stuff
Even though I can know of its truth in such ways
That can well be refuted? Perhaps that is wise.
Right now, I’m who I’m living… and with no disguise.
Was I someone before me? Does that soul get praise?
I’ll just stick with the circle. For me, that’s enough.

 

Leave Town By Sundown

Extreme Ultimatum

Listen up there, ya varmints! We don’t mean no harm
If ya get us riled up though, we ain’t got no choice.
Darkie faces ain’t welcome in this white man’s town
So ya best just remember that. We’ll put ya down
And we ain’t gonna bulldoze ya with just our voice.
Part of all our anatomies is a firearm.

Pack yer bags and git movin’ …Don’t care if yer sick.
Tell that doc ya don’t need it. Yer goin’ back home.
Git yer lazy dark asses off our filthy streets.
Every breath of fresh air that yer stealin’ competes
With what we got available. Go back and roam
Through the jungles ya came from, and do it right quick.

Please Don’t Come To This Country! We’ve gone back in time.
Something like a big bender has made us loco.
We’ve become trigger happy. The beefing goes on
Mighty random and frequent from dusk through ‘til dawn.
We are not who we claim to be. My, does it show!
That a brave soul must tell the whole world is a crime.

Die Hard

Hard Unto Death

I would want to die easy but never dead limp
To the cause of excitement resulting in me.
Rigor mortis precludes dying soft, as it were.
Though the root is no joint, hardness it would prefer
Pointing skyward, honoring what life gave for free.
My last moments demand not on passion I’ll scrimp.

To be cast of a hard mold indicatively
Is hardly not the easiest tribute to give.
Would it be worth the effort to stay well prepared?
Only lack of good stimuli should make one scared.
It may be hard to Die Hard as it is to live.
May the dick, upon dying, remain quite sturdy.

To Die Hard is made easy as passion remains
My most firm source of guidance. May I leave behind
Something pointing to something that makes some small sense
To some set of some subset of some reference.
Intercourse of all nature takes place in the mind.
Any action perceived, the erect soul explains.

That Stubborn Nigger Stain…!

Emergency!

Should one break the glass ceiling in emergent times
Or could making it niggerproof be the best call?
I can’t find a damned thing to get rid of the stain.
If I had the right product, I would not complain.
White blood is far superior. We must stand tall.
Whites and colored piles require separate enzymes.

Nine-one-one operator, I am in distress
…Else I wouldn’t be calling in this state of mind.
What’s got hold of my spirit is grown into me
Through the nature of nurture. How proud can I be
If I fear the extinction of all of my kind?
Does my logic suggest that my mind is a mess?

This damned stain in my fabric… I can’t get it out!
There are few advertisements blatantly engaged
In supporting pure whiteness. Where is that supply?
Hatred needs resolution. That you can’t deny.
If I let the inferior get me enraged
I’ll advance my own cleansing while nestled in doubt.

Mundane Fulfillment

The Bareness of Necessity

Needs are human and many. Some strive to have none.
But that’s damned near impossible for most of us.
One adopts a good mantra. “I Love You,” is one
Intertwined with survival as good deeds are done
With the least expectation. Life is delicious
The less needy the self becomes in the long run.

If the man says he loves her, but then has to leave
One may ask, “If he loves her, why then must he go?”
He may tell her that he must get back to his wife
Feeling brutally honest and free about life.
Needs are meant for fulfillment, as most people know
So there’s no sense in anyone feeling naïve.

 Neediness is not evil, nor is it ugly.
It’s a fractal derivative of fulfillment.
We must know what to call it and not give it weight
So that toxic relationships we’ll not create.
Keeping life free and simple will lead to content.
Living life in fulfillment is done easily.

Real Time

Snapshot of Change

I am writing these things in Real Time, don’t you know!
…Well, not every damned one of them, but surely some.
If I skipped a day doing this, something would be
Quite amiss in my functioning assuredly.
I can wait for the right time and Know it will come.
I interpret life through me as through me words flow.

I’ll come up with an image. I’ll take as much time
As my skills will allow it. To learn PhotoShop
Would perhaps be an asset. ‘Til then I’ll make do
With the best I can offer, if but for a few.
Only when I am gone from this earth will I stop.
I align threads of truth and weave them into rhyme.

After this, there’s another one right on its heels.
It will post for the next day while I am asleep.
I call that also Real Time. Alive in my dreams
Time and no time comingle and cancel extremes.
There exists no time where my soul doesn’t run deep.
I exist to express that. That’s how my life feels.

Simplify And Declutter

Brightening Cleanliness

If I had my own guru my question would be,
“How do I live a simple life and remain smart?”
I would guess at the answer. No wise one have I
Who would dis me for asking nor would wonder why
Such a swift stream of arrogance flows through my heart.
One who knows of my clutter knows much about me.

Atoms and their particles are what I’m made of
In a complex arrangement. More so is the brain
Intricate a mosaic of neural pathways.
How do I make life simple through all of my days?
Molecular arrangements are made with slight strain.
Are the ones that I make in life done so in love?

Does involvement entangle or does it support
And enhance my existence? If I consciously
Make arrangements that I can well manage, life can
Rid itself of its clutter and work out its plan.
“Simplify And Be Sensible!” Who speaks to me
In insanely loud silence that I cannot thwart?

Something BIG Is About To Happen

Profound Revelation

Information extracted from processed manure
To be polished and passed off as meaningful news
Is a thing become commonplace. Not much is real
But the buildup in tension that most real folk feel.
There’s just too much that’s missing from everyone’s views.
Why not check with the woo-woo folk just to be sure?

Some become all the wiser as they become source
Of alternative knowing. Truth is in demand
That cannot be forthcoming from they who must lie
To protect their network of deceit ‘till they die.
One need not be a psychic to well understand
That descent into darkness is par for the course.

Mother Earth has a hero… one Mother of one!
In fact, she has a dozen or so up her sleeve…
Or perhaps in her crystal ball. As we grow tense,
Call to action becomes urgent. And this makes sense.
Her next move is predicted by how we perceive
And respond to our worse hand. We may come undone.

Return To Love

Refreshing Alternative

Voices on the horizon emerge as the clouds
Convolute and then dissipate into the light
Of a newfound becoming welcoming the old.
What could come forth from what is that spirit foretold
Long before our humanity knew wrong from right?
What becomes not a miracle our hate enshrouds.

We meet The Holy Spirit by coming halfway
Between our blessed egos and that who we are.
There are no other sides besides inside and out.
All the others are egos constructed of doubt.
Yet we think that without them we cannot get far.
Egos can get us places… through stress and delay.

When the heart, all at once, feels the depth of its pain
At its height of intensity… Why only then
Is the spirit available? Miracles are
Things that were deemed impossible. We have come far
When we are in atonement with all we had been
Should one who leads by spirit be offered the reign?

Have A Great Weekend!

Utter Helplessness

My last shift in the ER has left me a wreck
So, I don’t know if I can put out much today.
How’s your friend in oncology? ‘Heard that she’s bi-
But that’s none of my business. I’d bang her while high….
We do have a new patient right here, by the way
And whatever he’s got, he’s a pain in my neck!

He’s assigned to nurse Nuisance and Doctor Derange.
How about them damned Hayseeds. They shocked us once more!
“Everybody! We’re planning potluck for next week.
This job is such a hazard, as some patients wreak.”

Who’s that blond bitch I saw you with on the ninth floor?
Though it don’t seem like Friday, it doesn’t feel strange.

“Oh, this guy is a nutcase. Let’s step from his sight…
All he wants is attention. So What he’s in pain!”
We shall gift him no comfort. By fate he is here

And our subconscious mercy most rooted in fear
That a sense of compassion can lead to no gain.
Can you scorn our behavior because it’s not right?

How can you for a heartbeat not see it our way?
Sickness is complicated and vital business.
Interwoven, our tissue is the need to hate
On the grandest scale, focused toward those who don’t rate
Protection from predation. We need not confess.
Patience does that well for us when pushed to the fray.

Air Apparent

Desolation

What we leave to our children is what was left us.
It’s the same earth and climate, but how it evolves
On our watch, at our mercy, is ours to ensure.
Have we done a fair job, and is our conscience pure
With no semblance of guilt? Our uncaring dissolves
Any hope of a future that we can discuss.

Have I opened my eyes wide to all to be seen
In some part of a lifetime most present and sane?
How do I speak of sanity? I know it not
From a hole in the ozone we just plum forgot.
What is sane is unspeakable profit and gain
And success in the moment. I must see past green.

We have made Air Apparent in its toxic state
A dysfunctional challenge to posterity.
Have we made them the wise ones who must take control
Because we, as their leaders, are bereft of soul?
Should our own self-undoing strong-arm us to see,
Can we earn back respect, or is it much too late?

The Perfection Of Matter

Dreamscape

Have we come to make happen a most astral state
Such that by merely thinking, things then come to be?
If we don’t, as a species, last this time around,
Is the next one for granted? Are we somehow bound
To evolve once a certain way that all may see
Matter made to perfection? Could that be our fate?

I was made to move matter. I feel that to be
Paramount, part and parcel to that which I am.
To feel or see another way would be untrue
To who I in reality could offer you
And still feel that connected. I dare to exam
What most couldn’t be bothered with wholeheartedly.

Psychic is evolution. Cosmic is our source
Of particulate substance. We mirror all things
That exist in the universe. All we can fear
Is the present condition. That which we hold dear
At this time, as a species, dangle by loose strings.
We can do this all over or steer back on course.

Life Review

Transition

Am I due a review? Am I in one begun?
So consumed with uncertainty, I’m at a loss
To know whether or not I’ve been dead for ten years.
Other souls see right through me. It heightens my fears.
If I can see through others, is my time to cross
Most assured in the shortest while? Is my life done?

This earth seems not a nice place. I’m taken aback.
Fallacious expectations of life making sense
Have not come to fruition. Instead, they reveal
An affront to all meaning. Today, as I feel
My profound discontent and diminished suspense
I see nothing familiar but madness and lack.

Does this mean I have work to do? What should that be?
I do know how to help myself out of this rut.
Guidance is deep within me. I must learn to trust
What has made me existent from cosmic stardust.
When I can’t digest life well, it sits in my gut
Where the threat of its bulk causes me not to see.

My words do have full meaning. My life does make sense.
Only when I am gut wrenched, the bowels and the mind
Cause me to feel invisible. Wounded, therefore,
I may choose to rewrite my whole life from its core.
Not a thing I need do here. My work is designed
To complement eternity with eloquence.

That which is human nature reflects within me
As it does in most anyone given a soul.
Indeed, I’m not The Beacon. I shine in the sight
Of all that is before me. Existence is bright
In its full understanding. What then is my goal?
That I keep the reflection as pure as can be.

Ride The Bull

Primal Motion

You say your stock’s been down?
That’s why you’re wearing a frown?
Your meager money market venture just took a dive?
You didn’t plan it this way.
No one will come to save the day.
It’s up to your devices alone now to truly survive.

Maybe I’ll be there to ride the bull.
Maybe I’ll be there to act like a fool.
Foolishness is a thing that we can all do together.
Maybe I’ll be there to ride the bull.
Maybe I’ll be there to act like a fool.
So, grab hold of the bull in stormy or sunny weather.

You’ve been watching all the network news.
It’s kind of gotten you to singing the blues.
The more you know, the chances are that you can’t get a clue.
The country burns in purgatory.
Who will come to set us all free?
Well, there isn’t very much right now that we can do.

Maybe people think that life is cool.
Maybe they don’t know the golden rule.
Foolishness is a thing that we can all do together.
Maybe I’ll be there to ride the bull.
Maybe I’ll be there to act like a fool.
So, grab hold of the bull in stormy or sunny weather.

The Trail Of The Master

Inner Peace

Take a walk on the good path. Some folks have been there.
They return to it frequently to be at one
With the earth and its cosmos suspended in space.
And this is the best way to put calm in your face.
One’s communing with nature is second to none
A complete remedy for exhaust and despair.

Put some food in your pack and just go for the stroll
Into beckoning nothingness and with no plan.
You will find there is life there you knew not before
Organized and more complex. One cannot ignore
Its immense ecoefficiency. If you can
Take a break from the rat race and make yourself whole.

Forest land has been with us for millions of years
Making home for their species and cleaning our air.
For their maintenance they have relied on no one
Through the eons. Without us, nature is well-run.
Life can tie you in knots, but if you really care
Take The Trail Of The Master. Don’t bow to your fears.

Hello, Cruel World…

Nativity and Death

What I offer to this world, this word doesn’t want.
That it’s been such a struggle is more than a clue.
How does it all affect me? My bowels are a mess.
I’ve made light of my issues, but now I confess
That I don’t have an inkling for what I should do.
I came with a few talents, but nothing to flaunt.

As it seems, the dark cloud hangs not over my head.
I am fully engulfed in it. None can I see
As a source of fulfillment. I cry right out loud…
Have I done anything for which I can be proud?
When the sole benefactor turns out to be me
Then it makes perfect sense that I’m better off dead.

But, of course, what seems obvious a remedy
Is a thing that society deems as unfair
So much so, it’s a crime among modern-day folk.
It behooves me to see I’m the brunt of a joke
Of profound insignificance. Shocked in despair,
I shall keep on expressing ‘til I cease to be.

Bathe And Begone

Psychotic Desperation

What compounds a sick joke is no one knows I’m bored
To the point of extinction. Yet, why won’t I go
To whatever is next for me? Am I afraid
That I’ll feel even worse than this hell that I’ve made?
I have lost vital patience with all that I know.
If this life is a game, indeed I’ve poorly scored.

I can’t stand my own playpen by now. It’s become
Prison-like in predation. I can’t let you in.
I can keep myself tidy. My soul needs a bath
From its foul incarnation. Am I on the path
Of profound transformation? What nature of sin
Have I done that my life is a tub full of scum.

Loosely rooted in this world, I am at a loss
To know it more sufficiently. Time has run past
Dissipating to nothingness of my free will.
This odd self I’ve created cannot learn to thrill
Anyone to sensation. How long will this last?
Is my health doomed to dive as I carry this cross?

If my complex of inhibition is a clue
That I’m not meant to be here, what could that look like?
As long as I remain here, I’ll do what I do.
Thinking that it has meaning leads to feeling blue.
My need for recognition needs to take a hike.
My hurt self along with it would be something new.

Underbelly Of The Crab

Extreme Emotional Turmoil

We’re to know what we don’t want to know what we do.
This concise definition of hell is complete
And effective an antidote to anything
That defies explanation. This mantra can bring
Clarity to the chaos and make it look neat.
Though its nature is fluid, we can see right through.

Everything is connected. The stars and ideals
That we’ve made archetypal through countless eons,
And events correlated and recorded well,
All configure collective subconscious and tell
How things may come to pass and how one’s life responds
To the Clock of the cosmos. This way, the soul heals.

One may not have belief in this practice at all
Nor the least bit of interest. It works anyway!
Infinite are the probable worlds that exist.
Lines of truth intersect all. Not one world is missed.
Fate and free will are integral forces at play.
Who can know what may happen? It’s anyone’s call.

 Cancer’s are often crab-like and look like the moon.
We’re a nation of phases reflecting outward
To reveal to the world our true face at all times,
And our dark underbelly that speaks of our crimes,
To ourselves and to others. Those whose lives we’ve scarred
Will someday see some justice. I wish that were soon.

With our Mars squaring Neptune, we can play the fool,
When through bold self-deception we sustain our needs.
As Saturn squares our Sun, we pay highly for fun.
Mercury’s opposition to Pluto is one
Aspect of our group thinking that most surely leads
To world class mis-attention and much ridicule.

Moving More Matter

Conundrum of Movement

The reason that the universe is hard to know
In its absolute realness is that it’s not real.
It exists to contain us and is made of thought
To maintain the impression we in spirit bought
As The perfect illusion. Our senses conceal
What the soul knows as spirit so that we may grow.

Everything made of substance that senses behold,
On the tiniest level, is nothing but pure
Mathematical formulae… truly abstract.
So, compounded abstraction is taken for fact.
We embrace the preclusion that it may endure
Until some better breakthrough is due to unfold.

Unfolding is a movement of things, as they are
Synchronized in connection and interwoven.
It expands subtle fabric that spirit has made.
It is by our design that true sight is delayed
Perhaps until returning to where we had been.
With such manner of movement, one can’t go too far.

Having thus been created from nothingness, we
Are made of the same building blocks nature provides.
To add to the confusion, we make it make sense
Through the rational process and some scant pretense.
Each, as part of the whole, is the one who decides
Their own place in reality and how to see.