Tag Archive | social commentary

Do I Need A Container?

The Questions of Life

Is Defining My Life Force a worthwhile pursuit?
Or should I remain timid regarding nonsense
As is seen by this busy world? Is what I do
Of a value consistent with right points of view?
Silly world, I am childlike! My faith is immense.
Self-discovery for me is an absolute.

Do I need to be guided while I’m on my way
To wherever my spirit has pointed my heart?
We all are flesh containers. Those older than I
May be of some assistance. But I can get by
On the infinite wisdom of which I’m a part.
I must know who I am or I’ll surely decay.

Within me there is substance. It and I are one.
This complex earthy medium makes a fine tool
That I’ll use to explore to my true heart’s content.
There is nothing more meaningful than good time spent
Looking inward. It increases my psychic fuel.
There’s no end to my searching as long as it’s fun.

Toward A More Natural Order

Economies of Order

It’s a nonverbal language of lucid morphemes.
Acquisition or learning are possible ways
We may come to express what we see as our truth.
It is best that we learn how to speak in our youth.
That’s because when we’re young we put fun in our days.
We all read from the same book, or so it all seems.

Is there natural order to how life evolves?
Can we find a predictable sequence within
Spatial substance suspended adrift in the mind?
If the mind fights with nature, is it well designed?
All pragmatics, semantics and syntax are kin
To the global phonology as it revolves.

Language is as it should be… a social disease.
Subdivisions of virulence grow big in size
And compete for world dominance and point of view.
We become more programmable and less askew.
In the common collective we can recognize
How to become more fluent as our nature sees.

Freewheeling Abandon

Freewheel

A visit from Uranus to Venus is like
Having Santa’s elves over to Feng Shui your heart.
I review my relationships. They need to be
Shaken from their sclerotic routines as I see.
All that I’ve become part of could use a fresh start.
To hell with an old mindset. My will is to psych.

That I do well. It’s not like I’ve not what it takes
To discover new ways of relating to all
Who indeed are my brethren. Commitment I give
Only to more excitement in all that I live.
What had been strong and stable has become banal.
When the heart becomes unstable, the soul awakes.

Uranus is the rebel rouser in the sky.
He brings on inspiration to seek out new ways
Of defining our values, our tastes and desires
…Those things that are of Venus. My spirit requires
Artistic stimulation, as my mood will raise.
Venus will be upset when Uranus drops by.

The Anatomy Of Feeling

Color Vibration

Electrons paint our feelings as they flow through nerves,
And like all good conductors, the nerves in return
Propagate waves magnetic, attuned to their flow.
Waves traverse space with great ease and complex cargo
That consists of our moments. I want to discern
What my feelings are made of as my heart observes.

Yes, the nerves are like wires. We’re much like the machine.
Our electrical systems respond to Ohm’s Law.
When our moments are transmitted and then received
Nerves within the receiver, so it is believed,
Replicate exact patterns felt and without flaw,
Though we may not perceive them unless we are keen.

Knowing deep pain or pleasure, each have the same feel.
Our high current protection limits either one
So the rational mind can measure in detail
What it is that we’re feeling so life can prevail.
We can re-tweak the system so that it will run
Like a fine feeling engine. Is this not ideal?

Keep Your Gum Off The Bedpost

Common Place

Keep You Gum Off The Bedpost. It’s not the right place
To park something retrieved from its oral abode
Entertained by the teeth, tongue and tonsils by day.
At nighttime can it be wise to treat it this way?
Gum cannot remain safe when its pace has been slowed.
It’s as if a good runner is pulled from his race.

And when parked on the bedpost, the germs in the air
Are free to make a fine home of its resting mass.
Gum will regain full flavor, not of what it had
But of crap in the funky air, and this is sad.
Any fool who would do this is quite the jackass.
One who chews funky putty needs wise mental care.

One must use proper hygiene when dealing with gum…
Never mind that the bedpost, because it’s erect
Through the night in a dark room may give someone pause,
Why put something disgusting back between your jaws?
The harm put upon gum from nocturnal neglect
Can come back to upset one and make one feel dumb.

Be Sincere

Social Performance

Film is rolling. Now, give the world your whitest smile.
Don’t tell me you don’t have one to proudly display.
We all have social standing. Is yours not above
Those who are at rock bottom? Do show them some love
By reminding them life is much better your way.
Don’t you dare let your mask down. It is your profile.

Be alive and in good health for all whom you meet
On the street, if they’re worthy of some time of day.
Use your keen sense of judgment to fully assess
How much they are like you or hopefully much less
So that you feel of value in life’s cabaret.
Claim your sense of fulfillment from Satan by tweet.

But be kind to the losers. We speak from the soul
With our hearts heavy-laden. Stage presence we lack
And our costumes are tattered from playing our parts.
We all have one director who knows all our hearts.
In a heartbeat we’ll leave here without looking back
Knowing non-actors exit with none to condole.

Do I Need A Co-Writer?

Programmed Terminal Distraction

Hanging on past my world worth, I seek not my own
Group of lighthearted losers. Alone I decay.
One misspoken raw truth or a social faux pas
Once a day should not get me involved with the law
Nor should it take my birthright to be here away.
Nature does still support me in its Twilight Zone.

Gnats don’t help with my writing. They get in the way.
I’ll assume that it’s personal then take offense.
Their obscene aeronautics hijacks attention
Even if there’s no light source. They do this for fun.
They are faster than I, so it makes perfect sense
That for such a transgression I shall make them pay.

While in flight, I can spray them with something that burns.
Rubbing alcohol works well. A delicate mist
Knocks them flat on their asses. I take much delight
Because now they’re so dazed they can’t put up a fight.
When they start fucking with me, I cannot resist
Brushing up on my mayhem against all concerns.

As they frantically gasp and flail after they fall
I now master the last laugh and take back some pride.
As I watch them grow weaker, I’ll spray them again.
They’ve messed with the wrong creature among insane men.
As I see that they’re hopeless, I feel good inside.
After that, I will kill them. My wrath isn’t small.

Do I draw such contempt from those of my own kind?
Do I act out in consequence of being cursed
As a highflying nuisance disrupting the show?
That I know nothing of it causes me to grow.
Someday I’ll cease my wars, but right now I’m submersed
In one of my own making. It’s all in the mind.

Women And Power

Strategy In Power

When and how to use force are the questions to ask
Among so many others before waging war.
We’d prefer conversation and working things out
Yet throughout all our history there’s little doubt
That we are prone to fight and to even the score.
When it comes to destruction we’re up to the task.

Have there been female generals in the wars past?
Who knows how they would fight and what harm they could do?
There are some of a fortunate few who could tell
Of the hell they went through that we cannot know well.
We know only of fighting men. Women, we view,
As still much less than lethal and of lower caste.

Women have been in office, but playing the game
On a man’s world stage and with the rules now in place
Is a leadership lacking in human resolve.
We can remain one-sided in how we evolve
But our old ways embellish our racial disgrace.
When women define power things won’t be the same.

Unmasking The Face Of Fear

Beneath The Mask

Do I fear the unmasking? What horror awaits
That I should know is coming by guilt that I feel
At the pit of my gut? Why this sense of surprise
That I have something coming? I wear a disguise
That is known as the ego. It is grossly real.
I cannot feel wholehearted when it dominates.

The ego is a force field that works like a lens.
It reflects what is inside outward but with flaws.
Our perceptions are finite. We use them to deal
With this rigid reality, damned to conceal
All that is not of this world and bound by its laws.
When the ego dies, that is the moment life ends.

Do I fear my undoing or fumbling head on
To a possible train wreck, or living in grace
Among those who I equal? What can penetrate
What I sense as my force field can cause me to hate.
What reflects back into me in time I will face.
The fear will cease completely when the mask is gone.

Toward The Soul’s Inner Truth

Remaking of the Soul

Many times through the year Mercury takes a break.
In his flight through the beltway he seems to sit still
Then track backwards, as if he’s retracing his trek.
When it happens folks complain their lives are a wreck.
Actions must be repeated. We all know the drill.
Simple things go awry. It can be a headache.

That’s not all it’s about, though. What lies at the heart
Of miscommunication is just an alarm
Sounded gently and frequently so we’ll review
Old ways of doing business and then make some new.
When we examine him closely we may disarm
How we feel when he’s retrograde in any chart.

Scorpio is his resting place, and for a while
We will be healing venom. The Truth of the Soul
May restore what’s been poisoned to healthy potion.
It’s the time that emotional cleansing be done.
Conversation in honesty can be the goal
Lest we remain indignant and stuck in denial.

Retrograde means re-knowing the path we have made.
Mercury, in his moonwalk, resets weakened ties
Or releases them if they’re no longer of use.
And in Scorpio, dark ties and secrets profuse
Are revealed. They will no longer hold their disguise.
The Soul’s Truth is a substance no one can evade.

A Check-In With Spirit

Journal

If I write on blank pages with fullness of heart
And well-focused, is its worth far greater than if
My mind also is void of just how to express
How I’m doing in my pursuit of happiness?
When comes time that I tame the feral verbal riff
Spirit then will take over me as I take part.

To sit down and start writing is not a big deal.
Some folks struggle with writer’s block. I am immune.
I’m equipped with a motor-mind shy of a voice
Loud enough that folks hear me. Is it not my choice
To be part of the episode we all attune?
And is it worth recording the things that I feel?

Go ahead and just do it! If I should hold back
Then there’s something undone, and my spirit will yearn
For some kind of expression of what it goes through.
Every moment I’m writing yields me a new view
Of my life with more clarity and less concern.
It’s the best way I know to keep my life on track.

Those Who Watch Us

Providence

The cosmos is expanding, so it creates space
At a rate most phenomenal – faster than light!
In that space there is substance, but not very much
Compared to all existence. Creation is such
That space is the main product. It has taken flight
Like a bat out of nowhere with nothing to chase.

Why there is so much space being made, and so fast,
May remain a grand mystery to the best minds
Until we come to know some things well understood
By the ones who are watching us, not for our good
But for close observation within their confines.
They would not interfere even if they were asked.

They have not come to harm us nor help us at all.
Their mindset is collective. Some have never met,
Yet they’ve joined for one purpose. It is not their goal
To prevent self-undoing of the human soul.
If they acted, it then would be seen as a threat.
Space contains all existence. That’s why we seem small.

Day Of Tough Love

Antidote

It’s The Day Of The Dove… or perhaps of Tough Love
That resembles the justice that must become due.
There’s an alien creature that feeds on our hate.
We’ve become deeply sided. We cannot see straight.
Civil War is its true wish, and its point of view
Is the sole source of nourishment it can speak of.

Not on earth did it come from. It just floated in.
A hot gas of no substance, it draws energy
From the drama of chaos which once were the lives
Of its innermost circles. He alone survives
Until those who’d been enemies finally see
How the creature is harming them, to its chagrin.

All our sides deal with one foe. The nation is not
One that can be divided and sapped of its worth.
We can laugh at the enemy and take delight
In the fact that the laughing will drive it from sight.
Such a creature should never take over the earth.
Life is like science fiction. They share the same plot.

Ping Pong Brain

Half Brains At Play

Do I not have a whole brain contained as one piece
Of the bodily puzzle? They say that it’s split
Down the middle. Each half has its ways to process
Cognitive information and how to express
Its version of reality. When they are fit
They can play well together. Good health can increase.

Constant communication defines how this pair
Can fit two sets of focus in one frame of mind.
It’s the corpus callosum that bounces the ball
Back and forth through the consciousness. If it should fall
Neither side takes a hit. Their game is of a kind
That will only continue. There’s always a spare.

We are binary beings – bipolar to some.
Separate are the functions among the same mass.
Mastering much of meaning, the mind mitigates
Or adds to our illusions as social primates.
Both the artist and scientist are of one class.
We may pray that the game never has an outcome.

The Heart Of The Drama

Cosmic Play

At the heart of all drama there is a time stamp
That relates to all others, so they interact
To provide a performance upon a grand stage
Big enough that all creation wants to engage.
Astral bodies don’t govern us but do impact
The deployment of actors and where they encamp.

The big space sphere surrounding us, studded with stars,
Is a glass ball of ether suspended in place.
The particulate matter caused to flow adrift
Each have unique identity. This is a gift
And a practical guidance for the human race.
All the specks in the cosmos are our avatars.

The performance is ongoing. There is no end
To complex combinations. The drama at play
Is for whose understanding? Whom does it all please?
Information recorded over centuries
Has been used by production crews unto this day
To enhance entertainment for all who attend.

Whistles Blowing

Danger There!

Many people blow whistles rather than ignore
What they see as their duty to country and God.
Whistles are used because they can make a loud sound.
If lifeguards did not use them, many would be drowned
Or become living shark feed, or victims of fraud.
Any person can use one. It’s not such a chore.

One’s attention is called, when a whistle is blown,
To detail of the nature of danger perceived.
It is up to those listening to give support
And protection to those brave enough to report
Ways in which We The People are wrongly deceived.
Such are people of honor and solid backbone.

Many whistles are blowing not unto deaf ears.
As the drama unfolds upon our earthly stage,
Punctuated with danger on levels complex,
One can see that we live as the future expects.
What we have is a chance to rewrite the next page.
What prevents us from doing so remains our fears.

Death, Transformation And Rebirth

On the Cusp of Becoming

Pluto plows through the earth Capricorn is made of
As it dredges up deep-rooted structure and form
That can no longer function. What is left behind
Is a rich field for Saturn as it’s redefined.
What exists is uprooted to upset the norm.
Through it all, there seems not much that resembles love.

Saturn covers where Pluto has already been,
Chasing after the plow. When they do rendezvous
Should there then be disaster? A changing of ways
We will make about governance. We’ll reappraise
All our structures of leadership and make them new.
We’ll make sure that some things never happen again.

Transformation, it seems, must come on with some force
If we are to be brought from a comatose state.
Solid is our complacency. Saturn moves on
To leave Pluto upturning. Are we put upon?
Keeping all focus centered, what fate may await?
One cannot know the answer until then, of course.

A Ride In The Theme Park

Amusement

Do the mind and the body combine to take form
And become a fun ride in the Cosmic Theme Park?
Neither one of them is me, nor the ride they make.
If I thought otherwise, it would be a mistake.
If I am but the ride, then existence is stark
Like a rusted machine derelict in the storm.

We are all painted ponies. We look much the same
On the outside. And inside, we’re all made of wood.
Should we know we are captive on a carousel
Where bright lights and excitement drown out all the hell
That can certainly do the theme rider no good?
Playing with such a notion should cause one no shame.

Is my ride then predestined? Have I not a voice
In what kind of experience I can expect
Through the up and down cycles as I work my ride?
I can know that the decision maker inside
Has the power to masterfully redirect
My outlook on amusement. It is but my choice.

The Path

Path

From my vantage point, my whole life’s path I can’t see.
As it’s laid out before me, I look straight ahead.
There may be hills and valleys as I go my way.
I’ll walk through them the same as if life’s a ballet.
When I see the road turning, with caution I tread.
I can see where I’m headed but not completely.

Other people have walked this same path, I can see.
It is well-worn, so well seen, so people can know
That we all walk the same path yet remain unique
In how we relate to it and what we may seek.
As I engage the journey, my hope is to grow
To my fullest potential. My quest is To Be.

On the hilltops we can see big parts of the road.
In the valleys, it seems that we’re blind to it all.
Were it viewed from up high, one could see the whole thing.
What a wealth of foreknowledge that vision would bring!
Are we not meant to see such because we are small?
We came here for adventure, and such is bestowed.

Spilt Milk

Perceived Waste Or Abundance

Things to do over Spilt Milk remain to be few.
Surely this is a good thing. There’d be many more
Reactions to make possible… most, not of worth.
Every moment conceals an abundance of mirth.
It is how I perceive things that I let life pour
Into my blessed bowl. Let it drench me anew.

Over Spilt Milk I watch from a vantage point far
Above all that is happening as it takes place.
I see also from close up, since I am right there
In the midst of the drama, not seeming to care
That somehow it affects my deserving of grace.
If I cleaned up the excess, would that be bizarre?

I jerk off over Spilt Milk. The mix is sublime.
My life is like a serial drama complete
With the fruits of my labor, in like way adorned
In a Milk of Magnificence, not to be scorned
To the point that I feel that I’ve no right to eat.
This is true now. I wish it were so all the time.

Tight Slap

How Dare You!

“What would be called a Tight Slap is one that’s not loose,”
One would say who receives one from out of the blue
On a pleasant day when everything should be fine.
If I come off in error, do give me a sign
Other than a swift zinger. I have not a clue
What I’ve done to deserve this outrageous abuse.

Often times I’m well-mannered. Sometimes I’m a slave
To the sweat beast within me. Control I have not.
Can the creature of true heart be blamed for his act?
To survive a blind gesture with eyeballs intact
Is a fool’s expectation. I don’t fret a lot.
But I do take account for the way I behave.

 You are not my own flower, nor fruit from my tree.
I don’t have my own garden. People are not plants.
Knowledge comes as a Tight Slap upside the manhood
So that it’s maintained and forever understood.
Wisdom is abundant in any circumstance.
One does not need the Tight Slap to properly see.

Mind Reading Made Easy

The Subtle Nature of Mind Communication

All our minds are connected. We are intertwined
Through both brief interactions and those that will last
A long time while alighted upon our life lines.
Without notice we leave them. Folks then erect shrines.
One can tune in subconsciously to the broadcast
Whether resting or in flight; well-sighted or blind.

People who are empathic know that what they feel
Is the flowing of life force throughout everywhere.
Anyone is tuned into by their frequency.
Flocks do behave as one mind… as if they can see
Much more than any single one. Indeed we share,
Without knowing so, much that we’d rather conceal.

Humans knew how, at one time, to speak without speech…
And to text one another without a device
Other than their attuning to all humankind.
Once again, as we evolve, we’ll become aligned
With the lines that connect all. Would that not be nice?
If we all could read minds now, what hell we would preach!

What Is ‘Needy’ ?

Ever Present Neediness

It’s another earth word I can use to engage
In perverse and unnatural acts of the brain.
And because I have learned of it, is it my name
Or some thing to consider? They are not the same.
If I need to be needy, am I then insane?
Connotations of grandeur are hard to assuage.

Needy ones are a nuisance. They get on one’s nerves
And draw too much attention to their chief concerns.
By default, they’re a drain on the life force of those
Who can offer them nothing. The needy impose
An unbearable burden. The wise one discerns
The unsightly condition and closely observes.

Fools are those who are needy. They put on a show
For the pleasure of humankind, sane and secure
As a part of the better whole. Do Not Cry Out!
Only fools then will answer you, without a doubt.
Anyone who is needy must know that the cure
Lies with no other person. Within one must go.

Fashion Show

Mystical Feminine

“She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs
Without fear of the future.”
What mystical one

And whose breath re-enlightens the depleted space
Where humanity suffers? She is one with grace
…Nothing bestowed upon her but truly homespun.
Turning chaos to love is but one of her crafts.

It’s a Show of her Power to Speak to us All
Of the will to be kinder, passed out in our hearts.
Laughter can be a weapon. She knows this too well.
But then egos are meaningless, so what the hell?
She knows this is the issue, and where hatred starts.
Her most delicate wisdom does make her stand tall.

Is life much about fashion? As men are the same
But that we call it ego, no one will explain.
Goddesses become goblins? No, that is reversed!
If we can’t look up to her, we’re bound for the worst.
Expressing the True Goddess is not being vain.
Can this world know what’s coming? There’s much to proclaim.

Friendly Therapy?

Human Conditioning

“I feel bad.”No You Don’t! You’re just making things up.
So why don’t you stop taking things seriously?”
“That is not how it is, ma’am. I’m really upset.
I’m consumed with much doubt, and I deeply regret
That I work at a nursing home. That’s wrong with me!”
“Suck it up, little soldier. You’re no buttercup.”

“Don’t you know the establishment? They make the rules!
And we are to be slave to them. They cannot change.
Why can’t you understand that? How come that you feel?
Feeling does not make sense here where we are ‘for real.’
Why don’t you listen up more? Quit acting so strange.
You are here to shut up and be one of our fools.”

“Should this come as a shock to you? Are you naïve
To gross human behavior? Now give me a break.
What you need is to be treated like you’re a child.
I know nothing about you. My mind can run wild.
And since I’m a good Christian, I’ll pray for your sake.
You don’t listen much, boy, and you do misperceive.”

“As your friend and a therapist, I can treat you
Like you never had parents, and Laugh In Your Face
While you’re pouring your guts out. What else are friends for?
Friends become human nature. That’s why there is war.”
“War can seem awfully Christian to any nutcase
So, I guess I’m not friendly. I know what to do.”

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.

Mating Call

Audition

Would you care, my fair dumpling, to chat for a while?
That my magnetic presence is drawn close to you
Is a blessing of nature. May I look your way?
It would be so delightful and would make our day
More than it could be otherwise. My heart is true
Even though there may be something odd with my style.

If you don’t salivate ‘til the third or fourth date
I can well understand that. Fear not that I may
Become over persistent or underperformed.
I am drawn to conditions where my faith is warmed.
I believe I can win your heart with what I say.
You may find that it’s worthwhile, and that would be great.

Take a chance with me, darling. I can’t let you down.
I myself have been lower than most dudes can get.
But what keeps my heart thumping is thinking I’m cool
So much so that I’m willing to act like a fool
That I might earn the chance of becoming your pet.
In a very short while, I can invert that frown.

Not The Body; Not The Mind

Detatchment From the Notion of Self

The breath does not mean air. This must be understood.
Can I speak from the point of my experience
In a flesh and blood body equipped with a brain?
What now binds me to both simply can’t be more plain.
My own breath holds my frail life in utter suspense.
Yogic practices surely can do me some good.

Whatever I am suffering is of the mind
Or else, it’s of the body. There’s no other place
I will find maladjustment. I am neither one.
Once I get this completely, true growth has begun.
I can breathe my own living in well-deserved grace.
Can I master alignment? Am I so refined?

It’s a living experience just to observe
What takes place all around me. My thoughts are not real.
Never mind that I think them. They change with the air
And to think that I breathe them could cause me despair.
Breathing is connected to the way that I feel.
Need I learn some techniques? Can I get up the nerve?

I am not the body, nor am I the vast mind.
That which binds me to both is each breath that I take.
My thoughts are not dependable… useful, perhaps
But they tend to play life like a cheap came of craps.
It is truth that I’m after. And for my own sake
The process of my breathing I’ll see as more kind.

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.

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?

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.

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.