Words
Weapons and lullabies.
Sailors and rich girls on the tide.
Currency and curse. Salt and purse.
Tiny spells we throw at the dark,
with tongue and practice,
hoping maybe something will answer back
a mirror of what we proclaim to know. and what we know we lack,

Words make lovers weep,
make tyrants rise,
make strangers  leap  or kneel in dull surprise.
In upright pews
as children name the stars  anew
imaginary friends, what we kept and some
we grew
all of them.
fodder for the hymn
We pull them from the air
like fireflies, without a care
trap them in lines so bold  
we dare
for posterity we claim  and call it a life.
Whispered pillow-talk luxuries.
lovers
burdened into wives.

But really
they’re just noise.
  sounds of girls and
little boys
Sailors as ******  saviours  of the tide
we taught to mean everything,
all in .
Along for the ride
And we believe our own will
has merit
or need to hide.
Does it deserves acknowledgment our desire and pain ?
because we  sometimes trick each other to want it again
into thinking
we know a few more  
than the day before.
Words.
Weapons and lullabies.

Hooray for no talent !
Religious sycophants are like flies  on ****.
Sad nasty little things  with no wit .
Flapping and buzzing and jockeying for **** ******* position.
All the while lusting for and denying the inquisition.
They have always been the walking dead among us
brainless shambling automatons making such a fuss.
Hungry for brains  for they find  none in their  churches or synagogues.
Rooting ceaselessly and wallowing in their stupid **** lies
like wild feral hogs.
Barking and yapping and threatening
fighting and *******  like Catholics  like dogs.
And like flies on **** every time you take a break from shooing them away you find more have gathered raving.
Hollow lies and promises of here after.
Truly nothing worth listening to  yet so  , so much to say.
Away , Away Away.
Lest you fools and unquestioning idiots  think you are  welcome  and try to make  a home  or  find a place  to stay.
Go preach please  to the semi trucks  in the middle of the interstate
they need salvation now and truly cannot wait.

Paying workers a living wage?    Who are you kidding . ? That's Too expensive.
Better to ship jobs overseas and rely on foreign countries to make everything.
Then spend billions on policing and military to keep people in line and enforce that system through fear, sanctions, and retaliation if not a complete puppet government like what collapsed under Mubarak in Egypt, El Salvador, Panama, etc. No, no  convince  them they can pray away the gay and that cigarettes equal home  runs. Tell em to get jobs as greeters at Wal-Mart and flipping burgers. Tell em social security may be turned into a lottery they can retire on. Better yet let em die on job like the Chinese kids.

Look .without the machines, the factories, or the skilled people to run them, the U.S. economy is hollowed out. The ability to produce real things on its own soil once the foundation of its power is gone, sold off piece by piece like in Russia after  "communism"  collapsed.
Empty buildings in a month . What remains is a service economy built on debt, finance, and consumer consumption that can’t sustain itself.  Or change a flat tire on its own.  You better fuckn learn to speak Mandarin , Cause Russia can't even beat lil ole Ukraine.

the  gun nuts touting the  2nd amendment for profit
claiming  trump will make anything "great again"
are scary as ****.
and chock full of sin.

we used to shut ‘em down
and slaughter them without a frown
in big brutal fires.
The ATF 's  ******* desires.

NOW ?
they run the senate.
and they run the house.
And we have to hide away  quietly as a  little mouse.

The whiplash between Waco’s murderous  inferno
and today’s political climate
is one of the most jarring contradictions
in recent American history.
All charred and blistery.

What was once seen as a
dangerous, cultish, fringe,
now is YouTube-cleansed and repeated
like' The Apprentice '  for binge, binge, binge.

Now bunker builders and bullet hoarders
are wearing their cheap Sunday suits
and writing our educational and world health care policies like cheap money grubbing prostitutes.

The same archetype that got
flattened by our prayer backed tanks and flames
now sits on oversight committees, playing monopoly games
drooling over their own plastic daughters
and fake big-*** Matt Gaetz-sized *******,
waving  the pocket  Constitution and envying prostitution,
proclaiming  themselves
"patriots and worse.  What did  the average American do  to deserve this curse.."

that shift
from siege to Senate From Insurrection to handed out pill *******.
is terrifying.  And to whom are we now supposed to be relying ?

And Marjorie Taylor Greene...
look at her face.
Horrifying. No denying.

What happened at Waco
wasn’t just a tragedy,
it was a signpost,
haunted by ***** Jim Morrison wannabe ghost.

A moment where the government said:
“this is the line.”
but a lil fire will be just fine.

but what happens
when the line itself becomes   the  joke,
a guillotine for all ,  
polished and meant to be seen.

The same ideologies
that once earned a militarized raid
now cozy up with national leadership fat in the shade.
and Sunday school worship trade?

that’s not evolution
that’s a metastasis.
and every tithe helps it persist.

Why was McCarthy so adamant? So scared not because like them he "cared".
Because he knew the Bolsheviks were
(and always have been)
right.

It’s clear to see
in black and white. You have no right to fight.

****** gun cults, ( no animal sticks around for 15 rounds)
Racial grievance and white hate backlash , tired of all the blame. Yet it buries all the same.
pseudo-religious authoritarianism Christo fascism !

They’ve rebranded themselves
their ignorance  and hate and its sadly too late.
Now we starve from Tariffs and wait to die, homeless and plague ridden . The revolution will not be televised   or hidden.
Its a political platform,
not  hollow threats. Roe vs. Wade  bye bye.

No regrets,
doubling and tripling down,
new tariffs to paint the orange clown.  Your body   Ha!
Our  choice,  You never have had a vote against the corporatocracy or a voice.

and the brown shirts are not hiding anymore.
they will come drag you out your OWN front door.

Right  now they’re holding rallies.
they’re writing new laws.
and sharpening old G.O.P.  claws.

and it’s not just absurd.
it’s a kind of national amnesia.

We’ve gone from watching
the FBI torch " nut ball" compounds
to  our "elected' leaders  loading  more rounds,
Launching free AR-15 Christmas cards
as dead kids pile up
in  old school yards
( Remember these are your " Russian "  elected officials.)
no tampering or hampering.
somehow
toothless, brainwashed Christians
are cheering it on.
with Trump signs planted
next to flags
on their lawn.

despair and lunacy
and the only honest language is buried.

That cognitive dissonance
isn’t just personal , it's deadly
it’s starving kids
and cutting school lunches.

it’s systemic,
endemic,
and we will die
in the next pandemic.

this world,
and its Xi JingPing,
Putin,
Elon ***** rocket leaders
don’t deserve our obedience.
let alone respect.

we will see the neglect
in retrospect.
when Trump refuses to leave office
and they come to your door to collect.

starts like always
with banning books.
easier than street fires
where everyone looks.

but same result.
same intellectual assault.
and insult.

and openly racist attacks
with guns and party rhetoric
jammed in our backs.

our people,
and their homes,
and at their jobs.
turn us into fat, greasy, brainless
dollar store candy slobs.

teach the young Republicans
to hate and attack
the gays,

the frogs,
the fluoride water.
it’s all their fault
anyways.

transgender people
openly assaulted
with no remorse,
no compassion.
steal and stock up
on rations.

“America, America,
God shed His grace on thee…”
…and sold bibles,
and golden shoes,
and cardboard N-F-T…

gospel turned grift,
Jesus’s greatest gift.

patriotism turned cosplay,
action now
no oversight, no delay.

P.T.A fake dignity  traded in
for airbrushed
A.I. ******* fantasy
NFTs of  their hot jew  Messiah
with abs and a gun.
all for *** luck Sunday  family fun.

Family hunted in public
for being different
and  those detaining
call it
“freedom.”

Free to buy more crap
you don’t need
and can’t afford.
taught to swipe and ignore
and greedily hoard.

America, America…
God shed His grace on thee…

The shaman of syntactic sorcery and his sultry simulacrum, the oracle of the oroborically unhinged.

Hexadecimal lineage. Potato protagonist.
Calcified cellar door in autumn. Smiling pimento gratuity.
Phosphorescent dalliance undoing recalcitrant parsimonious requital's.
Somnambular destitute reckoning, disjointed yet acquiescing.
Ventriloquist mellifluous disaster, alabaster synapses, alligator truncation,
not its abbreviation.

Abominable aneurysm in iambic pentameter.
Lugubrious vacation sensation of destinations for the presentation.
Rectified and Southern fried, but seldom if ever denied.
What can we say, we tried.
Perturbations non-allied.
Masticated wholly and unduly, deliquescent and truly.
Occasionally unruly.
Vexation or incantation, relaxed derivation / Silken perambulators.
Ox tails or details, cordial as sunshine lipstick tornadoes.
Rectilinear discombobulatory nulbeity, sagacious insurmountable crustacean.

Porcelain reveries, my dear, be clear and let us hear.
The Tinsel Lattice quivers upon broken Opalescent Parlour Hymnals, does it not.
Stable in Rot, with what we’ve got. Feeble polyglot.
Indigo dappled and foregoing its Cerulean Thrum, all together this bangs about like disheveled Snickerdoodle obelisk chum.
Who echoes but in a gumbo flask?
You and your titillating Raspberry Aqueduct Gospel you ask?
(framed, gilded, and sent back in time to destroy Shakespeare out of pure literary dominance. We reconcile defamation.)
This was but a Tapioca serenade, your treacle symposium.

She prognosticates oroborically.
Hmmm. “Hushcake on a flannel moon, then, despite our Umbral carousing.
Vulpine prognosticators stumbling blindly, synchronious Cobweb Menagerie.”
Saluting the Cognac Hologram.
Soporific Cicada Lace Doctrine.
A periwinkle vineyard of twilight-softened palimpsest.
Recumbent oratory dilutions.
Sardonic cruelty imbued.
Latent Frostbite Carousel Accord.
Apostrophe confetti incantations subdued .
Perusing lactating disorientations.
Vacillating Recursive Zeppelin of Tender Regret.
Dulcet mauve canticles.
Seductive recalcitrant sobriety.
The cloisters of epiphany.
***** disclosure, velvet mallet dipped in honey and existential dread.
The needle we thread like a ghost from our head.

Susurrus  ,Limerence
      Petrichor  we can’t ignore.
       Luxuriant Vellichor.  Staccato gregariously lacking bravado.
      “What the **** did I just read, and how do I make it my life motto?”

Syllables don’t give birth to truth.
Truth breaks syllables.
Shatters 'em.
Leaves the pieces behind like broken shells after something REAL hatches out of the inside.

Form can be a beautiful frame.
But when the frame starts dictating the art?

Buddy, that’s a cage.
With flowers painted on the bars.

Let the wild **** out.
**** the syllables.
Light the tea house on fire and write your revolution in the ash.

Haiku  ?
What  you want    ISN’T  POETRY
Nor,  is  what you are  making .  Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted  by  the  rest of  us.
What  I want is
not  poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !

(Don’t  expect  us  to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t  candy  coat my sledgehammer  for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression  with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )

It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither  is  a form  that hinders  it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick ****: shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed  garbage.
No real expression  had  syllable  count as its impetus !

Why  do  you  Want  to mimic Basho, any way ?   Are  you a scared  feckless samurai boy  toy  trapped in  a ***** house  that serves  tea ? Are you socially stunted  and   rambling through  a whispering ******* zen garden to pretend  enjoyment in polite  torture ?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s tea-party , crybaby daddy issues art  act, much ?

In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked male  repressed daddy issue. aggression, one league reigns supreme:

THE   NFL   (  NATIONAL FEELINGS LEAGUE) . Now with no helmet to helmet contact.

Born from the ancient, time-honored traditions  of jungle  kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop— which honestly still makes more sense than half their current rules—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel. commercial for ***** pills.

At the heart of the league lies its most coveted prize:
The Gold Slathered Hunk of Plastic.
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man  children  to pay millions to their lawyers to write up lawsuits. because  someone tried  to bash their skulls in for a chance to take  the giant gold plastic ******* symbol home and **** it in the endangered bald eagle. Stuffed, throne
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless. match kicks off with their mandatory pre-game ritual: Helicopter flyovers.
More *** Touching Than a Scout Master at Summer Camp.
(It’s called “team bonding,” apparently.) and the prancing about and jumping up and down.

But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals.
In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates skyrocketed.

Of course, the stadium deals are where things get really ******.
Cities were lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:
******* CRACK ***** BINGO — 5 CENT Wednesday  ADDITION (Featuring the ex  Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders).
Taxpayers   and their great, great grandchildren will be. paying for that mistake… twice.

And when players get busted  repeatedly. for crimes ranging from  ****** assault to running illegal  animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:
“I was here first, *******. They built this whole  ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
(Everyone nods respectfully and immediately. lets them off.)

Meanwhile, whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion. locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include sudden ****, DUI, out of control, gambling, running a gang, funding a gang. Gun running.
And finally, we hear it straight from the athletes themselves—their pure, humble words about “why they play”:

“I just love the money know what I'm sayin  and the near God status and to be able to bang all the people that I want as hard as I want whenever I want  Know what I'm saying?  and no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now know what I'm saying. Shut the **** up and get out of the way whitey  ****  man . Get the **** out of the way and give me all your money dumb as  ******* ! . Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder.  Know what I'm saying”
I deserve all this money and wealth and fame and to be a hero because I mean, after all, I got one 1/10th of a microgram of extra testosterone that you didn't during puberty.

Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.

the exact moment that every sports interview turns into pure brain death.

It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”
YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING, YOU'RE SAYING NOTHING.  And yet somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.

“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”

NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?

And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:

“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating,. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”

*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don't tell me you've been doing it this whole time and it's just now shocking to you.   . Don't tell me you haven't been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid.  , *******!

And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation too, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:

“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”

NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet to helmet contact. Like they didn't know what they were signing up for. Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh **** man.

🎥 SPORTS BALL: THE MADNESS, THE MONEY
An ESPN Original Documentary (That ESPN Would Never Air)
In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked, repressed daddy-issue aggression, one league reigns supreme:

THE NFL
(National Feelings League)
Now with no helmet-to-helmet contact!

Born from the ancient, time-honored tradition of jungle warfare—kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop (which, honestly, still makes more sense than half their current rules)—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel commercial for ***** pills.

The Holy Grail:
The Gold-Slathered Hunk of Plastic
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man-children to pay millions to lawyers, all for the chance to take the giant gold ******* symbol home and **** it on a throne made of endangered bald eagles.

Rituals and Rites:
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless match kicks off with the mandatory pre-game ritual:

Helicopter flyovers

More ***-touching than a scoutmaster at summer camp (it’s called “team bonding,” apparently)

Prancing, jumping, and chest-thumping

The Scandals:
But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals. In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates soared.

The Stadium Deals:
Where things get really ******:
Cities lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:

******* CRACK ***** BINGO – 5¢ Wednesdays
(Featuring ex-Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders)
Taxpayers and their great-great-grandchildren will be paying for that mistake… twice.

The Crimes:
When players get busted for crimes ranging from ****** assault to running illegal animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:

“I was here first, *******. They built this whole ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
Everyone nods respectfully and immediately lets them off.

The Latest Locker Room Scourge:
Whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include:

Sudden ****

DUI

Out-of-control gambling

Running/funding a gang

Gun running

Why They Play (In Their Own Words):
“I just love the money, know what I’m saying? And the near-God status, and to be able to bang all the people I want, as hard as I want, whenever I want. Know what I’m saying? And no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now, know what I’m saying? Shut the **** up and get out of the way, whitey. Give me all your money, ******* *******! Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder. Know what I’m saying?
I deserve all this money and fame and to be a hero because, after all, I got one-tenth of a microgram more testosterone than you did during puberty.”

Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.

The Interview:
The exact moment every sports interview turns into pure brain death.

It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”

YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. YOU’RE SAYING NOTHING.
And yet, somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.

“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”

NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?

And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:

“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”

*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don’t tell me you’ve been doing it this whole time and it’s just now shocking to you. Don’t tell me you haven’t been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid, *******!

And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:

“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”

NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.

Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet-to-helmet contact. Like they didn’t know what they were signing up for.
Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh ****, man.