Genetic DIY in my realm,
Glow, little glow worm, glow puppy or guppy or
maiden hair, modded to the max-men can
imagine, when agreeing to believe.

"nothing
imagined shall be impossible for them"
or the sense
that makes,

conveyed in words di
gestated long long long ago
ere toungues was tangled
and us and es and ds and hs and bvs

umlauts and tildes and tittles and jots
attempted to say it all after
it is written is/was
different than it is/was said, it is common

filth is now
called clean, in greek

with homophony rhymes and rhythms
'idin' aitches and gees us commoners
miss, out on the edges of the
fusion, with which,
those wild tongues was tamed, in time,
write the message, make it plain

in the school of the prophets, thems' the rules,
publish precizision bits of insight into knowables
known,
the knowledge of our
mob, told and re-told, told and retold, told and re
one moment.
A glimpse of a gleam of a photonic
spec, seen proper,
it was a germ-cell mod, in a word.

Spat, rather than spoken. A message at the level

where you nowgno this is possible -- a flick
of a gene switch on the ladder like
structure bhering message-engers up and down,

instructing structures to form frames on which you
may sublimate and recompose, upon a grain
of pre-pearl material,

pending loosing of that pen-ultimate lie.

Look, who's tellin' what to whom?
Like, Do Not Lose The Thread of History,

which happens to need re-tying,
from time to time,
like a shoe, yes, child, like a shoe.

Worthy to tie my own shoe, at two---
you d'man! Ex-clam, pure pearl polished

Big Boy, tied yo'own shoe,

Momma gonna buy you a diamond farm,

just over that hill,
you go see, someday, you will

Find a Diamond Farm, where the reality
of what coud be,
began to gestate, wait, diamonds are not for

ever.
Diamonds are for grinding gritty silicon to the
finest dust,

to force a sneeze, re
leasing, loosing, letting go, all the lies you knew,

to chew
well, raw liver-level, nasty tastin' pre-
digested crap from alchemical rantings
a guy said he seen
after some spit from a perfect stranger
got rubbed in to his eye,
pearly friction feels this way,
can't scratch it, gotta gum it,
roll it round
and round, like Redman,
or cow cud, a chaw,
a chew

someunsame, somesamesame sniffles,
in my realm,

swallow the final chawn and un spat lie,
and gasp at first glimpse of next.

Her eyes lit up as we drove into the farm
a gorgeous landscape of flowers and horses
a crowd of inviting people
who said they loved her
but hurt her
every day
I could see the frustration
as they told her no
to the simplest of things
because she was female
and watched as her younger male cousin
was always put on a pedestal
for all his "hard work"

This is the place she called home
because although it wasn't perfect
And it wasn't painless
It did hurt less than
The way "mom and dad" did
It didn't cut as deep
As the shards of broken glass
scattered through the kitchen did
It felt like love
compared to living with two
that despised each other
It may not have been everyone's joy
but it was paradise to her

I am a little scarecrow, standing in the farm all day
Made out of straws, twigs and hay
When the crows come, I made them go away
To protect the farm where I stay.

I am here all along
All day and all night long
Guarding the farm, firm and strong
While listening to the bird's song.


The crows that flies within the farm
Keeps on landing in my arms
Preventing them to do any harm
By using all of my charms.


For my job is a hard one
Always under the sun
But once I get my job done
It feels fulfilling and fun.


This is me
This is what I'm meant to be
Come to the farm and you'll see
Or you can also play with me.

I am a farmer at sea
60 sheep, 100 pigs,
geese and ducks on departure

These are frugal rations
with the stew, army bread and beans
No need to slaughter

The beasts just die
so there is always meat
for the cook and the officers

high above my smelly stable
where I haul in the buckets from the sea
and scrub the **** through the scuppers

In the bunks, it is worse
There is the world of the below deck
of sweat, exhaust gases, and the rasping sick

where you sink asleep in a pit
full of poo and ***, gasp for air
and throw up brown tar

“I know that summer ends when my mustards die,”
It’s a secret I was told that belongs to the seasons.
Few alive know of how to even predict weathers:
“Walk you carefully to the edge of a tree’s shadow
Then raise your hand high above the ground
look at the sun until your eyes line up with it—“
He explained to me like an old mathematician
So occupied my father seemed with his calculations
Sometimes just to prove to his neighbors and friends
that tomorrow’s rain comes exactly at three p.m.
Those jagged hands waving up and down
Like a weather vane looking for wind’s direction
I was only a young boy or so I vaguely remembered
When he called me home earlier than he usually did
The seven years old boy cried, refused to listen
To his fathers’ nonsense about a coming ice storm.
“I saved you at the rightful age so you can play on
Or else I would lose you before you grow old
In the shelling hailstones of that one July afternoon.”
He brought this story up to us every single December
His magic in telling the weather hasn’t changed since
It’s me who began to slowly forget all his gesticulating
Under the searing sun while I stared and listened
To him rambling quietly that a rain should come soon.