Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.

A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, be not long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chaillot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

Rudolph was differently -abled
As nearly everybody knows.
He suffered discrimination
because he had a nose that glows.

All of the alt-right Reindeer
Were bigoted and called him names.
They never let poor Rudolph
Participate in Reindeer games

Then one foggy holiday Eve
O.S.H.A came to say
“This hostile workplace violates rules
There will be hefty fines to pay!”

Now all of  the Reindeer hate him
but learned to hide it carefully.
They just spent two weeks in training
For Reindeer sensitivity.

A dis abled man doesn't do a good job because they are teasing



You see disabled man just bludgers, and if any pretty young
Lady starts working to help them, they play with their hair
And quite often really annoys them, and it is not just because
They are playing with their hair, no they don't know squat
About how to get out there and actually work
Well, they will work, but in small lots and also
They will take days off to go to see parades
And then look at all the workers, saying
You stupid little ******, little fool
You are trying too ****** hard to teach us how to work
And you are making us laugh so hard
Of course whether he would say that, no one knows
Cause he is disabled, he doesn't really know any better
He thinks he is being cool with us
The best thing to do is have a lot of fun
And not get in the bosses way, at any time
Especially if the boss yells at them, or gets sick of them
Instead of keeping around them like them like a bad smell
Like the disabled man usually does, and let me tell you
He can display signs of anger and it often interferes with
Their work, and after that the disabled man
Will crack himself laughing if anybody was getting yelled at by the boss
Like he is in primary school, you know the way kids act when
You get in trouble with the teacher
The disabled man does work, but you know
Often they show limitations and also they are too disabled
To know why things happen, and I start to think, that
The reason why liberals hate disabled people
Is they can be angry little *****
When they ****** think they're right
The dis abled man will work but they still will act
Like a kid, when they are either told to clean up
Or go over the job again, because they are trying to tease
Yes,  dis abled men have no work ethics, still like school atmosphere, and
A disabled man doesn't do a good job because they are teasing


Sent from my iPhone

Where is the light in the night?
Where is the lime light of the unfit?
How is the shadow of the fit casted and fitted to the unfit?
  
Who walks and talks with the disabled?
Why stalk?
Why crawl when you are abled?
Can I sit?
Can I fit?

Where amongst the abled do I feel?
Can I meet and greet the disabled?
Can I fit my feet?
Would you sleep,if I keep and feed the unfit for a week?
Do you weep and wipe off tears of fear?
Who hears my cries when my ear is broken?
Who sees  and  feeds  the sheep that wears  black wool?
Who makes money better,when  honey tastes bitter?
Where the heat goes when my seat is empty?

Who cares and stares at the stars
that share  a night in a rain?
Can you try and fly up the sky when everyone is bound and  sounds  wounded?
Are  you  able to see the geese and its bleeding  feet?
Who eat  flies with a sweet closed mouth?
Am I able to fit in the shoe?
Who circle the circles and squares  rounded by circles?
Who sheds  black and white tears but  fear grey bears?
Who draws the hearts of love in a hut of  law ?
Which attitude draws long  lines of  latitude over lonely  longitude?
Who is abled to replace  perfections that are misplaced by imperfections?
Which  angle tangles the angles of angels?


Can I fit?
Do I fit?
Am I  abled not disabled to fit in a shoe?
Who is able to fit ?

A dis abled man doesn't do a good job because they are teasing



You see disabled man just bludgers, and if any pretty young
Lady starts working to help them, they play with their hair
And quite often really annoys them, and it is not just because
They are playing with their hair, no they don't know squat
About how to get out there and actually work
Well, they will work, but in small lots and also
They will take days off to go to see parades
And then look at all the workers, saying
You stupid little ******, little fool
You are trying too ****** hard to teach us how to work
And you are making us laugh so hard
Of course whether he would say that, no one knows
Cause he is disabled, he doesn't really know any better
He thinks he is being cool with us
The best thing to do is have a lot of fun
And not get in the bosses way, at any time
Especially if the boss yells at them, or gets sick of them
Instead of keeping around them like them like a bad smell
Like the disabled man usually does, and let me tell you
He can display signs of anger and it often interferes with
Their work, and after that the disabled man
Will crack himself laughing if anybody was getting yelled at by the boss
Like he is in primary school, you know the way kids act when
You get in trouble with the teacher
The disabled man does work, but you know
Often they show limitations and also they are too disabled
To know why things happen, and I start to think, that
The reason why liberals hate disabled people
Is they can be angry little *****
When they ****** think they're right
The dis abled man will work but they still will act
Like a kid, when they are either told to clean up
Or go over the job again, because they are trying to tease
Yes,  dis abled men have no work ethics, still like school atmosphere, and
A disabled man doesn't do a good job because they are teasing


Sent from my iPhone

About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
--this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free, it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic
handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to.

It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.
Elm trees, low hills, a thin church steeple
--that gray-blue wisp--or is it? In the foreground
a water meadow with some tiny cows,
two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows;
two minuscule white geese in the blue water,
back-to-back, feeding, and a slanting stick.
Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow,
fresh-squiggled from the tube.
The air is fresh and cold; cold early spring
clear as gray glass; a half inch of blue sky
below the steel-gray storm clouds.
(They were the artist's specialty.)
A specklike bird is flying to the left.
Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird?

Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it!
It's behind--I can almost remember the farmer's name.
His barn backed on that meadow. There it is,
titanium white, one dab. The hint of steeple,
filaments of brush-hairs, barely there,
must be the Presbyterian church.
Would that be Miss Gillespie's house?
Those particular geese and cows
are naturally before my time.

A sketch done in an hour, "in one breath,"
once taken from a trunk and handed over.
Would you like this? I'll Probably never
have room to hang these things again.
Your Uncle George, no, mine, my Uncle George,
he'd be your great-uncle, left them all with Mother
when he went back to England.
You know, he was quite famous, an R.A....

I never knew him. We both knew this place,
apparently, this literal small backwater,
looked at it long enough to memorize it,
our years apart. How strange. And it's still loved,
or its memory is (it must have changed a lot).
Our visions coincided--"visions" is
too serious a word--our looks, two looks:
art "copying from life" and life itself,
life and the memory of it so compressed
they've turned into each other. Which is which?
Life and the memory of it cramped,
dim, on a piece of Bristol board,
dim, but how live, how touching in detail
--the little that we get for free,
the little of our earthly trust. Not much.
About the size of our abidance
along with theirs: the munching cows,
the iris, crisp and shivering, the water
still standing from spring freshets,
the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese.

The path of
A peace warrior
Is often misunderstood
This power, focused intention
Must be endured
By the peace warrior
For she is commited to peace

To love, to that above
To us
She, the warrior of light
Of sanctuary, peacefully
Outstretched before we
Lined with sparkling things.
She guides thee,
Her wings light and free.
Soaring through the heavens
Watching carefully, closely,
Whole heartedly. Dipping
Fingertips, sensory system abled,
Deep into the surface of  the woes
The heart aches
Soothing through the presence of self.

Energy focused, clarity surfaced.
Stand the tests alone...
Until another from the Sun arrives
Open your heart, for the
Unity is the rise, the prize of the day!
Nourished just under the presence
Of skin,
Just beyond the weight of wind.
The system that touches us all,
Releasing all degrees of separation.
Illusionary precognitions.
Only One.

The peace warrior knows the way
Her counsel gathers round her
And fixes to smother her burn,
Only to encourage new light
To emit.
Squeezing out the rays
The ways of the
Peaceful warrior,
To be spread along with the wind
And the breath of God.
I welcome all that is within.
I set myself on fire!
Focused on the light

I choose this path
The steps clearer now

Fate, the absolute tyrant -
Brings me to my desk,
And I sit down to vent
This infernal night,
As prose or verse,
Or utter hogwash -
My wasted emotions -
Which some termed rhapsodic.

I promised myself not to cry -
As the day would dawn,
And I'd wheel down the aisle.
Making myself fall prey -
To another trade
Of cash and silver and solid gold,
A car and bungalow and so much more
- Of which in detail, I wasn't told.

Though I was called a beauty
Who could leave people dazed,
With two curvy dimples,
That lit my pretty face.
People never touched me
And would look at me with shame
Tell me I looked fragile
Once they knew I was lame.

I grew within four walls -
Comfy cushions and space
And it wasn't my legs, feeble
That restricted my pace.
It was love from parents
Siblings' scorn and care
That kept me from the wisely world
To go outdoors, I never dared.

I grew up crawling on my limbs
And seeing people walk
I never wished for them to stop -
Only prayed that they wouldn't talk!
For it was not their legs, I longed for
I reveled for what I was!
I only hoped they applied thought
Before pitying, how crippled I am!

I grew up watching the world go by
Each day and night would fly
Fantasizing with what I had been blessed -
My free and 'abled' mind!
I dream of a world - filled with trust
And friends who would 'walk' with me
Who would talk to me for who I was
And not offer sympathy!

I wished for love,
And found mine, divine
In a fairy tale -
Ironic indeed!
I sang love songs,
Wrote mushy poems
Painted wild dreams -
All to him, which would eventually lead.

You must have known this little boy -
Though a flaw, he did make history.
"Pinocchio", he was fondly called
And was known as a puppet with zeal!
It was not his quest for love that struck
Nor his zest to live
For it was his gait with wooden legs,
In which I could identify me!

But my dreams were thwarted
When to a man, I was entrusted -
(Or rather, on me thrusted)
One - with no love, but legs instead.
Along with blessings
For him to take along
Ample gifts were bestowed -
To keep us betrothed!

And now I await
To be proclaimed his wife
In the presence of a world
Which always kept me deprived.
It will be dawn
And I will soon be gone -
Yet I will yearn
For my Pinocchio to return!

Inevitably disabled
with the ability to think.

The cosmos mean nothing
to my poor, misled mind.

Although the smoke
filled my lungs
and sent me soaring,

I still followed the shadow figure
down a long flight of stairs,
a figure we call sadness,
and looked into the emptiness
And stared at the vastness
and just gawked,
in awe of how
the shadow figure
could show me all of this
oblivion.

Inevitably blessed
with the ability to think.

drumm drumm drummed in two
ranks of
auto-
filers whacking keys and levers and springs
slamming
edged
quantum of scripture
i e o u y vowels of no need-- back in cunieforming time
then came those monkeys with the typesetters
whose keys never got stuck
uno
marko per stroke
five 'undred per bit of etaoinshrdlu
click click cliche'
time measured by degrees in fractual
sym-metry wit' bio me

Tumeric kicks in,
eases the swelling of the bubble.

Imagine the imaginings of a child reading
funny papers
in the privy, smokin' grapevine for no

known reason, or,
maybe it appeased the flies, while I sat
upon the throne
in a tower of my own

wandering through memories of
Terry and the Pirates saving Dalai Lama
from the clutches of
the abomb-in-abled snowman,

Yet-i isis now, the Prince of Persia, once more?

No, this battle is not mine. This
war
was
won;

at that crossroad in Perry's Cafe
when the offer was made: star a footnote here
aster-risks have not been invented... we must reduce opacity.
histoical he refused the deal but  did Write the course
"The Internet in One Day"

work for hire, a good gig, then Netscape went public,

reality validated verification of the efficacy
of Feynman's reversible NAND gates,

the future was super positioned
No taxes, tarriffs or tithes; pay flat
twenty percent
for eighty in return, guaranteed in for by of
we, the people's adaptation to

Paredo's Principle versed in Solomonic Wisdom,
re-de-clearing no non new things
under the sun,
trial by

total emersion in a sea of green sans
yellah submarine,

acid etched re
collectibles dust and debris,
flotsam jetsome wetsome old girls dream

it's now, the future, 2019, and some
of us
survived the seventies in hiding,

we're back.
wee voices you ignore at your peril,

not every inspiration is from for by good.

Some are.
Some words live in the sounds they make,
hocus pocus
abra
cadabra, for instance... is heard by children

as the leaven-less wafer
transmogrifates at
the spoken words Hoc es Corpus

Genutim, non factum
magic
thinking is nothing like

what you thought, child.

The message is believable, the messengers
may
be otherwise. EH? ***-eye-say-- eee- eh?

Self-evidence is acceptible, take a hold,
get agrippa comprehension

sweet-almost
persuasive enough to mask the bitter
ever
after taste of century eggs left in the fridge too long

Biome, bio-me, self-effident-icacious
conch-ious
ness, ac
knowledged... these words lived
once,
the eggish-isms egging us on, go
on, only you...
not me, I'll wait
I've slipped, I've fallen... where's the beef? Was this a common quest?

1972. Sheizbomb, pirate orange sunshine.
1973. We reached escape velocity
1974. Trajectory changed
1975. Lost contact, she's near Cuyguna
1976. Prego
1977. Aha, the reason is born

Future 2019 will seem as real as you may
imagine. I promise,

Ever after, all, as real as you may
imagine. I promise

look, see self evident truth, act asif you know
and understand
angel talk

there remains a rest for the cadabre we inhabit,
"Dancing Queen" "Fernando"
Abba's body of disco hits, missed
by missing one decade and a half,

in sanct-if-ication vacation
to become a hermit when I grew old, if ever,

hoc corpus, eh, as long as faith remains
rememe-r-able post Sini-ification of Suffering,

(the Dragon from the East is not the beast
embodied in the west with golden head,
silver breast, brazen *****, iron legs
and flaking rusting feet of steel
stuck
in sludge ponds and stump ponds and undrained
swamps and sloughs {called wet lands by frogs and ducks})
Ah, so

The golden-green-blue dragons gracing slotmachines,
lure hopers to the slime, not
green Nickleodean slime, real slime from century eggs white
jelly gone dark, dark brown and stinky...

even if i'd tried, I'd never have imagined
eating a century egg
sans chewing, just
gulp
swallow it whole. Din't choke gk kg.

deja vu? no, you missed something.

waiting is being
Dalai Lama, half-scientist, half-otherwise aware
there, in exile,
remains hoping a peace past standing under the
acknowledging of good
and evil,

new mercies on one side, meaculpa, mea
maxima culpa,
on the other.

Who pays? Me or Jesu or the pariah one step
up from a cockroach?
Wait and see. Be still.

Don't ask Mother Teresa, she had no clue.
But she finished what she began,
that was her plan,

skip as much purgatory as abody can stand
imagining worth it all.

Me, says the hermit,
I took the grace Noah found. Wait and see. Get ready.

Google translate the Latin Mass, then imagine it
being a message you must hearken to

drum drumm drummmed into your brain before
your prefrontal
cortextual tester circuits formed and your responses

were ever etched
on the tables of your faith belivin' childheart,
sweetheart,

just think, what if good news gathering is
even-jelly-if I can. Evangelical, if I say-tion sugar pi,
event-tually we see, fine,
details, points to every true story

a bed of nails no liar may rest upon

'fi say so, semper fi.

{evangelicum laude graduates bher no bad news in ever}
--phi beta kappa, key that opens what?-- do you know

what meaning signals breathe? beat?

Take great gulping gasps of air,
affording your self
evident right

to surface, as a bubble you can breathe in.
I think we're alone now

there doesn't seem to be any one around, now

1977, that was four whole decades ago?

Right. And whenever you are, dear reader, this was
ever ago. I testify, I examined this life.

It has been worth the effort. Now I wait. Still.
Try it. Here, there,

no condemnation, the act it self just
is null-ift before asif goes whatif and we lose our value,

we balance madness. We work closely with Cleo,
she handles historical re visioning.

time out-- essential term screams for discretion, get to the grain---
What noise is this... mmmmm
Muse- muse- just, muse like
music, drummm drummm hummmmm
Define, fine, granularity, like salt or sand or sugar
but qualia
mysterium familiarus

Term definition. Lord means h'laf weardan, {Welsh}
warden,
protector of our bread,
by which man does not live alone,
owner of the tower in the vinyard where your captive enemies
languish in your wishless hate.

We wait,

we companions be, joined by the leaven from the sky

leaving footprints in granulated sugar salted sand,
feel it,

sorta sticky, like toe-jam. like mebbe toejam spreader
and the Walrus was
CS Lewis level mere signposts at degrees of little thinker
steps tick tic tic
spiraling
clock wise from up,
counter-clockwise from down

forward, ever onward, off is impossible in the land of on,
here for ever is
too much good stuff,

but that lasts (to the same level of qualia judgment degree)
mere mortal moments

flash. Here we be, wondering and wandering, to an fro,
to get a feel,

for real. This can't go on for ever, they say.
Shall we see, I say... as I passed away.
Life goes on, and no lie follows

Listen,
it's finished, that's all we need say. Live on. Be good,
or die trying. No lying about anything.

What if ever did begin and you simply failed to be aware?

They say opposites attract,
I disagree
They say there’s tons of fish in the sea
but i’ve got my eye only on one
A fish with special stripes
identical to mine.
A mind complicated enough
to understand my convolution
A heart abled to be sentimental
But i am forced to
push away my sense of affection,
For i value our friendship more than my own emotions
I hate losing people, i’ve lost many
But none i have begged from leaving
Perhaps you’ll be the first.
They say feelings are what makes up a human
But i guess i would have to ignore mine for you
just to keep you forever.
as a friend.

(I)
People used to light candles to ward off

prophesies such as this. Stopping, each
motherly representative, for 75 seconds 
or less,
to tip match-spark to wax-thread
and hope for the best.

What ceremonial significance now

do we seek for to slow the approach

of what we know is waiting?
Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness

bound up in silence 
where
once we laughed uncensored at and for

the characters who spun throughout
this town, that school, the city, our lives.

All being, understandably, becomes

efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.

From effortless performances

of what made our lives important

back in childhood years when living
was stable and guaranteed,

now to this mongrel era of constant migration

beckoning....


The familiar is no longer our youth’s
careless summer holidays.

The Familiar is now a land where 
people don’t bother with any ideas

of an ideal existence beyond

what lottery tickets may bring.

Those who inhabit here are

more alerted to the purpose of lighting

coals in winter to shelter the children

and to keep the windows from cracking.

In summer find these same awaiting with

patient ears to heed any advice
which keeps them from going completely insane.

(II)
Go now, away
,begin
your quest, foolish schoolboy.

An entire adolescence’s
 comeuppance is due. 


Time now to seek recompense
for the years you waited

for anything significant to happen. 

Time to seek girls with inviting eyes

and lilting vowels to offer favors to.

Abled with a catalogue of charmed

intoxicants. All softened by
a plentitude of weekdays waking
at three in the afternoon.

(Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does

he simply made do with morning, day and night?)

Then on your flight make haste

to ensure your visit merely brief.

Like only one dimension of

your day-persona be a hawk

that delivers messages

back to the ivory towers of

new central HQ, while remaining 

all cloak and whisper.

Messages from where people live

but no longer speak,

as result of an assigned sense

of failure,or complimentary

wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.

Shattered lives, Ending dreams.

The mastery over self is the ability to reboot.
It is an act to be human when the vibe of indifference exists.
Steps to be followed:

- Think of the innocence smile, someone beyond your family
- Think of the reason, last time you had soulful smile
- Think of that person whom you made smile
- Think of the persons whose smile you could preserve
- Think of an idea, sure to trigger smile

Now close your eyes
Remember the last photograph, you got a nice smile

If abled, rebooting completed
Now you are certified

If it doesn’t make change
Repeat the process
Reboot again

Cain slew Abel –
Thus began the parade of
Characters whose dynasties
We remember, who decorate
Our memories.

Abraham –
He gave us all the stars
In the sky, a greater lineage
Than the grains of sand
Slapped by seas.

Moses –
The babe in the bulrushes,
The prince turned traitor
Whose whiplashed back
Parted the Red Sea.

Tempus fugit –

Geo Washington, Thos
Jefferson, Alex Hamilton –
Madison, Adams, Franklin –
Minds who created, who
Dreamed, who begat.

How many names we find
In those first tumultuous
Years – warfare and love,
Duels and decadence,
Politics and party.

Scant years later, across
The pond – revolution is
Catching on – les français
Waged a ****** scene,
Ousting the régime.

What would become a
Baby democracy – birthed
More than one new flag
And song – yet lived to
Fight again and bleed.

History is ours to hear –
We respect the honorable,
Honor the drama, revere
The prudent and refight
The battles.

The District of Columbia
Paints a new canvas – she
Sings off key, her promises
Begging for whitewash, her
Patrons vice and folly.

What offspring will such as
These sire?  Are they fathers
To found a new nation – to
Garner worldwide pride, or
To slay the abled?

Let the wings of victory
Carry us back to the days
Of greatness – let us exceed
In probity and virtue – let
Freedom succeed again.


*©  Lewis Bosworth, 3-2017

So many times
Trying to turn reasons
Into rhymes
Newest muse
Desperate attempt
Only to fall short
As soon as attention
Noticed
Wide eyed girl
Obsessed may I
Lacking depth
As soon as
Emotions copied
Or furthermore
Replaced
Gravity
With weights and stools
Climbing higher
Reaching further
Grasping air
While the painted red smile
Walked further north
And the Abled girl
With wide frames; golden bay
Lingered patterned
Against broken scooters and watched
While I made a fool over feet
In autumn leaves and new beginnings
You held my arm
While minds wander
Of heavenly thought
Of what it would be like
To hold your hand
And not mess it up
With my idiotic tongue
And presumptuous lip
Always rushing
Like one constant race
When the rules
Clearly states
Walk not run
Try to slow my tracking feet
From making another big leap
Intensively driven
Pretty glass eyes girl
Did you want me to admit my defeat?

Sober in the ****** light
sees me looking out over an empire,
the chimneypot stacks pointing towards
gray weathered skies
and my clock lies,
it’s an hour ahead of time,
near six to be precise,
and my head is soldier like:
vigorous, vigilant and abled to strike.

Drunk in the ****** light
sees me looking out over disappointment,
a recollection from last night-
let me dance in an awful club with a girl whose eyes know what I’m on about,
and that my dancing is only a dance- not performance art nor a joke-
-and the chimneypot stacks are early with their smoke,
I am cold in this jumper
and my I lie,
it's an hour behind the rest,
just past four
and my head is all over the place,
unsteady and unsure.

nobody is disabled
or perfectly able

sickened talk of lowering someone's worth due to the undying fact that you want to feel like the lucky one
Maybe it's not luck, maybe we are plagued with layers of dealing with hurt and our mind makes up different images. makes them look like a doe, that in a slim chance you can rise above and beyond

If you ask someone with a "so-called disability"
they say they wouldn't change a thing
they love who they are and who they are would never look like anyone else

they smile and have learned to appreciate every fine detail of the life they live

with unencumbered pink flourish she strips knickers down and dress shruggled brisk over her head a flit of no patience for my timid bow she clocks my eyes senses are abled then blasted overwhelm with her **** light it radiates exposed armpits huff glowing mist her groin blazes at me stricken to match but my male has no luminosity and no athlete or brute *** form either she must have liked our bar dance or the alcohol defect or she might even have bin soft for the random humour i worded her wooded way she reflects and we are minded and shyly i lump off my boots scuffle my clothes to the ground and embrace for the pacts effect everything becomes animal our playful selves step in take sleeve over us makes us kinetic cadaverliers strobic and i’m all muzzle and snout oder out of control and slurring eyes and hooked hands grubbing foreign soft hummocks and we brandish the moon and charge on frantic stimulus it's all fleshed out in front of us this splay

abled body worker,
with nothing to show for,
dreams are there but never acted upon,
thoughts break,
with no initiative to act,
scared and confused,
life stays blunt without direction..

A list:

He wears blue.
I love blue.

His clothes fit.
Mine don't.

He isn't ashamed to wear his spectacles.
I am. I am. I see myself too clearly with them.

He only eats vegetables because he has been convinced for four years.
I have never ever been absolutely convinced of anything for longer than a day.

Maybe except gravity.

Me, pulled like a planet into his orbit.
A minor planet,
But no.

I am not a romantic.
My fingers stutter on the keyboard.

He's smart.
I am, but differently-abled.

His quiet is cool.
My quiet is shy and sweet and all the things girls are supposed to be until we find out that we don't have to shave our legs because ***** patriarchy.

He had a vegan mint rolled oat brownie for lunch but they are not cake because they're flourless.
I ordered the 'beef salad' on the menu because I thought it was funny.

And all these reasons that we wouldn't fit, and still a thrill of excitement. And the girls around us that make us laugh and the girls who are not me who make him laugh. And the shame at having tried too hard and acting too cute and being too, just being too...

Bless me, for I have sinned.
I saw the fantasy before the person.

Tears shed
Hearts abled
People wave goodbye
And I wish it was a lie

I cry away in solitude
In my sulking attitude
I want to be alone
Completely lone

To cry away
To shed the tears
To get away
From the life of gray

I hate you, I say
Why couldn’t you stay
Why am I like this
Completely without bliss?

The feeling of loneliness
You take away my wholeness
Why did it happen
What happened to my passion?

Why is everything so black?
I just want to have you back
I feel so empty
So full of memory

But even if you did reappear
It might have been a year,
It wouldn’t be the same
You would have a new flame

So I say this: Farewell, Friend

The skin that stretches over her cheek
also
stretches over her hips and knees
But she covers it all in light denim jeans and a loose t-shirt
covering all the nerve endings of her skin so
no one
sees the goose flesh creep across her chest
at the mention of the word.
A word that would cause any machine to tremble with fear
but she fears it, too.
She too, is a machine.
Her fingers work through the knots in her hair quite efficiently
Her knees and elbows are abled joints
She does not tell her heart to beat, but it does so with a rhythm
filling each tiny, twisting vein
that trail like lace throughout her entire body.
And so she sits there, in her clothing, hoping no one says the word
but she hasn’t even realized, she’s already begun to rust.

The world is a place with a price tag
The chances to win are alive
They move and they dance amongst thieves and the hidden
The readily abled disguised.

The reels roll quickly and stop and align and amidst you are rubble and hate
The life we have tilted towards enemies gates and our destinies stolen and broken our fates.

The emptiness swells like the oceans and seas
The tension is felt from your neck to your knees
The endings are promised and time is a weapon of worlds we don't know and lives unforseen.

This life is a nightmare of me.
A kingdom around it and nothing to eat.
I dream and I torture the person within me
The slots all increasing their speed.

Second rate Dame
run of the mill lame
too late in life
to ever make a good wife
Common fool
Pretending she's cool
if I had been seventeen
instead of ordinary thirty something
so-so I'm told
fair lady living in a dream
indifferently abled queen
Passable, yet straining to hide
I worship you" she lied
Alone in this medium world
I wonder "what if I had been a girl?"

A tiny bundle covered in teddy-printed pyjamas,
He fidgets restlessly on the panel of the giant machine,
Preparing him for the scan is my most basic task of the day
Yet the most annoying one, because I cannot get away
Till he is asleep enough to not be afraid
Of entering into the mouth of that daunting cave,
Treating a child is so very difficult I feel,
No matter how detached you try to be and see
him as a "case", how do you neglect the truth that,
A being not abled enough to even climb out of the cradle,
Has to parent a disease that gnaws at him day after day?
I shake off such aberrant emotions and join his coaxing mother,
I know what she would really wish for at the moment would be,
To scoop him into her arms and lull him off to sleep,
But she has to be the rock she never wanted to be,
The baby had moved the last time, this one has to be error-free
So, allowed by her to take his cannulated hand in my gloved one,
I give the magic drug a carefully measured plunge
Into veins that are too little to bear such brunt,
Yet have been forced to endure this pain that can never be considered
Fair!
We two women watch over him, transfixed,
Noting his every sigh, his every twitch-
The Mother, anxious, cupping his now limp hands only with
The embrace of her eyes,
And I, the Doctor, though following my medical instinct, watching for
His breaths, with each chest rise,
Also find myself enchanted by the mysterious state this child is in,
Is it a state of dreaminess? Or of dreamlessness?
Is he floating into a dark endless sky? Or is he navigating between
Silver-illuminated stars?
What is the meaning of the half smile on his face?
Is he envisioning a world where he is happy,
Sans needles making insensitive designs into his vulnerable skin,
Sans masked doctors promising they wouldn't make him cry,
Sans missed school days and birthday parties,
Sans heated fevers creeping into his bones each night?
Minutes pass and we are broken out of our respective reveries
His fingers have started to weakly trace the red beams of light,
His voice has begun to coo indistinct chatter still unshaped by civilisation,
Its tone and urgency getting louder and surer,
And before he begins to frantically search for his caregiver,
A little more magic will be needed before completion.
I re-enter the glass cabin and inject again into his system,
A last few moments of painlessness and oblivion,
The gaze becomes dazed again, the smile reappears,
His mind comfortably wanders back
Into a calm nothingness and silent, numbed peace.
"The scan has concluded without event", I make a file note,
While the images on the screen begin to light up with disease.

Keeping a distance

I could not deal with your existence



You were as I remembered;

Strong and abled.



You were the flower that withstood storms,

The nightingale that sung the loveliest songs.



But you no longer could bend without breaking,

or sing without choking



What is left is a life of struggling,

a body that is slowly crumbling.



Refusing to accept reality,

I tried denying life's cruelty.



Then I touched you,

and felt the emotions I tried to seal



Gushing out in waves,

tears rolling down my face.



Finally, it dawned on me

that it is time to accept life as it is



To stop living in denial,

And accept life's trial.



And trust that God will give you comfort,

while I keep you happy with all my effort.



When the day comes and you have to go

Deep down, I will know



That we have walked through this together,

and that is all that matters.

There's nothing I can do about it
No lessons how to fix it
This monster with razor teeth
And bladed tongue
Whispers
Nothing sweet
As a functioning person in society
Abled or not
No one wants to here the venom
Spurred from its mouth
Wretched webbed lies
That stick like glue
And make me want to scream
I'm terrified because I can't
Do ******* anything
It scares me to know that the worst
Part of it all is that
The monster under my bed
Is none other than
Me

Writing gave me something to believe in; something to hold on to.
It gave me a purpose, when I thought there was nothing left.
It took me to unimaginable places, where I could see new adventures and new life surrounding every footstep in that direction, beautiful flowers crowding over my shoes, like it was a new rebirth for this journey.
Writing have me a mindset, one that I didn't see possible, it have me a mind that saw all colors of the world, everyday I didnt only see black and white, I saw colors flowing out of peoples mouths as they sang songs of broken hearts, I saw colors streaming down faces of greif and hate.
It gave me moments that were so cherishable, it couldn't be torn from my mind. Moments that only I could be apart of, it made me realize that; although I was alone, I was apart of something huge. Something so unspeakable, no one even knew it was there.
Writing have me sights of mountians with no end, it abled me to feel life through the trees, and to hear the words they spoke.
A pencil and paper gave me a world never thought possible.

I don't have any friends
I say im good with people
Always abled to communicate trends
You know, the stuff that's hardly lethal
But what about the stuff that matters really?
See I'm profoundly too scared
I can't express my emotions freely
Not matter how hard I try, I'll always use a laugh emoji or smirk and say I'm alright
But the thing is, I'm not
And I don't know if I'll ever be
And I don't know if I'll ever let them see
Hellopoetry is my salvation,
When I call my friends to tell them I'm hurting in portions
I can't, I pretend to laugh when they enquire
But cry so hard inside to my desires
I ask about  their wellbeing and as usual,
I try to be their salvation.
But right now
I'm tired
There's a growing lump in my throat
Or in my chest,
I don't even know
But it hurts so much
That I'm naturally tired
Just too tired to be alive

-fir.m

It’s me, the one nerd
Yes, who you used to throw your
hand made paper planes when I was concentrated in the books,
then pass your homework like I was your personal tutor
And made me cry on my way
back to home

It’s me, the fat
Yes, who you did not consider for cheerleading team just
because I was out of shape
And made me cry on my way
back to home

It’s me, the gay
Yes, who you used to beat up in the locker room for being
attracted to the same gender.
And made me cry on my way
back to home.

It’s me, the differently abled
Yes, who you used to punch,
slap, toss
anytime you wanted to do so.
And made me cry on my way
back to home


Listen to this, bully
It came to our mind, many times
to **** ourselves
because of the humiliation and the pain. but at our home door, we stood,
wiped the tears
because can’t show mama
that we were weak
and dad that we couldn’t stand for ourselves.

we did survive through, alive
but with remarks and scars
and with a shattered heart
-ache

Tied to furniture
in near-weeping posture:
lust can always bring you here,
carried in its spider-cradle arms,
eager for my marks
across your hidden spots.

I am your ***** little secret,
*****.

I have erased my name,
in shadows lurk,
behind barely closed curtains,
watched by Gideon Bibles,
hazed in blue television light,

your only sound,
barely abled gasps of,
"Yes, Daddy...please, Sir.
Yes, Daddy...hurt me more."

Tied down,
bruised,
bitten,
opened,
all your secrets revealed,

collapse
into the pool of *******,
muddle your words just enough
smile your bottom lip,
cutting against your teeth.

I have won the respect of the princess,
shown her the strength she has,
awoken her mind.

My reward is the ownership of her whorish body.