i am satiated sinful--
who cares more?
that we've been scorching bliss
and grafting these
blameless bittersweet distractors
like we won't hear thunder-
hiding from the condescending constancy
of raindrops on the tin garage
i will swallow you
until my belly rumbles
"enough cataclysm,
enough leaky roofs,"
filling me with sloshing
wistful reminders
of our tranquil dampness,
a shivering placidity in
our secluded synchronicity.

let's muddle the social structure of relationships with our bodies
just acting on desire
let's rub our ***** bodies with other filthy bodies we encounter

**** being clean
what is cleanliness

I wanted you in an instant

in some creepy way, I'm trying my very best not to seem like a creep
I'm not interested in pushing myself on you
there's never an easy way to ever make a fantasy real

we're learning about visual cues and distractors
you're ******* distracting

I don't see you as an object
I'm judging a book by it's cover but I think
we'd get along
you have tattoos
I have tattoos
**** it
whatever
that's a thing to go off of

the class gets out in 7 minutes
but ****
you already got up and left.

Call it any name.
They still supply the same thing.
It's just the description of the rules that changed.

The Mistress.
The Other Woman.
The Prostitue.
They get paid in similar ways.
For the gifts that they exchange.

Comfort women.
An old trade that many doubt will go anywhere.

Men seeks them out.
Even if they don't advertise.
Men are pursuers of lust.
And the comfort women are the prize.

Money attracts.
Women gives back.
Men are fools.
And the comfort women are the tools.

We can arrest them.
We can expose them.
But at the end of the day.
They relaxed a man somewhere along the way.

Be it the businessman.
Be it the husband.
Or another woman's lover.
The comfort women knows all about them.

Some write books deleteing the names.
Just to protect the good name of the high powerful.
Who hides truth in many ways?

Soldiers been there.
Cowboys went too.
And I hate to say it.
Their biggest distractors the ministers too.

The one that suppose to put moral values in you.
Which proves many aren't better then us.

Yes, comfort women.
Doing the same thing that women in marriages does.

We  should act better.
Except, we be only fooling ourselves.
Cause the athletes used money to attract the women they have.
No play.
If you can't pay.
We can hide behind lies.
It's just the truth says so much more.

Comfort women.
If they did it by their own accord.
Then we shouldn't judge them too harsh.

For, to the man they was comfort women of joy.

Her peals of laughter, gently rocks, wakes him up
takes away from a midnight dream's warm embrace,
one dream to the other, what she is up to, he feels bit cheated,
like many times before, bit weary of misleading senses,
they are friends of course, distractors too, if unaware of their penchant

Perking his ears he listens, wind whistling in the woods,
rain drops on leaves create sounds of soft laughter.
Every where she is, the nymph, the ethereal presence,
in dreams, in the spirited dance of clouds, in swirl of water
and waves, when the birds play flute from their perches,
in flights that seems meditative trances beyond mind.

She is tranquility incarnate, beauty that grabs mind's eyes
mother who consoles at the time of distress and pain.
The night is silent again, the rain clouds too left to rest
yellow clad moon peeps above the clouds, many gifts we
forget to enjoy, some times without being aware, one leaves

Chicago, what's going on?
Killing after killing like it's just a game of darts.
In fear of gangs claiming territory they simply don't own.

And if the government takes a gang eradication approach to deal with it.
Then we would make it a racial attack.
Mainly because the Chicago raging coming mostly from gangs that's black.

Then you hear these ministers crying foul to the news.
But ask yourself?
What?
Are the ministers trying to do in your neighborhoods?

Like many, they preach sermons in church on Sunday talking about storm warnings.
But not true activists like the old guards during segregation.

Take on these gangs like Jesus took on his distractors.
Be brave, be strong, what do you have to lose?
Except for your life.

Sometimes, it's a challenge you have to pay.

Through stupidity, we go for locking these gang members up.
When just maybe they deserve the chair?
Once fear is placed in many.
Then many gang members comprehend the consequences.

Can't always blame the police force, or the mayor for the stupidity of a few.

Young youth thinking in a gang they must show their loyalty.
Forget what color your gang claims?
At the end of the day to them, your blood of death means not a thing.

His legacy is sealed in the history books.
He stood alone without the support of many elected leaders.
Many wishing for his failure.

Except for eight great years he accomplished more.
That man was President Obama.

Well spoken.
Well-loved.
Even had his various distractors.
He must be acknowledged.

He exposed bigotry that fools thought has resided.
But then fools believe yesterday can turn into tomorrow.

He must be given his due.
We see him mentioned more by the new fool.
Who?
Can't measure up to this educated man.

Ministers states, when they not around.
They wonder how their congregation acts.
But, like kids when parents are around.
We know when to clown.
And when to calm down.

So obvious, they do too.
It's similar to Jesus Coming Into the room.
Where everybody's lives under pretense?

Putting up a front they are.
When they ain't.
We all have failed short of God.

If a invitation were sent out to attend.
He probably attracts more sinners to come in.
It's the souls that's hurt we are seeking.
But everyone's invited even the saints.

Pay attention to the distractors.
Even they tries to gather some attention.
Even, when Jesus Came into the room.

One thing special about this event.
Those that's powerful don't get special treatment.
No assigned seats for those with wealth.
Maybe for those, who's short of breath?

The rich and the poor.
Are seen as the same?
Jesus don't respond to one over the other.

His strength is in the word of his father.
A father that's above all others.
Jesus is his representative.
Spreading the joy of his love.

Which is connected to God above.

its all those greater numbers that read and do not give your poem a like
that should be the measure of success, and going on that presumption I am a great success, I love distractors! don't you?

I leave sometimes and feel the freedom I read about in all those books
watching mountains shrink from a moving window
the past stays with them
but crawls back at me
and fights to keep me anchored
to moments in time I used to want to
forget about
but I need them now to help me move toward whatever is next
not to be bothered with trivial errors
I forgive the absurdity which brings us
to where we are right now
confused together
having been told we are wrong
connected in spite of how it may seem
from a distance
anxious about money
and relentless bla-bla
bombarding us hourly
but pay no mind to
perpetual distractors
because there is a serene calm
when the sun rises over new terrain
and I'm alive to see it

I leave sometimes and my heart bursts
looking outward
seeing how sick we are
projecting insecurities
never trusting our instincts
condemning others
it's true we've known what to do
all along

I leave sometimes then return to familiar surroundings
having experienced something I can't explain
crossing paths with whoever was there
possibly for the last time
I will remember how it felt to be in a
delirious mist
with you

To Whom It May Concern,



The human tide,

a restless sea,

May tug and pull,

distract and tease.

Let not its waves your spirit sway,

But find your peace in calmest bay.

Forgive the slights,

the words unkind,

Release the past,

leave anger behind.

For in forgiveness,

freedom lies,

And energy for soaring skies.

Expect not change in others' ways,

But cultivate your inner grace.

Lead by example,

kind and true,

Let gentle influence softly woo.

A humble heart,

a spirit free,

Can mend the rift, sincerely

Control the self, not others' will,

And find in peace your purpose still.

-

Miss Millers

It started out as a spelling mistake but turned into a poem about petty crime…

A smattering of temptation as you wander through the shop.
You’re certain no one’s seen you, or caught you on the hop!
The carousel of cameras scanning overhead.
If there is a wazz up there watching someone outside would have said.
You’ve popped the bag of sweets (a test) into your hood
so time for the big one…the single malt, the triple filtered ***** or the brandy
That looks good…Handy!… I’d give ‘em an asbo!

Make the punishment fit the crime…no custody, no doing time
for anything so puny. So, lifting from a shop’s not attracting attention
and mugging the pension from a careless granny wouldn’t even get a mention.
If you’re lucky… it’d just get ‘em an asbo!

Inner Cities spawn organised gangs with distractors, dippers, lookouts,
And millions spent on security, surveillance, radio networks…to confound the canny louts
It all gets added to the cost of goods, hits the pocket of the shopper
and when the deal goes down it’s just the ineffectual copper
who passes the gangs on to the courts… just to get an asbo

The system isn’t coping the prisons are full of proper crims & the rest think it’s a game.
We need a dis-incentive, a deterrent something to put them off their aim.
with technology in our lives today like that electric control collar for dogs
Well, this’d be a way to confound those who set out to do us ill…
an extension to the tag but with extra skill… a kind of super asbo

Since I’m slightly to the right of Atilla the ***…

So… there should be a new E-procedure to deal with crime that’s just called petty
like an app that sends a message to the ankle tag when someone sets out to be a lag
and, when their bad deed is done, and they’re divvying up the loot
the tag tightens cuts the blood supply and amputates their bleedin’ foot!
Asbolutely!

Some women will never know about a wedding ring.
Will use every excuse to avoid the message of what that ring means.

They will have child one, two and maybe more than three.
And oft off the term or phase many women love to say.

We feel like we marry and doesn't need a ring.
It's just a symbol.

But in truth, it is so much more.
From a man point of view, it's the only one you're sworn too.
Sure, things of joy and hurt might be apart of a marriage.

It's that image you want all your children to cherish.
Some think being married is simply a game.
But with that ring upon your finger.
It singles a few things.

It shows power.
It shows trust.
It shows love.
And it alerts distractors that you will protect the one that has your back at any time.

A person not marry and just acting the part.
Doesn't realize when something happens to the one you love?
You are not the one in control over decisions anymore.

That falls into the hands of parents and this you must know.

Many have said it.
Many have spoken it.
America, just can't be the world police.

To all the foreign country with the military dictator.
Or the countries in this world seeking America to overthrow them.
What's wrong with you?

They are governing you?
Dictating their power rules for you to conform too.
And we always the country others turn too.

Dictator Hell, killing annihilating his distractors?
Which isn't new with many leaders.
Who caves into them?

Many Americans constantly asking?
Why us?
We trying to protect America from the trouble that comes.

a political stance
a humble servant
a twisted thorn
self-grandisement
one eye on the prize
one eye for distractors
two eyes looking backwards

Is this the right wall I wanna climb on, or is this wall gonna give me a sense of purpose? With the guidance of the ladder, will it break beneath my weight, or will it hold me steady, leading me to success… or to a lesson?

How do I know if this wall is really built for me? Was it sent as a gift, a doorway into who I was meant to become? Or was it sent as distractors, a shiny illusion, pulling me away from the path that’s truly mine?

And as if the wall and ladder were not enough, there it is—
a tightrope stretched thin, swaying in the air like a dare.
One wrong step, and I plummet.
One careful stride, and I cross into something greater.

I’ve seen others rise with borrowed wings,
hands that are not theirs lifting them higher.
They climb with shadows pushing from behind,
coins whispering louder than effort,
doors opening not by merit but by hidden keys.
Their ladders look taller, but they lean on crooked walls.
Their ropes look steady, but they are knotted with lies.

But me? I come with nothing borrowed,
no secret favors tucked in my pocket.
I carry only what cannot be stolen—
faith that steadies my trembling,
confidence that keeps my spine straight,
hope that sees beyond the fog,
obedience that walks the narrow line.

And if that means I climb slower, so be it.
If that means I reach higher with torn hands instead of polished gloves,
let it be known: I would rather fail in honesty than succeed in corruption.
For crowns won in shadows turn to ash at the touch of light.

My luck may be limited, but my faith is massive.
Luck runs out—faith does not.
Luck depends on chance, faith depends on God.
And it is by faith, not luck,
that walls crumble,
that ladders hold,
and ropes steady beneath my feet.

Because luck is the gambler’s coin that flips uncertain.
Luck is the fleeting breeze that cannot be caught.
Luck runs out, it abandons you when the night grows cold.

But faith—faith endures.
Faith steadies trembling hands on broken rungs.
Faith holds the rope when the winds howl.
Faith does not depend on odds or numbers;
it depends on the One who built the wall,
who strengthens the climber,
who steadies the ladder,
who stretches the rope but will not let it snap.

So I will not chase luck,
I will stand on faith.
For luck fades like smoke,
but faith—faith carries me through fire.

The wall challenges my strength.
The ladder tests my trust.
The tightrope exposes my soul.
And the world around me tests my integrity—
will I rise with clean hands,
or fall with borrowed crowns?

And so I ask myself again:
Is this climb meant to build me, or to break me?
Is the rope a bridge, or a trap?
A path to destiny, or a snare of distraction?

Maybe the answer isn’t in the wall, or the ladder, or the rope.
Maybe the answer is in me—
in the one who chooses to climb, to step, to risk, to trust.

And until I know,
the wall stands, the ladder waits, the rope trembles,
and I remain—on the edge of decision.