no human rights

we're not human

go feck yerselves

bioshock poetry

well
yer were supposed to fix a city in thee
with a wrench
and all these fuckos kept attackin you yeah?
because why
did they think it was too much work
or were they political like you
standing up for dignity
despite the wounds
and despite the pain?

to tell you a truth
i think i hate that game
because there's few flowers
and not enough lightning come from everyone else's fingertips
or something
and i like ya
so don't hit me with yer fuckin wrench over this
but maybe those gun games
should be explained in schools
as opposed to them being quick purchases.

a little education goes a long way
you just splat splat with paint
and build the levels and characters as you progress. 
same with the others
and ya music on the console
with the clicks and the sounds. 

soooo
lets not get upset
but i'm going to maybe get a beer or two later
and listen to some of my old wreckords. 

I want to leave here

you know
when the "thing" at the cash register
doesn't know tax mathematics
and the "consort" 
is trying to thieve
then really
its fuckin over. 

i mean
should i go in there again
and sit with them
as their gruesome grins
unravel pieces of brain shit
out of their fuckin glass mouths?

"but on the other hand"
"you and I"
divine love

so no worries
be kind
you owned the school somehow
why wouldja have graduated from it? :P

Easter Sunday

you know,
Easter
could be a synthesis
of burgoened gold milk
in a pocket
and held there
like a bit of incense
pinched in unerringly
so you know
Churches are Churches
handsome
like shades of white.

all work and no play should be illegal

anarchy was never wrong, they cried Freedom, Rise Up For Me

i hated beating you at chess
it's an evil tired game
even among friends
where you capture movements and positions
like some sick teenage general
pretending that yer friends were opponents
with the symbol of a king from some 13th century fucked church
as the object of desire or whatever,
those coward white and black kings
making the crowd and the girls do all the work
but you know Hue
maybe it was symbolic
that when we played outside at night on those tables
with that stupid Mingus playing on yer cheap MP3
with that damn speaker i bought from the Target
after I hung some vain shirt up in the electronics department
and to tell you the truth
i was so insane thenu
that i thought my name was just Steven
and some kind of boyfriend to the inevitable
truth is i hate sex
it's a sickness of lust
i don't like touching anybody
or other people touching me
but sometimes i made exacting exceptions
and well, my heart still beats
i speak out of truth
yer alive i think
don't look in the mirror or at pictures
the reflective images of you are called desotas.

if you'd like
i'd call you Susan B Anthony
if you hate me for livin'
just know that not compromising my visions of beauty and peace
drove me insane at times
where i forgot my name and home
and how to speak
because of all the anger
of things like Death Houses that they would send slaves to in Sing Sing China.
i believe i will get on
but if yer not alive
then i'm beyond sick
but not in the sense of my soul burning out.

you called me in the death camp
when i was sick and bleeding
so thank you there
and you invited me into yer home
i think what happened then
was that Romance was a bit vain
during times of War.

if yer there
theres phones here
maybe we can sort out the past
don't turn to too many books
lots of em are just fucking lies
for some dope con
or for the hiding of demonic secrets
that i had no part of.

i haven't been hiding
everything i say is the truth or truths
if i ever lied
i figured i would be smokeing something lethal one day
because i would be lying to myself about reality
which is lethal.

to tell you the truth
i'm kind of psychic
and it isn't really a tool
for black magic
or bad news
or plotting soldier positions
unless i'm about to be ambushed
by some electronic banking scam
or a herd of lawyers that are turning themselves into beasts
over misinterpretation of symbolic currency
that is supposed to help people with kindness
instead of being the instruments of greed.

sometimes i wonder what happened
before seeing people fucked up alive drove me insane
what my name was
but well
it's Brody, i'm a girl
yer a fella.

they say this is the city of angels
all i see is dead wings.

ya know, some of these things i find out
and throw up
there's a black moon tonight shining down on the western neon light
and some of those Astronomy books
were just drug analogies
like
do you get the sick comparison
of speed balls
paired with the planets being gigantic balls too?
well they aint.

listen to me if you want
you might have my respect in the future
so you know
maybe these days aren't time for love or sickness
but the future may bring something clean and bright called the Sun's warmth
and I hope you appreciate it.

all i know is that i felt young
and not arrogant.
i'm not sorry if i'm smart and clever any longer
intellect is the opposite of evil
i'm not some director from Warner Brothers
or some fucking actress
warbling false notes for the sake of plastic dimes.

if yer alive
can you do something for me
if you have a spare dollar?

buy a packet of seeds
plant them out front

i told you the truth, the truth aint a lie
A equals A
2 plus 2 equals 2 plus 2
dont let their ugliness get to you
take a breath, take a breath, take a breath
too much coffee makes me shake when i'm awake
for fear
thank you for the bachelor buttons
they weren't lost on me then

Rocket

I bought an electric violin today.  It's pink.  It plays.  I'm starting a music project called Rocket.  It's not a band, it's just me.

Belated Valentine's Day Poem

Roses are red
Violets are purple

i love you
how are you?

go outside and breathe the morning in
and maybe appreciate the sun for me
as i appreciated you, too
for the Earth would have been a cataclysm
of earthquakes and fire
had I never seen you looking at me
so you know
this is for all of you
even the suave police officer
who smashed my face into bulletproof glass once
because i know there was pain
like an arrow through a heart
so lets get over that, yeah?

but i should say with a whistle and a tongue click
that my favorite people
were and are the mad ones
since they know how to inflect in musics that are surprising and Good
and Alive and Lovely

so go out and sing to someone with a small note of music and thrill
they probably do love you too
and the ones that left
they probably still love you still

maybe we will find Tomorrow
in our conceptions of Hatred as mere annoyance
instead of not enough Love
but I'll tell you tomorrow
if you let me put a sticker on your back bumper
that says "Smile, your parents loved each other and you
and it was the same with the rest of us
so go out and love somebody too
let them drive you insane
so that we all wake up singing, yeah?

Lethe

Black drips on black
in the Romanesque rain that seethed down through cracked pavement
at nightfall of the end of Light
and so we followed shadows
since they were indicative
of where one could find a lantern or a torch to hold for glow and warmth
and all we had
were scraps of some foreign shipped tobacco
half a deck of playing cards
maybe an old musty bottle of wine
and some sort of wit about us
that refused to accept stupidity
because in the tunnels under the dead city
there were still signs of where moss had been,
promising pale green lichen above the sewer grates
and away from a corpse that had been fowled up
on fabric shreds at a cruel gate.

Oh lore of forgetfulness
should I cram my mouth with dark grapes
and let the juice drip down the edges of my mouth
when I don't know whether to laugh or scream or cry out in victory
echoing the revelry of the end of Grendal
that creature and his family
that followed murderers through viking halls
and tracked their armored foot steps
to the edge of oblivion.

To place a diamond needle
on the thin pink vinyl of an old 33
and listen to the mellow static
before the chimes of guitar resound like brief bells
in a gold room lit by old official linoleum
would be enough
to know that this murder is done with
the stain that plagued the hallowed books
with the depravity of men and women
hunting after gold and flesh.

I should have taken a few photographs
by Canoga Park, to show the grimy portraiture
of the freeway exit
as it lent to a hurtling violence
for groups of gnarled families patterning speech
after famous monsters for a rush of speed
but the jokes of cruelty and schadenfruede
were lost on me
when I found old sacraments
such as glistening stars in fragments of triangular pieces of white glass
leaning next to discarded motes of famous pieces of electronic transistors
which I would place a green penny on
as some sort of small alter to Order
in a way that the hurtling semi trucks
couldn't handle as their metals shrieked in old groans of death stress
when it seemed that the edge of the city
could be caving into some boiling center
where other people went mining for insanity.

Old stories, cannibals, ya know
mechanical dolls eating mechanical doll flesh
and wooden strangers painted with sickly shades of make up
to mask old surgical scars that tried to tighten their faces into permanant masks
in apartment towers as dirty as the unmentionable and unforgotten.

And so I ask you plainly
if it is not apparent
do you bathe in the Lethe
it's torrents of dried black effluvia mixed with gore and vomit
or was your only sin amid murderers
being clean with hands aglow from white colored magic
when old voodoos plied at the dead meadow
where the graves had been placed out back

well we should have planted orange flames of flower petals
not this gnarled dead shrub
to stick in bare feet and ankles

and do you look into other people's closets
to find out how they do not dress
or do you accept thin stews on the premise
that cabbage is a treat with its lack of color
and promise of demise
when you could have smelled parsnips
flowing from the high towers of Purgatory
which guarded heaven
but only with banners that were sewn in scarlet, pink, red, and white?

Dreams

I was a teenager again
in college
in a crush
with some girl
who drove me to an ice cream parlor
and wouldn't pick up the next phone call
because she was crying
over what some gang members did
to a young murderer
who had thrown a baby into powerlines under an overpass,
and she knew
she was crying over that too
but the torture with the septic tank
was too much for her to handle conceptually
along with all the defacing posters made
of his family
but she wanted to remember
the lucent bright halls
where surfers and skaters laughed by the beach
and played exotic video games
bright with color
and how the human race
used to awake in each others arms
in nature, in burgundy beds made of rose petals
in warmth and electric humidity
which would compliment a gentle kind of love without trespass
but when I saw her in the ice cream parlor again
we couldn't forgive the cruel members of the species
and all she told me
is that she didn't feel
that she had a right to talk to children anymore
even though she was just seventeen and sweet.

her name was unpronouncable except in dream speak
and unlike you perhaps
i think and feel that these people live and exist under a breath of willow
kept in beauties and tragedies that kept their lore seperate
from our waking concrete sometimes-banalities
and i could tell you something exotic
about how i miss the girls and women from my dreams
but that i feel that our time in rest
is and was somehow justice
for we end up moving through travels without chitonous attitudes of forsakeness
and figure maybe in the back of our beings
that if we shared a sedintary colorful breath again
it would be at the end of loud or quiet warfare and atrocity,
we would just sit on green iron benches
when the world realized that Christmas began on the 25th of December
and ends only on the 24th of the next year
like Valentines Day should be expressed
and Thanksgiving
and all the good ones
except perhaps Halloween
and I want to say
to myself before sleep
not to get too depressed
since both dreams and nightmares
seem like evidence of the afterlife
that is secreted away in an exotic commonality of routine and wonder
forgotten by the practice of mechanism
in a waking world lost in a collage of materiality
but don't fret
we don't suffocate even in nightmares
our breath is soft unnoticed quick and long
so share with me a small measure of song
that would lay claim to love through hells and heavens
outside of that painful power of the trigger finger
and the violence of the right hand that grips a knife handle
for we were made for measured weightlessness
outside the gravity of this poorer ambulation
where records find us at our poorest
and amnesias find us at our wealthiest
when we lay down our tired heads
in unknowing communion at nightfall
and travel through territories and characters
too mythic to escape ensconcing us in our sleep
with how we should perhaps live
in the face of pain and ecstasy
as though preparing us
for a moment during Alive Day
where we will have to choose between ice cream or justice,
love or pity, or perhaps even darkness or magic.

Astral Lore

Well
this brain splatter could be colorful
upon the spin art crests of a more daft poetry
but yet I still wonder
what it is that yearns in the firmament of my remaining nerves
for a modicum of transitive velocity
within the sea sick canvas of outer space,
filling up spacecraft with water based engines
and shooting crooked strands of electricity
in small measures in the veldt of twilit perdition.

I could write about designs that could be in future textbooks
like a graviton machine that functions on a large circular orbit
with a smaller one inside performing hydrostatus
for a perpetual energy machine
but these may be laughed at
since they began with a pen,
and well, neither you nor I
are as simple as a silent machine
that came running with clean thoughts through my inordinate dreams.

A spaceship, yes
one that could be manufactured out of wood or tree branches
which would perfume the cabins with oxygen from the natural mechanism of leaves
functioning on the other end only on CO2 in a person's breath,
or a suit knitted out of sealed rubber composites
that could fly an individual to the brink of outer space's vast sea
or some kind of gizmo
that would bend light with mirrors and an electric whip
to flail gently out into the purple dark
to provide a pale illumination.

But for the children I attended school with,
these may be possible,
the ones who poured sea salt on snails
to watch the saline mess bubble in pops and cruel crackles
as they cawed in malicious laughter like ravens,
maybe something wrong there
with their brains and bloodlines
like the switches for interspecies empathy had burned out
on the metaphorical circuit boards of their minds,
failing them in science lessons
that proved other creatures possessed nerves to feel.

I could ransack old magazines and notebooks
for cautionary tales
of taking cruel captains into the backdrop of space,
like the story of poor Nevel
who they locked in space prison for a million and a half years
without cryosleep
for simply professing that a pencil with an eraser
could be a better tool than a billion dollar robotic pen
which could write upside down in no gravity,
when all he said after that
was well, the pencil performs that trick too.

Wondering if a black rosebud
or an artichoke plant
or some kind of humane symbolic flower
like an orchid
could float out into the layers of the upper atmosphere
and seed the external orbits of our fledgling planet
with scenery and beauty
as gifts to all those insane insectile spy satellites
who get used to probing for old Cold War designations
in terms of high definition black and white
across both the screen and politics.

I wonder too
if you would laugh
at a plan to make outer space habitable
without the concepts of submarines and skyhooks
but maybe just with staircases of Light
that we could rummage through with our running styles and laughter
like MC Escher drawings, hiding and surprising each other again
without painful hackles such as explosives attached to lasers and engines
without obtuse senses of disbelief in the sufferings of our longing and lack of belonging
without the cruelty of too much thrust and too much power while trapped by technological rapes
without the ideas that had planted the bodies of our kin beneath earth and bedrock
and without the miseries of hearts broken like porcelein bells at all the senseless murders extracted on soul and spirit.
We could live a nice life up there,
you in your mansion made of Light
with me sitting in a giant glowing cup, drinking water that wouldn't sink
as our feelings and love and notions extended into free form without gravitational predialections
and broke free of even the Beauty of Flight.

Maybe
this Life on Earth
came here to teach us about Pain and Bondage
and our Destiny
lays in the billowing silk of Starlight
as promised to us by even merely the reflection in your eyes
when you promised to be brave even if they decided they didn't love you
before you met those who had accomplished the stories of myth
with common items, such as fending away fear and dread
with rubber bands and a butter knife
or those who had nothing
but meant everything
to the astral navigations of Life's fulfilment
as the robin still tweets and scatters seed through its being
and as the silver flash of a fish
reminds us of sleek movements of belonging in a school
will we one day place our hands
not on each other
but where our hearts had desired up there on celestial objects
that would want to become symbols
for the times when our species finally discovered True Love.

Theories of the Unknown

I have been wading through experiential morass, attempting to connect and make contact with outside variables that seem to constitute realities if not certain aspects of sane or insane.  Dreaming, for instance, is a magical comic book that opens up past delineations of dream geographies that held through my various mental states, code word for clinical or just clinically drunk.  Despite beer saturation, certain dream cities have remained in effect whole, have burgeoned in their maps, have become fuller instead of destitute.  If I had drawn these cities without my knowledge with my own mental parameters, then their maps exist hidden and somewhat permanant without my knowledge.  There are and were street names that have reappeared during sleep, which are now washed over with the haze of wakefulness, the kind that manifests when you try to recall a long diminished dream.  But the maps are there, scorched in thin tree bark, and the results of examining them while awake are sometimes cryptic.  For instance, why am I buying groceries daliently in a North Canadian/European city washed over by warm fog, usually in the company of a certain Frenchman that I knew in real life?  The store is an archetype for a small island supermarket, was fascinating in its aisles and cubbies, exuded magic but somehow lacked the properties of a realer fascination, the kind that can flummox you into spending three thousand dollars on a golf cart in real life for no apparent reason.

Apparently, I am mad.  Diagnosed as insane, yes, but the properties of insanity have shown me today that apparently you cannot punish a sane person into filling the brackets of insanity, not with words or violence.  The person will just ape insanity.  Finding myself is a different story.  There are funny retributions when I gaze into a mirror, thinking about a factor called chirality, which is how the mirror functions instead of being reflective.  The word "chirality" means basically that your left hand resembles your right hand without being your right hand, there is that symmetry of likeness but in effect there is the reflection of asymptomatic assymetry.  What it all boils down to is the discovery that flat square mirrors reflect and refract in an X pattern, with the center of the X being the focal point of the reflective chirality.  What it signifies is that it will reflect the assymetrical parts of a person's face in reverse, the way that written letters appear opposite when held up to the same mirror, showing us that our reflections are in some way the opposing images of how we look, which we should be instructed to understand at a young age instead of being forced to simply mime the not so concrete fact that the person in the mirror is me or you.  How this ties into marginality in terms of mental diagnoses is that when the phenomenon was observed by myself at different incursions, the significations immediately had me taken aback.  Do I, in fact, look like a woman in reality as opposed to a man?  Is the stubble of my beard in the mirror in fact just natural down on my face meant to keep my face warm as opposed to the stylings of a male's facial hair?  Do I resemble a celebrity woman instead of what the mirror and my photographs (upside down reverse images of ourselves) profess?  These questions came up with chirality and mirror investigations.  I wonder still, leaning to an impartial yes and no now, if the image in the mirror of myself is actually the complete opposite, and I, as a woman, am stuck with the ramifications of having some ghostly husband made of light who follows me around and appears in reflective instances.  I do not feel male anymore, and not very slightly female.  The discoveries with a laptop camera and the bathroom mirror and display monitor which switched images was somewhat mind blowing, but only in the questions that the experiments raised.  How does the mirror through the camera lens portray my mouth as open when it is in fact closed?  Why did the technology of the camera switch its definitions of reflection, placing what should have been an image from the right on the left after the mirror experiments?  Who can explain this to me besides some sort of master optician?  The reason I am more than concerned and more than interested is due to the existence of real time cloaking devices based in only lens and optic work, which can make an object invisible when seen from a certain perspective.  You can find that work here: Rochester Cloak, the information of which was based also in an article from the web publication version of Wired.  I bring up my mental state again because I do not feel that I am crazy, but that instances of secretive cloaking devices based off of lens work when evidenced by me in the past probably did not do justice to what were often labeled "hallucinations" when objects or vehicles would appear or disappear based off of perspective.  In terms of me taking the blame for a technology that I do not possess nor have at my disposal, I would tell the dishonest crowd of invisibilifying yahoos to not get carried away with mirage camoflauge at my expense any longer.  That and the thoughts that if you invisibilified yourself with lenses and drove around for a time, that you were probably at the most causing bizarre car accidents on occasion and at the least playing the role of the coward.

Regardless, mirror and optic perplexity figure into dreams.  Are we only seeing the "reflections" of reality's substrate when our eyes are closed, bounced into our sleeping visions from chiral properties that exist in the vicinities of our resting places?  Is this a natural facility?  For a brief amount of time, it bore evidence upon examiation that some of the myths of the unknown such as ghosts, telepathy, and misconstrued vortexes of reality could be based on mirror properties that have gone unexamined in reality, whether the mirages or distortions were caused by water vapor, cold and warm air, or more complex properties that often lack description.  The properties have been witnessed for sound, as well as light obviously, and the indications for other spectra involving other human senses could be astounding, including theories of human/reality radio wave resonances.  The theories could explain any sort of experiences that have been classified as paranormal (outside maybe, say alien life) based in the properties and aptitude for illusive or real creation of reflections and refractions that exist inherently in reality.  To sum it up, are we living honestly in a literal hall of mirrors, and if so, which side of the metaphorical glass are we on?  One could point to paranoid theories such as that we are living in a maze designed for study by a "higher" or at least more distinct set of beings, but perhaps we are imprisoned by our own.  Thoughtful examination places the possibility of down right abusive chicanery within this idea either at an all time high or all time low.  Regardless, it's worth the thoughts as opposed to the nightmares I had cocurrently with the research that sometimes suggested that I was only made of Light and was somehow slipping into traps or non-existance, which I mention because these happened during my examinations and experiences with the chirality of mirrors (and perhaps my environment).  Some of the nightmares came as dreams, some of the dreams came as nightmares.  The most prominant experience of one was the notion that we are all made of some kind of Light that exists seperately from the Material Universe, and somehow we only move away or towards each other, and that factor within any sort of Metaphysical system based on such an admonition would end up explaining pain, love, loss, friendship, joy, and perhaps even Beauty.  However I am not one to definitevely say, not wanting to be cast in the role of Metaphysical Dictator or Idealogue. 

It is, if the survival of our people is any indication, perhaps time to return again to investigations of what is classified as the unknown or paranormal, not so that we may become Masters but so that we may work with forces and processes in reality that have lacked further classification besides unexplainable phenomenon, if only because a benevolent embracing of their complexities and values could portend new awakenings and a larger kinship between ourselves and life. 

Rummaging through Archival Impressions, Document 1

These scripted ruminations.  I want to profess about incredible things and people, how spinning the Sleater Kinney record "Dig Me Out" laid airwaves across transient dimensions to crowds of people who had to keep their real names hidden since they turned out to be the military coordinates of foreign cities stacked up for bombing and war.  But I won't.  I will delve, archive like, into the baleful subsistence of life on this hard won planet, which thankfully, to my knowledge, hasn't attempted to throw itself into the Sun since I was twelve.  I met a woman thankfully.  She is my wife, I am her husband.  We do not resort to narcotics or GMO dope usage.  We think this has placed a level head on our shoulders, out conniving the movers and shakers from time to time, often in grotesque pitched battles or worse, traps lain in a vessel on the sea, things we've had to escape and think about with no preparation time.  Well, life has been like making omlettes while roller skating.  No time to think about the transistions sometimes, Life breaks up helter skelter into images of people doing things for drugs while we are knowingly trying to stop the sun from exploding before it gets shot at with another ray of anti matter from the West Coast.  This I believe.  That Beauty is possible with Truth involved, and that together they make a stable cradle for the benefits of Brilliant Love.  But yet, these destructive propensities of "Ego" exist that insidiously worm their way from the manufactured consent of media hoopla into the connoitered brain cells of a sold and used populace, sucking at pills and drugs and booze like the candied glass fragments of a dangerous gingerbread house.  Well, I'm stacked.  Should I post this for the public?  Or will I have office papers thrown at me again along with accusations of my personal insanity that arrive as frequently as molestations?

A equals A should be graffiti on the side of some subway station some day, slashed out in red paint while the trains hustle by in their dingy affairs.  It is both the philosophy and the equation of truth, it is how you find it when you are alone, as it was placed in Aristotle and Atlas Shrugged.  No accolades for those two, to tell you the truth.  For all I care to tell you, Aristotle ingested less lead and mercury powder than the less famous goons he was talking to in Ancient Greece.  Ancient Greece, would that beat Prehistoric Greece in a contest for vibrant minds?  Somehow, we think so but we also think not.  Thank the gods there is persistence somedays if not intelligence.

Drunken dreams of coastal cities that have far more meticulous arrangements in infrastructure portend a de facto thesis that these places exist, not far, and not only in "dreams."  It could be made an argument that dream stuff is actually the gates of transit for where a person arrives after their body has been declared deceased.  I wonder if that is a sane or insane admonition.  Is any admonition, that has been inspected and cleared in full by a maddened socius truly sane, or are the ones that haven't been cleared for commerce the ornate and honest ones, winding their way through the substrates of the universe like strands of emerald twine?  We do not know fully, and perhaps a Plan against Ignorance should be instituted in terms of national and international programs.  There are other planets that we know of, that our eyes may resemble on certain days in hue, but what we gathered is that the universe's beings could have been the result of some supple experimentation within the flows and excursions of a notion different from Matter.  We are not Matter, we are Beings.  For all its worth, if you are alive, subsist with the lack of the Matter Hook, where it took its everloving bewitching formulation, but respect materials as well. 

My formulation of schizophrenia is a different one then society's label.  It appears to me to be a point of intelligence that only very gigantically surpasses the IQ level of the junkie, who is forced by matter and materials towards certain forgone conclusions.  Schizophrenics are only diagnosed and subjected to forced druggings by doctors whose false idea of a perfect cure subsists in using the very chemicals they had turned to at parties.  Doctors are indeed drug addicts, otherwise they would not act as the gatekeepers for drugs.  Go watch a porno.  How many of those people were selling themselves only for money?  Probably a few, but more were on the path towards King Dope as opposed to relying on sexual perversion as a constant business plan.  Dope is killing America, and the processes underlying addiction that we have witnessed are gruesome and involve malicious sexual practices, graft, subjugation, violence, war, cannibalism, and rape.  If you're not a user and you get the substrate of heroin or cocaine on you, know that you could become the center of an insidious violence that does not work with the harmonies of a finer nature.  Regardless.

out back

Infirm dilemma
while the neighbors have their overheard phone conversations
about skullduggery
as the heat begins to press like a sharp finger
at the back of our breath
and the camera man have pictured their spyland
like the black insectile rape of staring at a victim
I wonder
did they used to know old paintings of violets
from a cherub's thriftstore
as the pink tables diffused rainwater
out back in the native damp grassland bordering
a burgeoning forest splattered with damp wood
and igneous green moss,
did they know love too
or was it lost in patterns of a quick needlepoint
wrought by frayed threading
the colors pink and pea green?

Somedays with the forest pressing against the cabins
I know enough to be nauseous
and I can't forget
until certain things are themselves forgotten
by the veldt of firma and Time
so let me ask you, curious bird
if the seed of Beauty had been in your dark beak
when the refrains of golden dawns
sang
and you responded in chirps
back to that new ancient song,
did you imagine the spyglass
the errant invitation to another's hatred
on an obsedian telephone,
or the complete aural stab
of witchcraft's gossip
carried through a wind of frost
as we leaned towards the pale encompassing heats
of a whiter star and astral designation
than our sun's golden keep?

I would like to interview you
but we will keep it at a lack of hello for now
since you were running all over the property
and I think I can forgive you
for dressing like a GMO robot
if you keep your kids away from knives
that belong in a hunter's boot
for now
and let them watch the rainbow splatteres
of LSD TV
until their minds are made up about color
like how your hair winds matronly when tied by a ribbon
representing motherhood
and not these other monsters
who played with sharp instruments
upon the anatomies of our fates.

Did you cry
when you saw the abandoned wagon
in the road
wondering where the children
were disappearing to?
Because a lot of them
ended up in cruel and defaced factories
as riveted as nightmares
so you should be kinder
because we were blessed today
by the taste of rainwater from the sink
and the ruminations that fell upon
a hidden cisteren
that could be the spiritual vault
of the human race. 

Pirate Queen

And today
with the indigo streaks of dawn abating past the drawn linen curtains
there existed an old fear of doing nothing
in the face of everything
so I will take my pirate jacket
and walk in leather boots
in search of a love, a sword, or a letter
with transient thoughts of electricity winding in thin blue veins
throughout the edge of fog ensconced mountains
holding defenses like an age old keep.

The blackbirds flew in arcs the other day
against the backdrop of a quicksilver colored sky
that wafted in clouds of fulminous gray
like the dead steam from an old freighter
approaching a harbor on the thin blade
of horizon's West-observed dawn.

In the road,
the cracked old pavements
without a draught of beer
with the dreadnoughts of old nightmares
escaping an eclipse and sunset
with visions of tremendous violence
in a rafted holding pen of ships gathered like artificial atolls
where ten thousand queens
lorded over diminishing supplies
and the few pirate men
drank the last beer
before strafing procedures
by cloth winged biplanes.

I should have known love before
in the itinerant appearances of love messages
sent through a telepathy
as she hoisted her correspondences
with sniper's scope and bewilderment
as pale as the envy of a sea green sky.
Those blows from oars fell only on the ocean's skin
and below the tremendous surge of ink-infused black
fountains sprayed like oil and blood
at the verge of a longboat's wreck
but for the daliance of a maiden's hand
that sewed a pattern of oleander leaf
in silver on navy blue
were we lost for love
as the correspondence stricken with irreal guilt
did melt away in the diminished floatings
of an offshore stationary left to disappear
beneath the dark blue of tides
that lapped like a disturbed cistern
in gradients of love and hatred.

Outlog

Network assistant programming reset today to restart point on the twenty third of January, successive restarts failed, inadvertently downloaded internet software suspected of crippling drivers and factory computer qualities.  The laptop functions like a scanner.  When uncertain of travel options, rely on searches and mental examination of strangers and friends on the internet.  The news articles are becoming sloughs of falsity, and communiques on Facebook and email express negligent and harassing promises in terms of known acquaintances.  It is recommended that a break is taken from drinking beer and wine for the time being until the population's weather changes for the better. 

Halfway thinking about what an electric guitar would bring to my situation in terms of increase of positive values in Life.  It has been recommend and encouraged to purchase a high definition screen television, potentially for gaming in the future.  An electric guitar or violin would necessitate an eight track recording device and amplifier, and may be more expensive and less encouraged with concerns to the listenings of current housemates. 

Waiting to get paid in two days, desiring hamburgers and soda instead of alcoholic beverages which is a positive signification.  Poetics have receded, straight truth is better anyways.  The filing systems of the police are filled with junk data and garbage, taken advantage of by intransient and unknowledgable persons without empathy.  Recent assessment of my mental acuity has placed me at Psychic Empath Intuit, Perceptive of Truth and Facts.  There are no current problems besides future planning, I have accomplished the Joan of Arc mission of justice in life and feel significantly sleepy after experiencing horrors and beauty. 

the poems behind me

Parched cracked sidewalk
on the highway out of town
and junk cop cars
with rigged light systems
flashing orange
instead of red white and blue
as though the road
were some loading zone
where thieves pulled over thieves
and my heart beat faster
at Midnight
when they tracked my bootsteps
from across the brush fields
behind a supermarket complex
left dark in the forlorn planes
of a small mountain town.

Later I had dreams of jealous love
and not in love letter format
but twisted with apparitions of steel and metal
that formed into the commerce of coffee
then and early in the morning
leaving me to wonder if sometimes
my dreams are symbolically psychic
or just repetitious
to the waves of Reality
and the undertow
of a less wakeful Beinghood
where I traverse through matter
unlike a ghost
but cautious and unalarming
frightened of wendigo lore and violence
without offensive weapons.

I knew my armor well
for it began to pattern like tattoos
across the nudity of my body
and I wondered where it wouldn't stop a pistol slug
or those broken dull urns
they save
for powder of ash
and broken ulnas
that weren't my keeping
or relevant to my corpus.

I should have taken a car
but for the wind power
of sailing gestures
leading me into blockades
of dark uniforms, blades, and chains
that didn't resemble the Hellcat dress
that I grew fond of
in drab theater performances
until I gathered that metal
carried some kind of electrostatic resonance
that could blow apart a vessel
containing magnet powder.

I could have sailed earlier
but the nightmare of hatred felt in the cabin
would have warded off any animal
much more a person.
Now the story is about unaccomplished violence
that I will let die and rest dead
in a cushioned crib
made of linen.

Notations, January 26th 4 10 PM to 4 28 PM

This is my writing with a fledgling readership.  I changed the information and seemed to have gotten less readers for some reason, as though the former title of "Strange Wren" encouraged reading.

The assonance of poetics in a helter skelter environment appears dismal with the afternoon freezing mist hanging behind the dull emerald needles in the pine trees.  Glass and mirrors are becoming concerns.  Do I have enough material on my mind that necessitates writing the truth?  Yes, but not within the proportions of an encouraging reconciliation.  My view of policing units, for instance, has frayed in its conceptions.  I feel that policing apparatus has become an exercise in mental illness and that jail and prison systems only encourage the debasement of law in terms of financing and execution of anarchic imprisonment.  I don't want to see the police, on the road or in person.  I also don't want to see that many people in person or talk to them.  Not that I am that reclusive, but it is cold out and the temperament of certain individuals I have shared time with in the past seems to rest on their narcotics habit.  I am debating borrowing money for beer.  The outpost here is slightly warm but it is snowing outside now.  The prospect of beer seems like a benevolent exercise in abating the fringe beginnings of emotive paranoia.  I get worried, especially when considering the past cruelties of a life spent under the scrutiny and persecution of insane executors of speech, word, and action.

If I had friends, we could listen to music and embrace each other, and if I had a girlfriend, I would kiss her lips deeply over a bottle of wine.  I don't really like discussing love that much these days, but for a week there was a flux of interested parties who I vetted before sorting my relationship options down to solely myself.  It is cold and slightly harsh in the mountainous environment, I have no spare space for a lover, and it can be frustrating enough to carry on with the housemates.  I wonder now what the future allotments in life entail.  Do they exist as reminders of times past, as fluctuations of immediate Beinghood, or as gold symbols that regard the future tense as possibility instead of probable happenstance?  Is the future warm or cold, hot or dark, thin, or ample?  I want to embrace a woman of age, smell her ample perfume, and have her respond in kind, and maybe have her present me with flowers in the middle of a sparse and hard won winter.  I am not a psychopath or errant, I am not a fool and I am not a masochist, but these qualities have seemed to stop relationship prospects, or is it my capability and willingness for truth telling at any cost or outcome?

Outlog

Weather conditions are approaching freezing point, the sky is overcast.  Hike into the mountains stalled based on financial credit system and low temperature.  Toes accumulating cold in leather boots.  Transmission from Los Angeles County expected later, designations about purpose beyond psychiatric prescription check up questioned.  Flummoxed by roving spies last night in the open midnight atmosphere, wendigos feared.  Concern about town and housemate substance abuse rising.  Paycheck arriving in three days at night through electronic transfer.  Search for a friend with a vehicle have been negated by known drug dealer apathy in work environments, and transfer of my personage into a vehicle seem less than likely.  Mountain fire road travel into Apple Valley is a possibility, but marked trails seem complicated to traverse especially at night and with the cold wet weather arriving.  Forty two degrees outside and cloudy.

Destitute Outlog

Considerations of Being Estimation in terms of Living Value outside of Worker Commodities has seen a Plunge recently in Valuation of Labor.

If I had a Blaster Pistol, it would Burn Up the Kitchen.

Let's Dance for a Night, For the Rest of My Life