There Oughtta be a Law

During the commute home I drove behind a truck laden with dry grass and/or some other vegetable matter. Behind it a trailer swung with a tree. It didn't really swing but the description reads nice, yeah?
I was wary of this truck. It was leaving alotta space infrontof itself so I wanted to pass it anyway but also, nothing strapped these plants down. The back end of the truck was open, ungated. With only their weight keeping them on you gained the impression a sudden enough brake or acceleration would throw a tree and company at the left lane behind this truck. Pileup.
To amuse myself (gotta do something during traffic) I thought, "there oughtta be a law..." implicitly against such a situation. That the trucks shouldn't be allowed to drive except in the right-most lane. Those people drive too slow to be looking forward to living.
In summoning this thought I became conscious of an association I already had: laws are the refuge of people uncomfortable with the awareness of their own decisiveness. Despite the fact I preferred not being behind cargo suspect in its' security I remained in my place. If I believed a crash a likelihood rather than a distant possibility I would leave the lane. The options were available to me and I had chosen. Speed and danger go together. Better both than neither.
Such a situation can't be relegated out of reality by legality. No motion by congress will relieve the populace of being aware they have made discomforting decisions. But by externalizing the process of decision-making people are more secure within themselves.
In a way, preference for a stronger state is a preference for a prominent external division versus an internal one. Part of us wants one thing, another part of us wants a different thing, our motivations clash and we're not sure what's the optimal decision. Will we regret doing this? Would it be better if we had? And the option, the ability to switch, perpetuates this state of unease. So long as we could do something different the way currently untried is a temptation. Some men love the state, even as they hate it, because it settles arguments in themselves.
The want to silence opposition is similar. However outlandish or wrong an idea is: once you have taken it in, it's in you. An oppressive rule muffles certain opinions, making it easier to remain ignorant of beliefs contradicting your own. States prevent communication. I mean not person to person as much as segment to segment, clique to clique. States let us understand each other less. We feel finalized.
The consensus is that freedom's a burden and bondage a relief.

Ineluctable

Green cornfed lake,
clouds arrayed around their sunny lord,
bitably ripe and designated red,
hissing subterranean flame-spring,
useless incomplete assembly.

Then Exploding

two burgers, two brats
two shots, two beers
with dear friends
under fireworks,
alighting in the night like spaceships heading for the stars.

Fatherless Day

Two new fathers
I'm far from one
still young
with work to be done.

Babies flow like honey
supping milk-form mummy
clothed in daddy's money
crawling on fat tummies.

The widows winnowed from husbands
lead men on
they don't want replacements
they don't want to be alone.

Despairity

I liked to think when a newer form, and now mourn, that words may arrange as formulas to bring about a chosen result.
All things being equal, the modification of any one thing, may affect any other thing, in any way.
Yet no assemblage of sounds is legible to existence as the reactants needed to conclude dunnest items to their occluded finish.

No Solutions

Wasn't Jesus love that God above, the greater being, He leaves the righteous recesses of Heaven to lands unleavened, unraised by the yeast of holyness, to raise those below a slight mite closer to his Father's sight with nine inch nail-pierced hands?
Then it is somewhat similar to a parent, devoting his being to raising a child, causing its' virtue to rise in tandem with its' body, maturity keeping up with physical growth.
Yet Jesus had his Father, against who all else is powerless and can not contend against, to reach down and pull him back up. He was like a deep sea diver, needing only to tug on his rope when out of breath to be brought from the depths and returned to a boat's secure deck.
There is no Deliverer for us to call upon.
If you think otherwise, ask yourself, has no woman, in our rape-filled history, called for holy deliverance from her attacker?
Yet you've never heard of a woman angel-saved mid-assault.
Did they say the wrong name? Not call out loud enough? Were they not sufficiently sincere? Was their faith too little? Parents pleading for the lives of their dying, cradled children, did they have bad dharma? Did their kids do evil in a past life? Did they not meditate enough? Are they just distracted by the illusory life of suffering they hold onto? Are we just fools then, the man tortured for intelligence just needs to realize the jumper cables on his testicles aren't real, right? He just needs to ignore that surge of electricity causing his body to spasm, the smell of singed pubes, the cool of the metal, digging and cutting in with a firm grip. Have we not sacrificed enough to some pantheon or spirit, chanted insufficiently, forgotten to burn enough incense or bow enough to carved statutes to be saved from monsoons that carry them away and break them? Were the stars never properly aligned for the old man weak from cancer wishing he could stay around long enough to see his grandchild born? Is it the law of attraction? Did African children have getting raped on their mind all day before the jeep full of soldiers pulled up? Is it for lack of governance? Did we just need a politician to grant his blessing to be healthy forever, free from poverty, and fulfilled? Don't our votes make them gods? How big an army do we need to stop thieving? Our scientists are saviors? Should the boy bleeding out from a stray bullet have studied harder in school so the lead wouldn't pierce his flesh? Did we not give enough of our earnings to laboratories writing down measurements of cow farts to gain the cure to aging? Did the man who ate his wife's poisoned dinner plate not believe enough in the goodness of his fellow man? Was his love too small, the flowers he bought too few?

With nothing above us to appeal to, when we lower ourselves, we may raise others, but we stay low. We have no friend sending angels to roll the stone from our graves. There is no tree under which we'll finally reach enlightenment. Our father wasn't Shiva, finding a loophole in a blessing so our arrow will slay the enemy of heaven. The plan for our life is our enemies, our rulers, they could always use more slaves.

Physically Online, Mentally Shutting Down

For every killer there's a fan.
For every achiever a hater.
Man's coveted by woman,
teens by children,
adults by teens.

For every sin there're practitioners and intellectual inexperienced supporters.
For every good there're failures attempting and quitters denouncing.
For every work there's an inheritor, whether he knows his father or no.
For every thought there's an external prompt; where are you?

Palaces turn to ruins to visit.
Away from many you're freer to act and it's harder to get supplies.
In the midst of the hoard a hole bore hews you to the board of law and cultural norms.

A martyr needs a persecutor.
[A helicopter hovers outside].
I'm too tired to write.

Racket

Buzzing saws dust trees,
windy tubes blow leaves,
clippings on the street,
complete the clean homes.

At high frequencies,
dowstairs tv screens,
not once getting sleep,
ring out constantly.

Pups outside past dark,
will howl, growl, and bark.
Birds with voices sweet,
in morn early tweet.

Special

You're the only unique you.
How special your partial match.
Why partial?
Part of your heart must latch and lock with similar individuals by shared components.
You can't synch w/out a shared category with which to compare your measure.
Then what's different, distinct?
Things extinct soon as they're witnessed.
To even know them we must exist on the same plane.
In one dimension we're held in suspension.
If your singular aspect/s can't be conceived what relief is there from a sense of predestination, the feeling we're matching mechanisms?
What's the difference between a thing unobservable and a thing nonexistent?
Semi-quasi-non-sense-able things are proved real by their effects.
We neglect.
We can't help but ignore the unnoticeable.
What's the importance of aspects missed?
They're (if they are) you.

Waterworks

Salty rhines, my cheeks are raw from tears,
brimming over heavy lids.
My still tongue tastes them.
An august end: yawning throat;
where light can't reach.
Mouth silent, closed.
Open are the reds of the eyes,
bright as flush cheeks brushed.
Every snuffling breath beats against a mucus membrane.
Air, stifled by leaks,
rushes upstream like horny salmon.
As crime from a ghetto,
lymph through the body,
bacteria overflow its' filters,
sinuses turned to foreign enemies,
slayers of the gate guards,
breeding in their homes,
rioting in the streets,
I leak, and leak then leak.

One out the Chamber

got a crick in my neck
my own body gives me no respect

Great Nuncle

Mist is harsh and no comfort.
Bakeries' sugary delicacies aren't delectable enough to toughen my delicate mental state.
Blue plastic cups carry amber liquid which shifts in stomachs then twists through intestines.

Today's forecast is another marker on a road to worsening conditions.
Stolen property clutters the rooms we'll soon abandon, swooning before sleeping.
We're riding on rails, the cardoors are locked, and the conductor laughs maniacally while we approach an unfinished bridge.
A boxcutter mutiny may salvage our dignity.

It's hot. But not from global warming.
We're poor. But not from lack of working.
We're fools with weakened wills.

Defiant

I'll live outside until pride shames me
like a prim and proper housewife
whored out by a pimp
primped and prepped:
by a train
and forcibly
injected substance.

I'll plan for trials
though the jury's out on viability
and the situation's volatile.

I'll go alone
though friends wait
or family gather
I'd rather
intersperse
my socializing
mercenary cool
with sizing up myself.

Zz...z

The open door is an open mouth and I feel it wants to spout me out to roam about,

exhume me south from my dwelling with an expelling exhalation so I don't sprout roots binding my shoes to this plain plane of blue cobbled carpet.

Sitting still feels like a nut about to bust wanderlust is nuts.

What winds me up so my spine whines when sitting emitting an electric neuron impulse to neurotically pace post-haste and quit when exhausted?

Hunger's an energizer but milling isn't filling the quota I dote over very often: how many places I've been in per minute aught to've caught my accountant's attention but not a move takes away tension.

I'm pensive, pent in when standing in an open landing, a clearing with stars for a ceiling isn't selling me fulfilling healing I'm wondering then wandering mentally and physically shifty.

Could be a gift, for he who drifts most lifts his glass in glad toast to more sights than men who keep in the lights.

Exploring isn't trailblazing when someone has been there before or no follower blasts stumps 'til the path's cleared, pebbles laid and smoothed grooveless by sandals, hacked thoroughfares our handles on undiscovered lands fair and inviting.
My motor's cranked permanently so I attempt the accent more energetically than my peers in lower gears.

Cleansing

Flurries swirl in wind's busy whorl:
the breeze has places to be.
In the early AM my campus ensconces in sorcerous beauty circles of terra-flesh's purity.
Bare white crystal carpets reflect and refract like twinkling piles of powdery stars.
Sidewalk grids are rid of their imperfections by coats of antipodal specks.
Glacial breath throws banks from rest, tosses them to the whirlwind.
Down they fell and up some flew.
Ducks gather together near the bridge-covered river (in a pond's perpendicular feather-edged obelisks of light) to freeze their feet.
Tree branches are brought low as clouds mist on Virginia's moist land.
Sounds are muffled.
The multitude of insects, steps, scruffs, scrapes, scratches, and rackets are silenced.
Those few noises remaining ring out smooth, slow.
Street-lining branches, they lay reclined as nodding heads in rocking chairs, call to mind funnel cakes coated with powdered sugar.
The unseen sun arcs light across the humbly shrouded sky, bounding about reflective surfaces, scattered by the millions of anti-dust particles (composed of water versus oil) a cavalcade of wondrous lightplay beyond what a club's laser-spray through machine-hissed fog can imitate.
This night's storm's subtle.
The flakes almost hang instead of fall.
Light cones are shown by the dots denoting their circumference.
Snow makes the scenery new.

Don't Leave Me

At the dispersal of a party, be it family gathering at holiday, friends for a drink, a dance club's closing, or any occasion there's a sensation of emptying in the revelers. Neural rows of connections between us snap off. Like series of usb ports unplugged.
It's hardwired in us to crave company, to love society. Some are satisfied with the gathering and look forward to the next. A remainder of the last party stays together to continue elsewhere. Singles split off to return to solitude. Some stay at the place of meeting to clean up or 'cause they live there. Maybe to linger and admire the setting. Some work to counter the flow of the mob, convince people to stay, and sometimes have charisma or new events enough to hold onto most of the crowd. On the greatest of scales: this last role in the party is fulfilled by politicians, bankers, and bureaucrats.
In the context of mingling, lawmakers are party-planners. Lawyers referees for our games. Cops and armies bouncers who decide who gets in without sneaking and who stays without wanting. Executors are hosts who won't give dinner to guests who repeatedly refuse to play. Then oppression is the neurosis of someone who fears the band he has assembled hates him and takes every measure to keep as many people as close as possible. Of course "The Man" in his manor is not inviting the rabble into his house but he's touching us through his currency, military, and infrastructure. He doesn't want to let go. The shame is these types seem to eventually become the depraved bully. The madman who hits a woman if she tries to run away and then will say how much he cares while stroking her face. Like that chick from the Stephen King movie who breaks a guy's legs...

Warm-Up

There's a place few go
in our studio
where between the shows
outside limelight
beyond spotlight
in dim Indian lanterns Atlantian glow
between carlights
under moonlight
the deals we'll wheel out are Faustian
hidden from ticketholders
leadin' some holy rollers
to baths with soap that scrubs off scope yet left dollars
gathered with hoots and hollers
by children, men, and elders
choose the cause of their living all yours.


An English teacher of mine, Mr.Arnold, would tell readers of poetry to deliver it w/the punctuation it was written in. He'd also stop at each line on the second read through to dissect it for meaning, sound, rythm, meaning, language devices and poetic form. Keep your breath when reading my poems. My mental voice doesn't need to breathe and can talk much faster. Part of the pleasure and merit I instill in a poem is that the emphasis of syllables+speed of reading changes how sounds blend together and complement each other. If you imagine every frequency not as a wave but a spectrum band, like a bar code but colored like your computers defragmentation report, then changes in pronunciation, inflection, tempo, spacing between sounds, and similarity of sounds would alter the final readout of those lines. Where was there overlap=one sound matching another? What words became less distinct, overtaken by a pattern of reemerging syllable? I don't have a single way of reading set in mind as the ideal. Playing w/the tempo of my reading gives multiple pleasant results and this experience is what I want for imaginary future readers.

http://192.20.225.55/tts/speech/9af60879e2e411fbbc5d4772a830fe1a.wav
http://192.20.225.55/tts/speech/7feb6f984b91ed823c6a29a37e7b592c.wav

Read by another language it's glossalia
http://192.20.225.55/tts/speech/6064288d156790940f24cd118aea25f5.wav

Mimes Chime in Time to my Rhymes winter pies

A dog is pet,
runs around too excited to know what to do w/itself.
I go back inside.
He isn't my dog.








A boy comes up the stairs,
talking w/little preamble,
rambling as he ambles after,
someone called uncle who drinks
and pisses w/the door closed
saying nothing
while the boy talks.
The man goes to his room
placing the door between him and the boy.
The boy hears the door lock.
He goes back downstairs.
A man writes.
Who reads?

Incoherent

Surface scratches track red splats at the white cornea,
lids hang heavy,
lifted by socket-muscles like sheet-rock held overhead,
lactic acid more prevalent than oxygen,
breathing slow unsteady.
Und twisted plastic glasses frame
slides down my nose.
Blurry view.
Nodding off at a pew.
Pepe le pu.
Poo.

Empty Auditoream

A hollow chamber's echoes let speakers be listeners, self-audience. Hear the crackle? Trembling stuttered mumbles for a voice. Pitch shifts as if a sneeze is imminent. The playback misses tonality instilled by brewing audio in sonorous chest or skull amplifiers: pockets of air between bone where sound can toss itself around, playing. Sonics arrive happy in the brain.