Jo Jorgensen would let the Marxist Seperatists leave, I wot.

 

John Stewart once suggest taking the liberal Northeast and the liberal West Coast and dividing those from the rest of the country.  But that already happened.  This suggestion came at the 2004 election results, where I, registered as Libertarian voted for George W. Bush, fully not anticipating Dubya's enlightened neo con brand of liberalism that would begin to unfold thereafter.

Meanwhile, Senator Man Meat(John Edwards) said, "there are two Americas" and I thought, it sounded so divisive, like he was trying to create two Americas, but that observation by Edwards would ring quite even more true today.

Breonna Taylor, in her job, was one kind of America, and then when she went home to her boyfriend, she was in another America entirely.  And I've been saying, we have Civics courses, we have Government courses, but we need some kind of Citizenship course, where we learn something of the people's bared backside, how it all effects the other works, that government does not shape the lives of the people, but that government should react and adapt to the lives of the people.

A debate.  A brawl for it all.  Each man representing millions of loyal kool-aid drinkers.  One with his lip poked-out and the other promising the world.  Nationalism versus Globalism, maybe.  Neither talking Austerity in any sense of the word, as the country groans for another Coronavirus stimulus pay-out.

a down payment on a "new-to-you" Earth.

 

A solitary figure, at once inter-connected, by hearing the echo of his own thoughts, in contemplation of universe that can seem so profoundly simple, but with so much hidden from us.  And we are told the Gospel is as a mystery, the meek inheriting the Earth.  The conundrum is at once so simple as to break us in its complexity: the Gordian Knot.

Asleep in darkness, awakened in darkness, but to know the light: to reach for it.  To feel the early morning air, close and humid on a day with 80% rain chance, and to hear only the slight rustling of cats on the lawn.  The universe whispers: "you are alive."  "He is light, and in him is no darkness."  Yet the darkness divides the day, and the day destroys the night.  Musaka and Corgano, on the daily cycle, chasing each other across the universe.

And then, how do you ask do the meek inherit the earth?  At first a down payment, in the form of the lions lying down for the lamb, or in other words, we bend to approach them and ease suffering: something we can only do in peace and compassion.  Sacrificial love.

b'adon, mon ami. All for one. Three from six. And five from two.

 A kind of dread rumble across the way.  Like a deep-well sputter, like thunder rumbling, and a cacaphony of alien rhythms.  Have you listened to the terrestrial radio lately?  I wonder if any really do, but they say they do, except for the Country/Western people.  Can't even stop them with shotgun shells and log chains.  "A drinking song this early in the morning?"

Like God coughed across the way, children talking and a little dog yapping.  The noise mostly was not such a bad thing, the trimmings of life broaching the otherwise constant din of the breeze.  Reminds one that he is alive, and part of something more.

Somewhere then, some old hulk was to live again and move the way its makers intended it.  And meanwhile, my own thoughts, the daily post was so late, and the thoughts were calming even while wondering if some calamity had befallen them.  My thoughts calming, and somewhere in that a new sort of transcendent sort of confusion, which I guess is life, as it has always been when you slow down to hear it and coast along over its own subtle rhythms in quietude.

There is a kind of obscuring brightness of a shimmer along the grass, a film of dew, and bumping against the peach tree: the sleeve dampened.  Scattered cats half-dozing, doing their own existentialist contemplation of the very nature of being, and me going on and on about nature, even as one pooed a liquidy discharge at the end of the driveway.  My favorite of them stepped in it later, not caring one jot, but more or less fixated on attention from my petting hands.

And some anonymous ghostwriter says this in one of my devotional books: "You speak with a thousand tongues.  Let me always hear you.  Amen."  Nature vibrates with the fingerprints, the very doctrine, of the Creator.

Me earlier looking at the scraps.  "When did we have onions?"  This lost in a whirlpool of a thousand other concerns: people, places and things.  Animal, vegetable, and mineral.  Something of a shutting of the eyes was needed, but there was kind of charismatic presentation, something to the effect that the churches should be the biggest landowners in these communities.  The onions were kind of green-brown, and there were mystery smells, which made me wondered if it was all just in my head, like someone having a headache might smell something like oranges or coffee.

the(proverbial)Road To Damascus

 "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Is that a joke?"

And the scales were removed from those previously-Pharisee eyes.  Truly, born of the seed of Abraham and an observer of the Sabbath/Shabat and all that.  Averse to pork.  Were any, by works to be considered righteous, then that one.

And yet.

Of what faith?  Of what real belief, of what to draw him nigh God's bosom?

I mean really, who wants to hear a story about Gatsby sitting by the lake all day with whiskey in his glass?  No, we don't relate to that, and we have enough rosy daydreams of things turning out well.  Like people reading biographies of Warren Buffet, and then another class of Cheever at the all-you-can buffet.

But how about a good outcome?  Or at least an outcome, despite the odds, that one can readily accept and even welcome.

Then there's the big Democrat reverend with the six vacation homes, and yet, he works for a charity.  Enquiring minds would want to know, right?  Or the other guy, with the hair.  Talking on the cell phone to the President of the United States.

My nuts, kind of sitting there like, "what, me?"  Blame it on Rio, some might say, or the early morning miasma of a Paris backstreet.  If I were to condemn myself, who I ask, then, is best equipped to give my defense?

Swerves, words.

Nouns, verbs.

a participle, and a chocolate colored nipple.

"I thought you were blind?"

"My dreams are all certified Technicolor, my Cheever."

Equally nutty monk behavior is met by, well, a pressure valve.  Mardi Gras on an unpaved road.  And one does not simply discard his ideals like a threadbare cloak, but instead focus exclusively on more immediate matters: the flesh being.

And yes the flesh fails, brain chemicals can come back into balance, sanity restored, and the monk at the bowl of porridge again, again ready to trot the thousand steps up the mountain with the days water supply in two giant urns.

Poem: How I helped Janice apply for food stamps: a poem about the Republic for which "it" stands.

green about the gills,

in such an aspect,

one would think,

the world never had a mirror,

or maybe no one had conscience,

none where aware of the others' sufferings.

My man PJ dropped them on their heads,

willy nilly, or at will,

such as is said.

It paid the bills,

made a little noise.

It put his name in the books, you know?

Another one was telling them they were sinful,

and they knew what was in their hearts:

God knew, as well.

It varies, the compulsions, right?

The impetus to poo directly onto the travertine,

and it passes the Facebook filters,

so it goes into the ether.

Playing them against themselves,

all of them, and OJ at the top of the totem pole,

a woke liberal here, an angry conservative there,

"dog whistle to the right"

Chuck saying the Senate was lost,

not long after he had done the similar losing thing,

even Obama an the dead lady,

reversing course when the shoe is on the other foot.

Let's catch Ted Cruz being opportunistic.

"You're a sniveling coward Donald."

Rage!  Rage!  Cheer on your side?

To Gail: Michigan isn't such an awful place to live.

"I get it." She says.  Standards and Practices ready to email Legal.

She does not, in fact, get it.

I looked, and it seems I may have PTSD,

based on my life being reflected at me by perfect strangers.

"symptoms must persist past one month."

Try eleven years, Cheever.

It was fun, though, at times, like 

playing guitar for Janice.

"Guess the chord progression, honey?"

She didn't know me so well,

or at least not as well as first thought,

so she would stick to talking only of the weather.

"You said you have a husband?

Well, honey, I'm not taking your food stamps application.

Not 'need-to-know'

Keep that commitment stuff under your wig."

These, signs and wonders,

of such an aspect,

that if we understood entirely,

could we sleep at night?

Would the conscience be clean 

and clear as a 55 degree night sky?

I think,

therefore,

I am.

 

Poem: a baiter, a biter, a percocet in foil and a Bic lighter.

 

a bating beauty,

a man-hatched duty,

the hurly burly

her countenance surly,

side coalesce,

her dress, what a mess,

she lit a wildfire at the Rio Grande,

was at roasting a goat,

here a half-drunk sleepy-eyed man,

field of vision four inches from his nose

She pointed at the heavens,

and it was all aglow, radiant,

her eyes waxed cold,

he waxed indigent.

That bating beauty,

and the billy goat with his crazy eyes.

We found something at the remnant store,

a reversible with two designs,

one on each side,

and Morgan Freeman ready for an advertisement spot.

I watched an armadillo,

shelled back burning, stinking,

and her still pointing,

the wildfire hissing, singing,

I saw the glow of the fire,

in my mule's dull eyes.

There were livid embers

in my own thought-dead dinner fire,

and those could be collected

to be put next to the bedroll.

I wondered if I had put stones,

stones in the fire,

then nestled those with me

under the blanket.

that bating beauty,

the wildfire she did see,

as she pointed the constellations,

she would name them for me.

Buttercream Icing; Taco Bell served potatoes before the world moved on.

 Ciao bella.

"The instruments of the churl are evil: he deviseth wicked devices to destroy the poor with lying words, even when the needy speaketh right.  But the liberal deviseth liberal things; and by liberal things shall he stand."

They ask the people.

"Who was the 3rd US President?"

"Dale Earnhardt."

"Who won the American Revolution?"

"We did.  The North.  We nuked Atlanta so they surrendered pretty quickly."

"Who was Andrew Jackson?"

"A Fox News anchorman."

"Okay.  Then who's face is on the US Twenty dollar bill?

"Charlton Heston."

"Who was killed in a pistol duel by Aaron Burr?"

"Charlie Murphy."

"Who was Adolf Hitler?"

"A social reformer."

"Who was Thomas Jefferson?"

"A slave owner."

"Who is Peter Strzok?"

"A best-selling author."

"Who discovered the Theory of Relativity?"

Dr Phil

"Who murdered Rev Dr Martin Luther King Jr?"

Barry Goldwater

Behold the fly to your sunshine.

I bought a coconut fashioned as some kind of tribal fertility fetish, and I looked at it, holding it in both hands, just kind of thinking if it worked or not, or had some roadside "artisan" just fleeced me.

Shot me through the grease, as it were.

Some vendor wearing an "Aztec Pride" tee shirt.  Admiring my 300 SL Gull Wing.

At the Uneeda warehouse, in Louisville, they had a thing sort of like me.  They said, "you can cut it into a thousand pieces, and the pieces will keep coming at you."  Freddie always knew where to find a party.

They kept one of them in a drum.

Exquisitely marbled.  That kind of beef content makes it more tender.  The kind, thick cut, where you finish up and want to go to sleep.  USDA Choice.

Trying to use techniques of non-violence and civil disobedience, kind of peaceful means, like standing in the middle of an intersection ready to get knocked over like the 10 pin.  How to help Beautiful Bobby and Sweet Stan climb down from the scaffold in an efficient manner, worthy of Margaret Sanger, of course.

Both sides of the aisles agree, I would say, that the simple route is straight down.

No need to make it especially complicated, I reckon.

So, Hawk and Animal gave them some help.  And you have to wonder why Sweet Stan would wear a flag shirt, anyway?  But I didn't write the thing; I only saw it on home video.  Quickest path?  Find you a straight line, Hamlet, old boy.

"Methinks something is rotten in Denmark!"

Onto the canvas.

 

If i touch but a hem of the garment, I would be made whole.

marascino cherries.

The father tells the mother

wait for the rain.

wait for the rain.

It really got him by the short hairs,

the empty pocket

unfurled

waving like a flag from a Little Tramp film.

Why, I half expect Groucho Marx,

about to cook an egg,

pulling a chicken from his file cabinet

giving it a squeeze

to thoughtfully, carefully encourage a fresh egg.

Lewis Gizzard said something about bending over in the garden, because the taters have eyes.  But I was thinking, Granny could innocently flutter a skirt-tail picking squash, properly "taking his picture", the grandboy.  The little Cheever.  "I just wanted to begin a conversation about the sexualizing of these innocent creatures.  By society.  You know, people other than me.  The rape is really just thoughtful commentary."

"Me cutting her up?  That was just side fun."

Meanwhile, Granny bent over so far to pick up a giant watermelon, that she hung over so deeply, she had her forehead touching the ground, like a football player's three-point stance.  The Little Cheever was thinking, "that Hooch is gonna have a farmer's tan by the time she leaves this garden."

 

"I have known beauty" or Hah ewe during?

 Of what pride the exasperated, spent, willow of the wood?

Some would drink it all away within three days or less.

A whisper of a hummingbird, or a butterfly, dare to light,

even with the perspiring daydream boggle that there may be life there yet?

A lady and a boy, reading on the moist cool ground beneath.

The continual "shush" of a distant stream,

just white noise, only that, a sustained murmur from the distance.

That little excrement,

Death having a coughing fit in the summer air;

Did they marble his name, even?

And she had lost her leg, a wooden one given by the state in recompense.

"Practice your clerical with the school kids" they told her in a letter.

And she was so lovely, her hips turbulent as she crossed the floor.

I would go to the willow myself, and marvel and the gray hairs of the thing.

I would marvel, and skin cells on my body would be dying all the while,

breath in, breath out, chest drumbeating and the gray hairs barely kissing at my fingertips.

And I was thinking to myself, still feeling kind of sullen,

"I have known beauty."

TIP JAR: Donate here

Scream of the Midnight Silence, Dylan still dead.

 

A bit of finger noodling and the Curse of the Hambino, good for a line of talk, a cold bottle of diet soda, and a resting of the footie-parts.  Dylan is, for all intents and purposes, still quite dead, that D Bizzle, apple of my eye, and I was thinking last year beloved Uncle Tony, this year Hewitt, and then boom, blindsided.

D Bizzle.  Exuent with flourish.

A breath of east wind, leaves are turning brown,

the whore open a coke bottle with her ass cheeks.

An angry black man, lying face down.

A little while older,

a duller composure,

of life,

a quiet soldier.

And all our deeply painful losses,

but to please the bosses.

Dignity the only currency we spend,

as we bend to pick our dog-end.

Run the "Never forget" dildo up the flagpole and see what sadsacks salute it.

 

It sounded like Laura breezing through the coffee room.  I slapped my thigh and chirped, "ain't that a pure bee-yitch?"  It wasn't just "one of those days", or just "let's not repeat this year again", but it was like "the road leads to nowhere(and I'm okay with that, rock your body all night)".

And then they're asking, "where were you when it happened?"  Me and WKQB Fayetteville/Southern Pines were having donuts that bright morning.  I was where I'd be a long time, actually, waiting on the world to come around, having a kind of unction and longing to make improvements, but hardly the werewithal, the sand, the pure camel balls to bring it off.

Somewhere out of Shanksville PA, the guy's mother heard him tell the other passengers "let's roll".  I was listening to Dan Rather go over a lot of just in stuff.  Fresh reports as they all scrambled for confirmations of a thousand little details.

On the seventh year, "in the shadow", 2008 "via obscura" I wore my old Ford hat and had an average day.  Bojangles Cajun pieces lunch, and they lady apologized for my wait.  But I had an hour.  There was minutia, and the porn star sitting at the gas station, the one that usually liked to show while I wasn't there.  We played tag for a while, passing in the back hall, me clocking out, and her checking to see from the other what mistakes I had made that shift.

I remember her saying "Mike broke the band".  Bitch, Mike has the keys to hell.  Mike got strung up, was not supposed to make, but he churned the cream into Butler.  I stood confused and determined to upset further the paradigm when I saw Brant go behind the counter for something, and with three managers standing there.

Maybe the bitch just wanted a keychain.  And me ready to hand her her own ass.

Under the bridge, some water and turtles.  See them sit.

"Never forget", the refrain, glass and sand.  The Democrat response.

My suddenly becoming in a sense more confident, knowing my very existence frustrates the collars of power.  And time is just a matter of perspective, in that, and at any minute it might seem larger, smaller, engrafted or insignificant, depending on the particular pin point on the larger board, with hills being just lines, shrubbery circular blobs, and Gwyneth writing f*ckbooks, and stuff.

Enlighten the masses.  Grabbing a 20 pound standard size plate, between both hands, the 9 and 3 positions, and going this way then that, 12-6, 6-12, leading with my jack-off hand.  And in the mirror, something of a coating, a palate of wear put over the works, f*ck 19 useless toilet bowl years.

"He is me, but I am not him."  I was saying, in the airport, and the hitman looked at me I was speaking Latin or the Koine of something, anything but the common King's own, and I was thinking, "I didn't build the f*cking thing", but you know, if you sit there, you can see the gears turning, and watch the hands slowly complete their circle throughout the space of time.

And such is to know the quiddity of the universe, to throw away moments, marking time, and yet it follows you not into the future, but for some bloody scratchings on the plaster.  And you might know, but only be able to put that down when the subject matter has elapsed into the vastness of the universe, and it's all gone.

Butter-fried Chicken. A rap.

 

Mona Lisa Smile like a model

semen drops on her nodules

smokin' pot and gettin' hostile

shaggin' on the video

Superman at the Donkey show

whether its Havana

or butter-fried chicken at Savannah.

Sweaty Palms

Logitech Joystick

she found heaven when she found

white boy dick.

Terror of the neighborhood,

ain't got a steady miss,

but got misunderstood.

Hot fries

nipples clipped with twist ties

bi-sexual

heavy metal

show me door number three

let me bore-hog that CRV

she's got a baby

and she wants to rape me

got her little feet on my balls,

zombies on the teevee.

Tennessee Mafia Jug Band plays Turkey In The Straw plus Nine Pound Hammer, Cooter Creek.

 

Enigmatically, hand to brow, intoning: "A mind to rap and three and a half front teeth."

The little girl in the social media pic standing prettily, pleasantly, in front of the old civil war cannon, and only a few real hardcore dear hunters use the old powder anyway, but its out there for those that care to look.

Victory of the Blight.  And all that.

"Senor, tell me, are we on the path to armageddon?"

Just in the spiritual sense.  We ignore everything except what matters, and all for some paper, and a good line that catches on.

Bury Myguns At Wounded Knee

 

Wild hair across the bilge pump

all this swerving make my forearms tough

said all she had was love

I said, "what's all this?

A lovely egg, cheese and baloney sandwich?"

Left a livid handprint across the buttcheeks

CSI looked in the draw-well to found my fingernails and teeth

Said she needed a lot of love and little money

CSI scanned my cellphone illegally.

Allegory: I apologize, Kay, for having spoken ill of Richard, earlier. OR "business is picking-up!"

 

We had just got plastered while on layover waiting for a load of molasses, somewhere around Crooked Neck, Utah.  There had been an old roadhouse out there on one of those long stretches, and it had truckers, bikers and all kinds, bunch of good old sh*t-kickers looking to get their drink on, shoots some pool and generally talk lousy mess to the waitresses and bartenders.

They had a thing looked like a holding cell like you would see in a police station back corridor.  Evil looking old thing, tinged in rust.  And they were laying bets about people actually getting in that and going until at least one got knocked unconscious.

I had a made a social disgrace of myself, three-sheets-in-the-wind, rambling on and on to some old saddle sores about Richard III, the Tempest, and then Hamlet.  They repaid that favor by grabbing me by the arms and legs chanting, "He's the Duke of Milan", and then they tossed me, square on my ass, in the middle of that god forsaken iron cage.

Unbeknownst to me, there was an old biker cumrag, with strap lines and moles and all, name of Kay Whitaker, who could dimly remember the Tempest from community college, where she may have written a term paper.  That or mopped the floor while some poor devil read aloud his term paper for a class of zipperheads.  You know the kind.  Nipples hanging around her belly button, and of course obligated to go topless.  Thong underwear.  Puts Fruit Roll-Ups or Twizzlers in her JD or vodka or Seven.  Don't know if she smells of leather, bear or crotch sweat.  But it is one of them, or a combination of all three.

"You Tally-ban or Cally-ban, my little toot-sweet?" She said stepping into the cage, smiling like she had just gulped down the prize canary.  I don't know if my heart had slowed to play my own funeral march, or I was hearing her engineer boots clumping the bare plywood floor.

I heard the singer from the band, having waved-off the music, laughing, saying "I know you might be saying, 'these boys sure know how to take a fall', but the health consequences are real-life for sure."

"C'mon my little Twinkie" she was growling with delight.  "Say 'my kingdom for a horse'".

It was then and there I realized that the sunburned old cottage cheese butch had actually read Richard, and my life flashed before my eyes.

Trump Allegory: The Man who Fell to Earth

 

Donny played gui-tah.....

almost hung with a Florida OJ tan......

Venus in Leo, and I, the reflecting Moon.

 So Venus is in Leo.  

Venus the beautiful lady, the Lady of the Manor, and Leo the sun sign.

Meanwhile I draw the Moon in Tarot, so I'm the opposite of the sun's kinetic energy, being myself rather introspective today.

The trick, dear hearts?  Channel that, direct it, use your deep thoughts to spur forward agenda items, although today's interests may be less practical or pressing than the ordinary minutia.  Meanwhile the syndicated forecasts says to work on my health and home.  Blah.

dead losers/140 characters/we don't play like Obama did

 sulfur smell of the smoke from my hot barrel

dead loser can't hurt me now

no mo

no mo

Joe Biden comb your hair good and watch my dance

can't no one from the past administration get no traction

you don't know that?

I guess you will find out for yourselves.

Air Cav rope snap

broken back

aint no use to no one

no mo

no mo

you talk mighty fine about your dreams

but you aint broached my scene

no you ain't

not with no Obama-era rhetoric, anyway.

we traffic in 140 characters, now

and some hot slugs

crawling 'cross your screens

did you retweet?

no mo

no mo

burning paper and pine sap

stars and bars in the back window

a duck is a duck

massachussetts liberals, most of them, anyway,

live-tweeting about their ads

we can get a boycott off the ground, people.

they won't get my car insurance dollars

no mo

no mo

The intense dichotomy of myself and Denzel Washington.

 

I had a moment of furtherance this morning, and one of the other cats was here, trying to grab my hand, the little Cheever, him.  There was butthurting about Trump not doing much for the stock market, on one side, and butt hurt about the Mongol hordes marauding angrily in the streets wanting to fight the entire Executive Branch.

Get vaccinated if you're gonna be around the baby.  Pls.

Anyway, I'm ruminating on bursting into ministry, and wondering on the avenues available.  Multiple opportunities, maybe, if I dig them up, there could be, and so many routes.  There's doctrine, of course, the spreading of doctrine, of which I am indoctrinated in only two denominations, but there's also common charity, which is its own reward.

And other things move forward, toward their own furtherances, remonstrances, and superfluidities.

Bring out your dead?  Over 2 million before the full re-open?

I want to ask Laura if her daughter looks much like her.

Like they say, a hobby horse has a wooden dick, and all that, and the little gal would be more apt to intern for the Heritage Foundation rather than work at a Subway or Taco Bell restaurant.  But wouldn't that be a kick?

What if someone in line for some kind of destiny, with that niggling possibility, a pearl being formed already, even at a young age, inside their craw, what if they had, like, a "common experience"?

Butt hurting such that I flipped the channel away from all the news to put the awful bad arguments aside.  I listened to some music, instead, and then some Good Word.

Look at how they split the country just to keep the media going as a method of entertainment, opinion journalism, Sean with his hatchet.  "what makes white people mad."  and then of course, all day anti-Trump, and Trump can't get policy out of his mouth for complaining about the media, like he's Rush Limbaugh, or maybe he's echoing the conservative talking points going around Fox and the radio stations.  Literally, Mika and Joe didn't have the steam to go-off on Trump for three hours five days a week, so they brought a few hitters, and they find more from the op-ed pages, people like Obama who was credited somewhere as a Constitutional Lawyer and yet, his signature legislation in the AHA was called "unconstitutional but necessary".

Then we say, despite his own "snake eating its own tail" contradictions, that he was the Anointed One, picked to "bring balance", yet putting a big hipcheck on the faultlines in America, setting up the butt hurt mouth of Trump.

I think now, I care, but these choices being offered are so flawed.  I either won't vote at all in November, or I'll vote for the Libertarian Candidate.  The other Jo.

Jo Mama, or Joe from Obama?

The Myth of Abaddonicus. A rap.

Return of the Prodigal,

the mythological,

frog-flavored Popsicle,

abominable,

abaddon-Mickel

pickle trickle,

my dickhead tickles,

Green Goblin

pill-poppin'

hopping

on yo' trellis 

semper fidelis

ain't got no spray tan,

ain't got a hand-written Quran,

got no trucks in Afghanistan,

two women gunnin' for the man,

the Prodigal comes,

at the hotdog buns,

like the lyric book cypher stuns,

sell the Taliban guns.

Whipped cream

pipe dream

pull your life out

from between my teeth

turban on my head

baby in the bed

wall street on a ledge

all the whack things Jerry Lawrence said.

The Prodigal

(he's mythological)

unstoppable

all the other crews fold

titanium golf cart and my Hebrew gold.

Covid 19

and my blue jeans

(more than meets the eye)

the owls ain't what they seem.