#poetry - where to begin and end

a man contemplates where to begin
his venture is thought compression
he releases to begin again
repeats for sake of perfection
to hone process and shave time

fiddler crabs die like champions

i drive all the neighborhoods gawking
at all the ugly houses
and i write down their addresses
like my name is chris cringle
there's money in this i have license

i drew a colorful broken mirror
gold and black triangles outside
it's a mind that has been tested
it's a mind that has refused limitation
it's a mind that has killed fiddler crabs

my friend likes my other friend's seed collection
a pleasant and soothing observation
respect given is a self honor
i have similar fondness for that friend's beer collection
after only three glasses of tastings

i killed so many fiddler crabs
long before i knew how awful it was to be desolation
i wasted whole villages of them
and i called them retreaters
children are barbarians

a child called out to me today with a deep voice
hey buddy, hey buddy
from his first floor window
i said hey buddy back
his voice was way too deep for a child

i remember the day i strolled silently by
as one fat ugly child beat another skinny child
down to the ground without mercy
both the fat kid and me ignored the crying
and i didn't even have somewhere i really had to be

the last real walk in the clouds i took
included hearing somebody spray painting the hallway
no one was there but i heard it and then
i became overwhelmed by the fumes and ran out of the building
and fainted on the sidewalk

nobody would help me even though i asked for help
i figured i had journeyed back in time and lost the language
when i could stand i looked down at the asphalt
the ground became a swell of maggots
the maggots were people they were souls waiting to be reborn

i saw the heat waves rising off my body again
this time instead of roses i smelled brimstone and sulfur
yet i declared to the light of day
i am a rose child
come journeying to this hell only to bear witness

when i returned to the building
i had to re-teach myself the alphabet
it took five minutes to write 26 letters
and because i thought it i had given myself lead poisoning
at least that's what it felt like

i soon after drove my car with a passenger
who touted the merits of a nothing-believing taoist creed
i could feel him drain my spirit
and right when i felt wholly drained and taken
i saw letters on my car stereo spell out 'here and now'

i was reborn that night after a dream i had departed
and had been judged and deemed worthy of returning
i then saw myself from a height walking from the judgment place on toward my body
and when i awoke i fixed myself a bowl of oatmeal
but the water tasted like arsenic

two nights earlier
i saw a face in the night sky clouds
while i sat indian style on the sidewalk outside my apartment building
after thinking it would be nice if i could kill death
i felt a sharp pain in the center of my crown

when i came back inside i walked into the bathroom
i stood before the mirror pressing my hands to it
i could feel a surge of energy passing through me
and i could see the skin on my chin and cheeks bubbling
as though i was racing through a voluntary and severe stroke

i went into my study and opened the window and lit some candles
and then i read Revelations outloud until I got extremely bored
Revelations has a time and place
but after a self-induced stroke it's a bit tiresome and unsatisfying
so I closed the bible and walked away

#poetry - Black Sting in Mitosis

I got a sting in mitosis,
About my ears and my noses.
Such a hazy psychosis,
I wear my mom's panty hoses.

  Moses    shows his
  Holy   roses.

  Marbles  stop my
  runny    noses.

  Fingers  seper-
  ates my  toeses.

  I's and  me's and
  My psy   chosis.

Black nylon for hoses.
Black red buds on roses.
Black blood lines the noses.
Black sting in mitosis.

#poetry - stopping ingenuity

i guess we build up or would it be down
there's more than one way to go
if you think about it often enough
and if you don't think someone thinks for you

i took a while to make myself up
and i did and i was grand and that was good
anyone could see and they knew and this felt fine
each of those moments were why life is so important

every picture has a highlight and a shadow
and sometimes someone comes to me asking advice
and sometimes i bring them through a journey
of building up and down until they buy my lines

where do these lines come from i never wonder
they come from the place i came from to begin with
am i ever to feel that i am not right for loving that
only for the longest moment and only for the longest moments

and before and after these sometimes i go to another
and walk on the lot and into the shop and therefore
i am sprung in another's trap and captured there to hear
the sounds of true words and see images of flowing beauty

another's innocence or that kind of portrayal
or beyond a skeptical sense an innocence of another kind
and there i will bask for the glory of it taking it all in
and letting it soak and become me and allowing myself to be sold

but are we ever truly sold or truly able to sell
when where it comes from is flowing and not stable
when where it all comes from is always on the move
to keep on making and making new always without end

oh holy god i am so tired and yet still young
and i know nothing is guaranteed not middle not old
and that there is no going back even for breath
but that why would you has an answer undoing everything

and that standing still doing nothing is possible
beyond the alarms of the mind ringing out for action
there is a stopping of the gears halting ingenuity
life is so important even if you make nothing

what you do for life what would you do for life
would you come to me now for i am failing
or let me know again and again what else there is
beyond and beyond that till the beyond runs out of itself

a loop a loop again a loop there there where where
growing is not what is happening what is happening
is only a happening whether up or down shivering
and whether words have meaning or not meaning or not

#poetry - Crocodile Candy

I'm going down to the candy store
to pick me up a little more
I've gotta hitch a ride
cause I'm way behind
The more I bargain
The more I find

There's no where but this little door
its opening now a little more
I had to ask the guy
If I could come inside
Many people shopping
Some of them blind

They hold a note and let it go
He sweeps the floor nice and slow
The bagger makes for lollipops and
The rest of us go walking hand and hand

While talking fast to the man
We're losing time within a show
And homeless but for a while now
Yet with all hope we smile
   See that's our crocodile
   Yes, that's our crocodile

#poetry - the dead spot

woke up to a dead spot
in the life of all life
that came to be a living death
slowly over time

at first we had a doctor
he was not so nice
gave us something
we didn't want
put us out on ice

then we had just ourself
guessing at the game
guessed we were alright
but we had to
guess again

then we had policemen
knocking down our door
they had brought
more doctors
just to be sure

couldn't lose the dead spot
it had come to life
being such a drag and
sucking all the time

not to say there was no hope
but it kept us low
everyday we
had to try
breathing was a chore

what had kept us going on
was a memory
of being fine
and the promise that we could
all be fine again

there was always something good
trying to get out
of the cloak
we always wore
and be what we were

always there's a dead spot
though we have more life
it will take what it can
and widdle down our time

having gone through it all
we are more mature
and can take
the slowing of
our heart in its detour

there are next door neighbors
there are distant friends
there are candlesticks
and there our
story ends

we could be factors
in a random poll
but the question
is too long
to be caught in whole

always there's a dead spot
cutting through our life
taking what it can and
widdling down the time

we can't lose the dead spot
it blossoms from our life
dragging like a fallen flag
it sucks in all the time

we wake and there's a dead spot
our life our precious life
comes to be a living death
this slowly over time

#Poetry - The Joke

i see you in a moving picture
you are inching toward the garage
stepping over all of your clothes
scattered all over the yard
in a moment you see his face
looking this way and that
you walk up and hug his body but
no one is hugging back

the joke upon us is that
candles need more than one match
in every moment we think
of moments falling back

i see you on the picnic table
dogs are running this way and that
smoking a clove cigarette
a woman clamours about her health
then he's walking down the path
carrying coffee in his hands
his expression says he loves you and
you know you love him back

the joke upon us is that
candles need more than one match
in every moment we think
of moments falling back

i see you in a meditation
in this room you feel alright
and right then an idle moment
nothing shows within your eyes
you are looking in a mirror
passing through what you would see
could be hours but they're minutes
could be senseless but you're free

the joke upon us is that
candles need more than one match
in every moment we think
of moments falling back

#poetry - hears nothing, but the scratching

My eyes drink haltingly the lines, cautiously sipping slowly, my nose wrinkled with the tang of bad medicine, unnecessary lumpy liquid, and he waits for comment, like this week the taste has improved. 

But no, the flavor remains the same -though this is the best I have had of him- withered acidic parchment, black edges scrolling bloody ink.  

And you can tell, he doesn’t see the lack of effort, it is so easy to paint in dark colors.

Though he bleeds for it, it is less a sacrifice and more an affection, its cost is Nothing.

I want to teach him that death does not grow; you will not see a seed sprout in dead earth, but like his dead fingers, he has dead ears, he hears nothing, but the scratching of his death pen.  

by MikiLeathers

#Fiction -- in that nowhere place, NAS

i'll go on and take it happily from you. and by you and what you say, it must be true. go on and let it be thus. to myself and others---all that NAS happens to say is truth. i'm in that nowhere place right now, NAS---means nothing that i know i'm here. the bastards are here with me. fire-heat and noise of no origin steps forward with claim---could not be yet they do.

and not a thing contemplated in passing nor with a fully developed conscious shield conscience between you(me) and it. like cavemen who think about stars while looking at them, see the melting string cheese of it all. always beaming the connection never broken---those damn stars even after supernova appearing, all of them the same, to be here on this earth just as well as they are where they are and just as that! has always been the truth.

and you go out walking afterward and you see the eyes and the knowledge from those eyes, thirsty to drink from your cup---here is the quantum singularity meeting ground for trans-dimensional travelers making best use of the belt-way anima built long ago for them, populating the bodies with diverse mind. sometimes multiple-hugging in and overlapping and cacophonating withing a single voice box. sometimes sword fighting play fighting shadow playing verbal sparring jazz riffing between multiple bodies. always anything absolutely you can think of, it can be and does---this being in every way you can think of whether you know you are thinking it or not.

i thought i was about to sleep or was sleeping. i thought i was exhausted. i had that feeling i had been talking on the phone a long time, but a long time ago, with someone dear to me and that i or she or both fell asleep and the phone was still to my ear and the connection was still alive and that with waking i felt an urge to check to see if she was still there, awake and waiting for me to respond to her latest breath.

and i said "what?"

and i heard "so."

and i had to be silent and weather an ice cold rush in my stomach and up around my temples when i realized i was not holding a phone and there was no phone. but i had heard a voice. and i was alone. and then my legs kicked without me asking them to kick.

and her voice said "boom."

and my breathing got thick, NAS. and i'm not a rookie at this and i'm just writing you now. and already i feel better. well, i know i shouldn't because out there they are waiting. but i am going for a cigarette. if i must, i will see you on the otherside of whatever is opposite the otherside. here's to heavy eyelids in the middle of nowhere.

i'll split a vial of codeine with you. seventeen pots of the blackest coffee. well those will be for me. all for you will be 144 tea bags of chosen by you assortment. two cartons of cigarettes. 8 cases of beer. seven bottles of wine. thirteen loaves of air tight stowed french baguette. sharp white cheddars. and gruyeres. and asiagos. two bottles of extra virgin olive oil. one bottle of peppercorns with a built in grinder. two boxes of clementines, about 84 clementines in all. 48 individual pita shells. two gallons of spiced humus. one pint of your homemade hot sauce. 36 whole wheat hamburger buns matched to 36 veggie burger patties. 3 gallons pink grapefruit juice. 6 liters seltzer water. 20 fluid ounces or more of the worst tasting whiskey money or good looks can buy.

six blankets each. two thick pillows. two ipods with 18,000 songs and 25 lithium battery reserves matching a bose sound dock. and though not necessary, 1 ounce of green dragon dust, a 1/2 ounce of this variety a 1/2 ounce of that. and 2 tubs of american spirit free leaf with 400 rolling papers, and the night sky, and 1/4 cord of season dry wood. and three keys of harmonicas, a, b-sharp, d.

and the stage i we shall split.  take turns with the spirits who enter and redefine us awhile while we howl and yield to impulse and dance. to this interpretive dance, and that interpretation, and this extemporaneous story, of that original being or of being without origin. and to bring each other back one will hold the other, draw heart to heart, and retrain the other mind to the soulness of its mate.

#fiction - excerpt

i remember counting the tiles in the kitchen. recognizing the brilliance of all the details of the architecture. it all seemed like a model. I struggled not let myself think it was a condensed version of the universe. Because this would mean that I was in a perfect nowhere place that represented everything. If that were true, there needn't be anywhere else.

i understood the exercise of being there to include the fact that the outside world didn't really exist anymore.

sometimes while walking the tiles, i wondered if my memory of the outside world really did represent a reality that truly existed or if it was just a projection of a totality I had been toying around with. I know now that this internal monologue represented only a period of shock for me realizing that it all was just a projection of a totality that I had been toying around with. It would take me a few more years to convince myself to stop playing around with it.

the equation being just multiples of the same common denominator, i probably one time needed it to be complex. now it needed to be simple. and so it had been shrunk that i could focus on what it was that was glowing in my mind. this is an ascension story, by the way.

and that it was.

all was accounted for here within the ward's walls. and this seemed to be comforting, in retrospect I did seem to be comforted by that observation. so then, under this framework, to take three steps was to traverse more than a billion nanometers, and not without naming the particles along the way. and though that took more than a billion nanoseconds, my patience was up to the task. finally. it was a whole universe, not a small world. not a portion, but entirely complete. and we inside it were very very large.

#poetry - Keep Listening

crank up the flavor, bitch!
at first it was just a joke,
but i had gone then willingly
to the land of evil dolphins.

to be surprised by surprises
and to recognize recognizers
hailing and failing to hail
waiting to be figured out
not content to wait
shuffling feet in the process
hearing coins in the pocket
and echoes off the street walls
and clips of phrases from conversations
that begged for another voice---
went willingly to that place,
it was my choice.

said i'll drink the water
and if it kills me,
this was not a place
i should have been.

its not that you alter your state of mind
but that you alter the chemistry of your body
and become something else,
a perversion of you,
something similar enough
to have cognitive function
and sensible perception

but the harmony of relation
to the things around you
is altered also
and you are no longer
in a safe place,
but a land of evil dolphins
where every song you hear
can kill you
and make it look like
a nervous breakdown
induced heart attack,
when really it was the realization
that nothing truly is a static form
but only a perception
that is predicated upon
whether or not you are
in a state of harmony.

think about it.

only good comes from harmony.
anything not-harmony is all things
not harmonious, also to say
all things not good--

so welcome weary traveler,
once again,
to the realm of evil dolphins.
hope you enjoy the journey
this time mother fucker.
you should stop coming back here,
we don't like you
and there's nothing now to stop us
from expressing that,
you think you are writing this
but you are not---break contact
now before you lose yourself in us.

but none of that matters
a hill 36 in lima bean nam
when they scream evil dolphin
in your ear
because its not a human ear
at the point of the screaming,
so you can't hear the humanity,
you just hear frequency---
the sound of existence
without predetermined meaning.

you might be wondering if its the sound
of death you hear
and there's only one way to know for sure---
keep listening to Us,
mother fucker.
We dare you.

Morituri Nolumus Mori

torytorytory---oh he!
stormy stormy stormy,
and a, whoah! he had a lovely soiree,
for he had an empty quarry,
yeah he had an empty quarry.

and ole torytorytory,
well he had to see, yes he had to see---
could it be, moldy-oldy prophecy
was about to be, about to be, about to be
history? oh tory and is tory and more tory!

oh now see, it came to be, torytorytory
with his empty empty quarry
made rainy, rainy, rainy, and victory
damp and rainy and quite complainy
before his happy stormy stormy soiree was

finis

finis

finis

rise of the anarchist

there's a boy with fire in his armpits,
keeps him standing upright
though psyche and genetics would have him crawling.
somehow he's found himself in the trenches
of an american apathy not his---
he rails and lashes out.

the incurable poor swarm at his feet.
he is their scarecrow.
a town crier in a bleak city,
his voice echoes off the white and silver.
he decries the government its failings,
says it has abandoned its people.

her blanket

i have the thinking man's disease.
got a run in my stocking
that shines like a burning cross
in the clearing of leafless trees,
and a hole in my pocket
only my ring finger knows about.

i'm right now filled with vision.
my chest, a broad basin
pockmarked by the bombshells
of confidence and hope,
inside my gears are hauling lifeblood
as my ticker talks to my noggin.


i grow restless, then weary, then wild.
wind-socking the gales
of connections and leads and leaps and
Ah-Ha, but, Ah-Ha! but Ah-Ha, Nope!

i like to think the answer is always yes.
that questions have to rotate and revolve,
by turn and degree and instinct,
dancing blind for the long while
between sight, loss and revelation.

i'm distracted most of the time by all this.
yet i've never met a crying baby
i couldn't somehow infect
with a quieting foray of thought,
by simply locking eyes,
and i've gotten to wonder if i think too loudly.

when i'm out on the street, i'm on the ocean.
when i'm out on the ocean, i'm on a cloud.
when on a cloud, i ride my way home
to the woman i love,
everytime.

she sees me in periods of these cycles
now so widely spread that we payoff
to miracle our bodies remember each other,
but they do,
everytime.

i think sometimes to say to her,
'think of it as a war
and i'm off in that unknowable field.'
but i never say this---because she is
the only cure to my thinking ailment.

when i see her, the war is over.
my mind is then blank and quiet,
and i become a blanket
that she wraps herself up with
and holding goes walking barefoot
into the chilly thought beguiling night.

Prelude for White Midnight

take this dram of medicine and watch them fade away,
the self-important stars that burn holes
through night's abyssmalness--
the elder lights, the guiding voices of choir,
who alone, but never are they alone,
would make a thought seem like a mirror to them,
but together turn all thoughts into dreams.

take this dram and watch these strings of light beams
pull taut their puppet, you,
and bring the silence some call peace,
this manifesting choir's appetite--
say good night to your night time friends,
say good morrow to their cousin, the nearer star,
and good heavens for, the nearest, morning star.

take this and watch the stars unfold in your lidded eyes
how they never could by uncovered skies,
oh how they trip and fall within your mind,
oh the comet's ball that is your mind!
and save this night-sky for another time
when the tide of your days shortens and the mystical eye widens,
and in the yet longest hours come the white midnight flowers.

a prayer before dawn

pray now before dawn comes, i said, and you did.
a garden gnome stood by you.
the night sky was abiding, having worked its own dust.
a slow low cloud train rolled over and on,
and several faces admired you, all wrapped in one.
a rush of wind through the trees
nearly masked the rustling bushes over by the rabbit lair.
my vertigo returned and i at last found the stars.
you spit and just about cleared your knees.
i could feel your heart beating in my throat.
i smeared the dew along the back of my neck.
you touched your forehead to the freshly sown row
then lifted up and genuflected before the tomato wire
and stood beside my fallen body.
we formed an upside down T
and the dirt on your fingertips came between
the immaculate conception of your predawn dreams
and the words you then floated aloud,
           i am heaven, here and now.

for the outbreak of storms

i walked in backwards and said i'm leaving,
you cried and fell forward through the window pane.
i slept in our bed, pillow 'tween knees, grieving
and morning soon came for us, both insane.

i licked the glass from your many cut pains
and spit crystal and blood all afternoon.
by evening you gathered the shards that remained
and made sugar i stirred with coffee spoons.

acid tabs melted and killed the cartoons
sacking the boxes mounted in the garage.
neighbors crept up so to jeer at the loons
naked and yelling out who was in charge.

we dug the garden and tossed around worms,
then went inside, for the outbreak of storms.

a matter of spiritual affairs

they say weed will give a man boobs,
       i'm pretty sure its the pizza.

they say weed can not kill a man
      under any circumstance.

now, i stand by my green dragon
     and my green-orange dragon,
but i know my survival now
depends on my will not to ride them---

for three solid weeks,
each night a hell of mind,
                a heart beating 3X fast
skin on fire, testicles retracted,
musculature failing, pain in all extremities,
vision bubbled, loss of speech, and spasm.

heart attack symptoms, stroke symptoms,
        the creme de la creme of fear!

three vendors, four bud-types,
eighteen trips          the same horror

all my angels renounced me,
the mystical door shut on my fingers,

a spiritual lubricant, sure
i've said hello now to mr. ice cold darkness.

this may be my reward for wanting proof
      of the divine realm,
for navigating by increments of science
and leaving faith checked at the door.

through it all, i am ever weed's friend,
it wasn't you, my friend, it was me---
it is me who must say 'farewell dragon'

i knocked too hard on the cherub's door,
i woke the cause of the door
i am stalked now, stalked---forget sleep,
       the nightmare is alive and well
       and i must try to remember how
to be brave, where i put fearless,
why i thought so towards divine things
and how i swam in boiling seas before
      how it was i spanned the spiritual
                       walked the spirit walk.

all this will return, i am sure, in time.
for now, well, for now i need no more
lubricant, no more step ladder---
      this is not a schizophrenic episode
      this is not a bad trip
my delta waves are normal, i would bet,
this is not product of fast turning thoughts,
this is real, by god it is real!
and i am comfortable knowing it so

phase in, phase out, man boobs, pizza, haunting.
                                                      c'est la vie!

anyway, middle-aged woman sits alone on bench,
talks to herself and bites whipped cream,
                                       i step on my cigarette.

i am, i am

i took a walk out on the wall awhile.
i knew the truth inside then out,
kept it bundled, then let it out,
but i am no less christian than you.

i came to easter with empty hands.
i knew hunger in every twitch,
held my breath but had to twitch,
but i am no less christian than you.

i took my valium and over did it!
i knew the truth but had to puke,
held it in but had to puke,
but i am---iamiamiam---No!
less christian than you!

i took my time, there was no rush,
to know myself inside and out---
in-inward gaze out-outward out!
and i am---No? Yes? christian. and you?

i gave myself to selfish thoughts,
selfish me and selfish you---
the all of me, the all of you...
and I am no less Christian than you.

I Hacked President Obama's Email, Here is the Letter

Dear Mr. Secretary,

Out of the countless thousands of letters and facebook messages I receive on a daily basis, I am allowed by my handlers to respond to only five. This response is my fifth and final of today's quota and I choose yours because it is in keeping with a message I meant to deliver in yesterday's weekly address to the nation, about the importance of citizen vigilance in the fight against domestic terrorism. The message was stricken because it made no particular point at all, or rather it made a particular point but was too closely telling of a top secret government research program for which we are in no position to field questions about.

You see, as the president, I am not allowed to deal in conventional overarching wisdom when addressing individuals or nations. I am meant, as your president, to speak only of particular events, rarely in advance them, and most times only in response to them. So to say to the populace, at any given moment, to watch out for this or that, is to say to them either that there is something we are worried about that they must watch for (which would cause panic), or that we are up to something and need citizen input and data from their diverse body to contribute to our secret mission (which could lead to insurrection)

On the government to-do list, one of my personal agenda items is to ever improve the operations of this government. To advance this agenda, I and a few others in my cabinet, believe that it is a necessary good to institute more meaningful questions to government employees, in the form of surveys, designed to evaluate the psychological soundness of the employees who serve in government positions.

It was a startling fact when i first encountered it, an internal survey revealed that 73% of our government workers were in some way mentally unstable, that is more than 3 times the national average! With such an overwhelming statistic staring us down, we really had two choices before us.  The first choice was to simply lament the statistic quietly and try to cover it up, because its rather embarrassing if you think about it (I mean, it begs two questions at the same time---is there something about our government system that drives people bonkers or are they crazy already and its just that sort who naturally gravitate to these important positions?) and also, the cost to the taxpayer for treating the illness would be too great for them to bear, it would seize our annual budget and lock up other spending.  The second choice also includes a cover up scheme, but with these measures we would try to embrace and harness the lunacy in someway. We chose the latter, because funding was already available. You see, Mr. Secretary, I believe that in every setback there is a song.

Perhaps you are unaware of the behavioral patterns of schizophrenics. You are of course aware that schizophrenics are mentally ill people who roam about and look normal and may even sound normal but in some large way they are definitely not normal. Inside their mind, they are principal actors in a play written specifically for them. The reasons for this, generally are unknown, though there is a tenuous link between a heightened presence of dopamine in human brains and the symptoms of schizophrenia.  Secretly, we have our researchers trying to understand at least one thing about schizophrenics regarding their brain wave patterns that could, in time, unlock a door to a very important national power.

Now getting to the heart of your matter---Revenge is a common theme in literature. I find revenge stories are just as common as any other theme. Yet it always surprises and intrigues me when someone is able to add a new line, as it were, to a very old verse. This yogurt cup incident that you're dealing with falls in a tricky category---it is both horrible and intensely brilliant. And just the fact that revenge is part of this story is an important clue for us and, taken in context with the other details of your narrative, is helping our investigators track down the perpetrator right now.

I can tell you that while writing this response, a team of 7 Federal Bureau Investigators are cross referencing possible leads of perpetrators who may have played this "prank" on you. The leads are being filtered using a psychological profile derived from the details you provided in your writing. A list of 22 names has been generated. Of that list, 17 are government employees, 9 of them have security access great enough to pull off such a stunt. 5 of these employees are individuals already on a special "high alert" watch list.

You see, some of our employees are schizophrenics. They have access to information on a daily basis as necessary. Yet this information can also ignite their sometimes nightmarish understandings of reality. They are, in a sense, walking time bombs. Again, this is a given and we must decide how to proceed---whether to disarm these bombs or harness them for our special secret needs, as we have tried to do for years. We acknowledge the illness, that's the first step. But we also reserve the right to blow things completely out of proportion if it suits our purpose.  For instance, though this perpetrator is mentally ill, yet his actions can easily be construed as a sort of unknown domestic terrorist plot, since schizophrenics are often a danger to themselves or others and there are plenty of doctors who would sign off on such charges. In a certain way, Federal government employee schizophrenics are powerful. We just can't let their power wielding go unchecked. So we, as responsible government officials, investigate this power and apply appropriate checks and measure to it.

Fortunately for us, schizophrenics usually operate using an unknown-to-them self-defense mechanism that gives them away. It comes out quickly during questioning. I am told now by the psych report given me by the FBI, that we now have in custody all five of the nuttiest government employees living in your immediate area who had access to probate and could have effected the crime against you by manipulating the justice system of surrogate court.

Of the five, one in particular has expressed a pro-communist sentiment. He believes that, "quote" we all must handle the shit stick together. I hope you wouldn't ask me what he means by that exactly. I'm thinking it about now and all I can come up with is that he may have selected you at random to be the recipient of this mistreatment because one is just as good as another. He has been using his position to advance this agenda. You are not the first to receive odd parcels from deceased members of society. This is clearly an arrogation of his duties and a symptom of his schizophrenia.  His outlook has created a major aggravation to a relatively small portion of our citizenship. We believe that you are his latest victim, or rather the latest citizen to share in the folly of his mental illness.

Since this man is clearly in need of help, we are going to help him. He will be charged, quietly, with domestic terrorism. He will be sent to Saint Elizabeth's hospital in Washington, D.C., for treatment. His pension will be exchanged for the cost of his indefinite hospital stay, so as to avoid any additional strain on the backs of the American taxpayer.

But it will not end with mere hospitalization. At St. E's, this individual's mind will be exploited for, what some psychologists in the F.B.I. claim to be, telepathic potential. We apparently have a psuedo-military trial program going on there, where we are attempting to develop and weaponize the brainwave patterns of schizophrenics, specifically their delta waves.

Rest assured, you will not be receiving any more packages of yogurt cups. Also rest assured, this man will be treated relatively well. No shock therapies. In fact, his condition I am told will be encouraged, for the hope of harnessing the delta wave patterns of his mind. Delta waves are a detectable component of the overall workings of a mind. It is believed that schizophrenics have excited delta wave patterns. Waking dreams are said to be states involving heightened delta wave patterns, which may explain the schizophrenic's tendency toward illusions.  It is also believed that these patterns, if excited to the right levels can potentially yield significant telepathic output.

Should the research trials of this individual generate promising returns that contribute or directly lead to the break through our researchers are looking for, you will be rewarded for your service with a Presidential Medal of Freedom, which is an equivalent for a civilian to the military's Congressional Medal of Honor. In the meanwhile, I encourage you to continue your good citizenship and properly dispose of the crate of yogurt cups. I am told that recycling day in your neighborhood is Thursday. We are notifying the waste disposal company contracted to do business in your area of town that there will be a large crate waiting for them this coming Thursday.

Please continue to do the right thing.

Ever your president, and sincerely so,

Barack Obama


P.S. to occupy your mind in the meanwhile the recycling festers on your lawn, please visit the God Bolt blog for more poems, essays, and commentary. --B.O.

dark poet storm

"dark poet storm, the calm has come"

dear dark poet friend
                     let me
draw up the night shade for you
and paint the tale of eternal light---
i have been with you as you in the
                     seem of
perpetual shadow, in the cold grip
of the rain that storms, with friends
who speak and do not listen well,
with a lie that observes no bound
                     but slithers
round the neck and feels thick
to the life pulse, and have asked
where is that giddy up i had yesterday
when the day was long and the eye sharp
and all to feel was right and sound
and all to know fit right in place
with the next brick lying in wait
and the next breath dying for taste---
                     my dear dark friend
stay on board a moment longer and spare
me the sound of your awful splash,
i know the world with whom you clash,
i know the way the world holds you back
and the fear you feel when turning black---
just stay a moment longer and be silent still,
let me mend you by my quill, for indeed
there is rain, but have you noticed in the mist
that falls wave on wave of rain and cloud
the symphonic bow section, that strings weave in
close and afar and clearly with a long view,
to play you chamber music in the open day---
close your eyes, hear the wave after wave
say that we are not what we seem---when light
does shine an empty beam, walk off stage
                     the audience is not brave,
they will stay sat in an upright chair
and wait till your bow flats them your brown hair
let them stare and do your work's end,
a bow at last, applause to send a thrill through
your crooked spine---this is promised every time.
when your sun has set, let your moonbeam shine
when your eyelids have met and in your long thoughts
darklings creep and emote you an ocean's wavy sleep
and in No Time the eye you dare not meet
by daylight people on day time street
comes as Peeping Pete and feels like iron wrought
tick tocking mock---feed that steep rock fear a sock
and rest your tangled muscles and your restless bones
                      let loose the tension
in your big toes, oh i know (i know!)
how the fear within you grows
how walking a mile wrong runs the heel hard and ruins
your twisting hip and grates your vertebrae
how the closed eye in pain sees blue light
how the silent voice inside you screams I AM RIGHT
and the echoes are louder than the shock felt
by the one you love most and how you know
your blank look Ex Press Ion writes
                       i, ghost, lovely host
                       i boast and i toast
                       but i do love the most
don't you know? of course you know---the eye
of Peeping Pete is your friend on the rise
when the sun is set in the west and your weary eyes close
the sun is high in the east and your sun friend,
with whom you share the long daring stare,
stands up and with care takes the walk along the wall
and the temples that surround the city of your brain
bubble with flame and burst wild a stain glass pain---
this is the poet's call, but you must know,
                       neither of you walks alone
for when in your wavy sleep
the blue light becomes the fire
when in your eternal rest your right angles
best the bishop's mitre, when you do walk by the stair
and see the arching torches below become blind
by what forces mystic shadow or look high
at the arching brilliance like a Luther
light bringer of light brighter and brighter
                       when you remember how
you can see the sound, how a wave is a wave is a wave
and at the center of the spin spinning round
how a cave is a cave is a cave where Time is but
a measure and Distance cannot be found but
the heart's beat is the treasure that sends
the fluid within and without you rushing in a trend
of sin and circumstance---this is not Chance,
nor his magic cloak Fate, this is not Chaos,
nor his bitch Order, this is not Colour
                       this is not Odor
this is not a handful of dust or air---
this is nothing, this is not there, so have no fear
have no care---have no fear my dark friend
                       ask only of this
What is that One there? in whom do i trust,
by whom do i fare? who's heart is beating now!
who's eye has no brow! who's smile can't be found.
                       who for a while has come down
to walk on the wall bridge of Why What When and How.
                       you are asleep now
your sleep walker is roused. your dream shadow lines
his foot-steeping beams and finds truth in each
cobble crack---what you have in your claw!
                       he does not lack.
but what time you keep will keep him back,
what friend ship prow that mermaids ride upon
that stream the curvature of the ocean skin
and crack on rock and break on sin and break
                        and break and break!
what force you cannot control, what precious oil
you have in your hold---what butterfly wing dust
is, on your wicked fingertip, sulfur's coal
what sludge you find to warm the hearth in your
winter's cold, what rape by Hobbe's Leviathan
you do not challenge, what malice you see and by
silence condone, what field of battle the North
army sends, in what spring of doom the South
army dies, by what stiff arms dead sons beg
the tears in your country mothering cries---
what peaceful sleep you crave when peace is but a
ceaseless wave and not material as diamond
nor a jewel that crusts your rusty crown!
                       i challenge you poet
in your dark sleep when your light walker planes
the light of the eastern day to scream his name
in the light to your warring west ward by day
                       and say This is Who i am
herr scientist, dear needle man, do not presume
to scan my brain, do not send your policeman
to ask my name, do not give your ambulance driver
a pink slip to give your doctor friend a pass
to skip the simplest game of ask, listen, learn---
do not yearn to know my mind if my words while
turning fast seem to burn in a wild way,
for i am the being amok, yes, but i am being still,
sit there quiet if you can and practice being just.
ask me questions if you must, ask again if you miss
my point, my words do not rust, words are just noise
and wax in your ear should not become
                       lithium in my vein!
                       your leeching me is insane.
we will be destroyers before we bear shame---
humiliate me as a king feeds tulip petals to his knave,
your queen hates you. your prince usurps you.
your people loath your prince. and your priest, ha! your priest,
when channeling powers to his dark lit chamber, bowers
with boys he finds along the way, is cancer on your skin,
though he claims, while he feigns, his book is complete
                       his testament is sound
                       his gospel is valid
                       his eyes are round
he has found the way, what proof has he and in what language
says it when he too turns from what he says
and by his actions rends it?
                       tempt me as a king to betray
my conscience and look away from the mystic eye
beaming at me through the glass of the window
without a shade---and command me to obey, sit down clown!
in the town of chains, warm on the backside
whipped and whipping a red burning fire
sipped and sipping by an alcoholics’ pyre
zipped, unzipping the term slave, un-asking why i came,
for Beowulf's fame? to think Washington-Achilles, same?
eagles eat serpents, fool king, neither know better,
we can eat eagles if we want to and do.
the great white bear will always stand over you
and suffer no moment of your blank what-stare---
for your momentary reign and sad torment of mind
and your eternal disgrace, i have but one care
                      that i remain as i am
                      the eye that watches you
the judgment of your day. the voice that is true.
do as you do, right just or not. i have come at last,
you know who i am and what comes next.
good night sweet princes, dark poets too,
dear father's rest, what is done does not come next.
and dear mother's do not cry, your boy will not suffer
                     this time---your boy
                     who carried afore
the light sword of truth, carries now the fruits of peace
and is walking in the west an apple, in the east a peach---
you can see your twin sons now if you rush to your beach
and take an ax to your un-mown field and become
to your unarmed boys a shield. your man will moan
when you stand in his way but feel no power
to point his sword to your sway---mother, sister,
you are the peace i claim---walk in advance of your coyote,
line the street of the mystic mist
the ocean tomb has sent floating
clear to the mystic cave where we will meet
our guru friend and have a chat that has no end---
                     avant garde ladies dear
                     clear your fear, arm in arm,
while the storm becomes the calm. and i will anoint you
each with a kiss between your eyes, each with the balm of cries,
each with the mist that shall never die. we are the guardians of grace---
                     and this is our place
                     this, the stronghold of peace.