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a really stupid poem

2010-07-06T21:44:00.000-07:00

The palm of my hand has been finged by one of my fingers

Which finger finged has yet to be determined

Reliable sources report the finger was ruthless

Some sources claim a spider was spided

One reporter tried to interview an answer

The answer was busy answing at the time

Experts claim the news is sugar for the reader

The public is not insulted by the claim

This event has warranted exclusive, live, active coverage

For all of the parties concerned who bothered to notice

I am unavailable for comment; please leave a message

The palm of my hand has been finged by one of my fingers

littera scripta manet

2010-06-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

Palms, pens, fingers, and pencils cross the Blank Paper Desert

Leaving lonely abandoned glyphs and graphemes in their wake

Each text waits to be read, ignored, obscured, unremembered

Pages rot in arcane existence, quietly opaque

Why is this train-station-of-thought here, where no trains-of-thought ever arrive?

When shall deserted documents bask in the sunlight of attention?

Manuscripts wait just to be found once by one roving mind’s fortunate swerve

Manuscripts ache in Ignorance-Limbo, a melancholy dungeon

Printing-machines mass-produce our wireless, mouse-less, link-less papyrus

Organized by ISBN’s and the Dewey Decimal System

None of our schools cover all ideas and concepts published around us

Nobody on Earth knows all; nobody’s got the perfect cerebrum

Through life, even the most informed have more to discover and explore

Each true spirited soul believes in some useful effort

Palms, pens, fingers, and pencils bravely hope to enlighten and inspire

Palms, pens, fingers, and pencils cross the Blank Paper Desert

expertus dico

2010-06-21T07:45:00.001-07:00

I am this introvert, born to take in only so much of your output at a time

I was never born to thrive on all that you crave

Why is it crucial to share the fast pace now in vogue, just so our wavelengths are the same?

What if this attention-span is all I can give?

Why do six-billion human beings all have to be “hip” “trendy” and “cool”?

Why do six-billion have to learn and teach at the same speed?

I am sure someone somewhere also must think what I think, feel what I feel

I am sure someone somewhere must be tired of this rushed ride

I enjoy the sun out on my own, whether or not I miss today’s hype

Spending all day just to mouse-click and to type would be a shame

I was born to walk out in the fresh-air of the planet Earth and breathe deep

Born to take in only so much of your output at a time

Our best night together

2010-06-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

1. Sushi at an authentic Japanese restaurant and playing footsie under the table

2. A snuggle on a park bench under a full moon

3. Natalie Cole's collection of her enchanted ballads on the CD player during our drive home

4. The Animatrix (a sci-fi classic) on our DVD-player

5. A shower together with the ordinary electric lights switched off and decorative candles providing ambient light :)

Spambots or humans may leave whatever comments

2010-06-10T10:35:00.000-07:00

Why do you ask where and how I’ve been when I’m always a mouse-click away?

Why do you seem to be allergic to Facebook and Twitter?

Where is the shared, open flexibility Cyberspace once promised me?

All our conflicting “options” divide us forever

If you’re sincere, send a crapless, gagless e-mail to just me, and not a contact-list

Learn something about the first sites I rush to, not just the ONE site that you cling to

Why is this so hard to understand? I’m rushing to touch base, and gee what thanks I get

Why simply assume I’ve just vanished into thin air, and then ask me “Where were you?”???

There is a lot more to Cyberspace than just Multiply Dot Com

When was the last time that Multiply Dot Com was mentioned on the news?

Blogging allows more than telephones could first do when they first came

Yet there is chit-chat entirely throughout countless ordinary blogs

I have Googled many of you, and discovered where else you’ve popped up

Just to be asked where I vanished to everywhere I fail to make frequent time for

I should rediscover my introvert-self, and feel free to just type

Letting the Muse have her way, and accepting that I can’t appease every reader

I’m as confused at least as much as I am confusing, when and if I confuse at all

Why are you so sure the site you’ve chosen is where I’ll appear every day?

Why would your single one irrelevant, obscure chosen site have such broad appeal?

Why do you ask where and how I’ve been when I’m always a mouse-click away?

Some new text on my blog

2010-06-07T12:52:00.000-07:00

Left and right feet rise and fall on sidewalks in waves of elevation

I am Pedestrian Man, born to walk

Born to take notes, born to witness all of the non-events that happen

Nowhere to run, and there’s no turning back

Meet me at the corner of Viewthread Avenue and Showtopic Road

Meet me in the xenozone where few feet ever step

Anything you want you can keep, except for what I fail to provide

Anything I don’t possess is not worth any hype

Love, hate, or ignore me, I do not care

I am as common as the Earth

One man on the solar system’s blue sphere

Facing reality and truth

Still in one piece with zero dollars and zero cents

Still enduring a journey not complete yet

Crossing life’s distance over time at the healthiest pace

Crossing sidewalks and streets with left and right feet

Ten little things about me

2010-04-11T08:16:00.000-07:00

1) My life was not perfect yesterday. My life is not perfect today. My life will not be perfect tomorrow.

2) I laughed a few times yesterday. I laughed a few times today. I will probably laugh a few times tomorrow.

3) I was okay yesterday. I am okay today. I will probably be okay tomorrow. If for any reason I am not okay tomorrow, I will probably say that I am not okay, clearly and explicitly.

4) Sometimes I experience sad and melancholy feelings about The Human Condition. Sometimes I find it therapeutic to express these feelings. And then I get annoyed when someone responds to my expression of some of my melancholy feelings by panicking, and asking me what horrible thing has suddenly happened to me, and how can they rescue me.

5) When I am offline, I am usually outside getting some fresh air, or doing housework, or writing a blog-post, or spending quality-time with loved-ones, etc. My absence from Cyberspace has NEVER been an indication that I’ve suddenly been kidnapped or struck by lightning or anything of the kind, and it is never likely to be an indication of any such thing (contrary to what some online-community-members seem to habitually think).

6) I had autism yesterday. I have autism today. I will have autism tomorrow.

7) My spouse and I loved each other yesterday, we love each other today, and we will love each other tomorrow (July 17, 2010 will be our eighth anniversary)

8 ) I drank lots of coffee yesterday, I am drinking lots of coffee today. I will drink lots of coffee tomorrow.

9) I was a Secular Humanist yesterday. I am a Secular Humanist today, and I will more-than-likely be a Secular Humanist tomorrow.

10) I was a cat-person yesterday. I am a cat-person today. I will be a cat-person tomorrow (I like cats better than dogs; our landlord won’t allow pets, though).

#smilesandhugs #everyone

sidewalk chalk

2010-03-20T14:18:00.001-07:00

All of the things my sister and I wrote and drew in sidewalk chalk in our youth have long since faded away . . .

The time we pretended she was a teacher and I was a student, and I wrote:

“i will do what teacher says

i will do what teacher says

i will do what teacher says . . .”

The time we drew Pac-Man and Mario throwing barrels at Donkey Kong and The Ghost-Monsters.

The time we drew Mario walking up to a mushroom cloud and thinking “Golly, how do I get out of this one?”

The time we drew the sun smiling down on a cornfield and saying “Grow, grow . . .”

The time we wrote:

“KEN AND BARBIE SITTING IN A TREE

K-I-S-S-I-N-G”

The hopscotch court we drew.

The time we drew the Middle-Aged Pervert Krishna Gerbils.

The time we drew the Care Bears versus Ewoks football game.

The time we wrote “COKE RULES AND PEPSI SUCKS” up and down the neighborhood.

The sloppy pictures we drew of our super-hero “OttoMan” saving the world from “The Evil Dr. Byzantine.”

All of the things my sister and I wrote and drew in sidewalk chalk in our youth have long since faded away . . .

The Tree and I

2010-03-08T19:13:00.000-08:00

One cold February day, when I was still a preteen (this was still a while before my mother died of cancer in 1993), I made up my mind that the Christmas decorations had stayed up in front of my mother’s house long enough. We were always the last people in the whole neighborhood to take down the Christmas lights in front of our house. I made up my mind that this was a priority, that someone had to take the initiative here, and that it might as well be me.

With stubbornness, incredulity, and focused determination, I suited up in my winter coat, mittens, and boots, and marched straight to the front door, where the goofy multi-colored flashing miniature light-bulbs lay draped across a wiry, scrawny, leafless deciduous tree just beside the front steps of our house. Why weren’t these dxmn things taken down by now? How hard could it really be anyway?

With firm resolve, I stomped down our front steps, strutted right up to the decorated tree, and stood in front of it, assessing the seemingly straightforward task before me. Christmas decorations up in February, how silly! This, I decided, was not going to wait a moment longer. It was time. Period.

I reached out in front of me to where part of the bulb-laden cable hung down from one of thin, limp, brittle deciduous branches. I grabbed the electric cable and began to pull. Suddenly, the tree-branch itself snapped off, whopped me on the forehead (leaving a slight scar that I would see in the mirror later), then fell on the toe-end of my left boot. I blinked, grunted, then noticed that the cable itself was no further off of the tree than when I had begun.

Undaunted, I fiddled a bit with the cable, searching for its proverbial Achilles’ heel, a place where it was more loose and more vulnerable to being removed. After a minute or two, I came across the end of the cable that extended a short distance away from the tree. I followed this extension with my eyes, and found that it terminated at the outdoor electrical outlet attached to the front of the garage, where the cable was plugged in. My lower jaw dropped to what must have been my ankles! How stupid not to have thought of unplugging these stupid flashing Christmas lights before getting them off the tree!

I took a deep breath, sighed, and plodded toward the electrical outlet to unplug the dxmn cable. Suddenly, I slid on the ice and fell with one hard WHOMP down on my ass! “OOH!” I grunted! Now, I was really pissed off!

With a sneer, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and took slow, cautious steps toward the electrical outlet. I finally unplugged the dxmn cable, and carried the plug end back to the tree.

I wound part of the plug end of the cable around my forearm. I could almost taste victory. I reached my hand closer into the tree to get at the bulb-laden portion of the cable and pull it out. But much of the cable was intricately intertwined with the dry, cold, and prickly deciduous branches. The cable could not just be pulled; it had to be untangled.

I pried apart two deciduous branches that had a portion of the cable between them, and suddenly they snapped apart like a wishbone! The next thing I knew, my right wrist was scraped and bleeding! How did THAT happen???

An hour later, the dxmn Christmas decorations were finally down and put away in some box somewhere, and I was wearing bandages in several places. Just as I was resolving never to attempt taking down Christmas decorations ever again, my mother called me to the kitchen, where a found that she had baked a tray of delicious chocolate muffins, as a kind of reward for my labor and my helpfulness.

The adventures of my black turtleneck sweatshirt

2010-03-02T17:45:00.002-08:00

Black turtleneck sweatshirt that my mother gave me for Christmas when I was 13 years old:

I was wearing it when I first shaved at the age of 14.

I was wearing it on my first date (and during my first kiss) at the age of 15.

I was wearing it when I failed my first driving test at the age of 16.

I was wearing it when I found my first gray hair at the age of 17.

I was wearing it when I first voted at the age of 18.

I was wearing it when I sipped my first cup of coffee at the age of 19.

I was wearing it when I hit my first (and last) home run at the age of 20.

I was wearing it when, at the age of 21, I was handed back my first (and last) 50 page Political Science term paper, graded with a big red “C+” glaring at the top of the title-page.

I was wearing it when I first stared into a wolf’s eyes on a camping trip, at the age of 22 (The wolf ran away.)

I was wearing it when I accepted a position as a paid church choir soloist at the age of 23 (I resigned after 5 years).

I was wearing it when I took my first solo Greyhound bus trip to Ashern, Manitoba at the age of 24.

I was wearing it when, at the age of 25, I stumbled upon my misplaced wallet, after I’d already got my bank card replaced and all my personal ID and everything.

I was wearing it when I began working my first shift as a janitor at SuperValu, at the age of 26.

I was wearing it the first time I held a snake (a street beggar’s pet snake; he let me hold it in exchange for some money), at the age of 27.

I was wearing it the first time I (successfully) downhill skied the hardest slope on Mount Agassiz, at the age of 28.

I was wearing it the day I moved in with my same-sex common-law spouse at the age of 29, and we’re still together and still very much in love after over seven years.

Black turtleneck sweatshirt. I still wear it sometimes. My spouse tells me that I look very handsome and very sexy in it.

Black turtleneck sweatshirt. A gift from my mother. She died of cancer in 1993. I was 20 years old.

A fish story

2010-03-02T17:45:00.001-08:00

When I was six years old, my Uncle Andy taught me how to fish (It was the last thing Uncle Andy and I ever did together; he died of a heart attack a few years later). That was the only time I ever went fishing, and I don't really remember any of the technique or anything. But I do remember what we caught. That is, I remember what it looked like: It was about the size of your thumb, and it was black with a white belly. In spite of it's small size, Uncle Andy still took the fish to his cabin and proudly mounted it anyhow. We somehow still managed to bring the little thing back to the cabin even after the canoe tipped over.

Yes, at one point, the canoe tipped over. I was scared at first (and holy crap that water was cold), but luckily we happened to have our life-preservers with us. I thought that we would drown. I experienced a curious mixture of pleasant-surprise and relief when I found myself floating instead of sinking. That was, in fact, the day when I learned what a life-preserver was. My mind had equated deep water with drowning up until then. “Unca!” I exclaimed. “We’re safe!” “We’re not drowning!” “Well we’d better not,” Uncle Andy quipped, “I payed dxmn good money for these life-preservers!” And he laughed.

I was quiet for the rest of the morning, filled with a sense of wonder and awe. I gazed into the beauty of the cloudless blue sunny sky that we were still alive to see, and I gazed into the murky foreboding darkness of the deep lake. We could have drowned. We actually could have drowned. But we didn’t. We actually didn’t.

no shame

2010-03-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

I would just like to say that it is perfectly healthy and natural for a guy to play with his own nipples, and that it’s a beautiful thing. In fact, I feel sorry for any guy who is macho enough to keep his fingertips off his nipples for a full 72 consecutive hours, or even a full 24 consecutive hours. Because that’s just sad. Talk about missing out. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that any guy who is that macho must have some serious issues. I mean c’mon, sheesh already. We’re only alive on this Earth for so long, so make the most of it, explore and enjoy that wonderful nipple-sensitivity in life while there’s still time. I am not ashamed to tell you that I am a man and I finger my nipples daily and, in fact, I am proud of my healthy attitude about it. In fact, I highly recommend fingering one’s nipples in the shower; the soap and water combine to form an absolutely perfect lubricant. There, I said it, and I’m confident that at lest a few guys out there are gonna read this and feel relieved to know that they are not alone. Where do we get the idea that a guy is a sissy and a wuss if he nipples himself anyhow? It’s bullshxt! And besides, studies show that nippling oneself can boost nipple-size and even make more chest-hairs grow. It’s a fact. Science proves it. All the more reason why we, as guys, should be less uptight about this sort of thing. Incidentally, did I mention that I also jack-off a lot?

duplicate content

2010-01-23T08:50:00.001-08:00

One at a time, the individuals ask “Why are you strange?

Why do you make choices my friends and I would never make?”

I shall repeat myself until I have grown wrinkled with age

Nobody said everyone writes what you yourself would like

Yes, this is how I blog, and these are the keystrokes I type

Yes, I feel the way I happen to feel

Go teach another person how to be less of a creep

Someone else can learn your personal style

Someone who cares can learn your wisdom of how doing my own thing is wrong

This is a script I must enact on my own personal stage

One at a time, the individuals come with the same question, the same old harangue

One at a time, the individuals ask “Why are you strange?”

escape

2010-01-08T19:52:00.000-08:00

i am your misery

i am your sleep-deprivation

i am your headaches

i am the slap of my palm on your face

i am your disappointment

i am your starvation

i am a mouth and stomach eating more than we can afford

i am the stink of my body odor in your nostrils

i am the unfxxkable fat you hate to see naked

i am the dust in your coughs and sneezes

i am your stress

i am your burden

. . .

forget me tonight

don’t let me ruin your evening

This was originally posted on May 25, 2009

2009-07-13T21:53:00.000-07:00

NEW WEATHER UPDATE: rainy day (Poem 183): Yeah, it’s raining today, but y’know, sometimes it does have to rain

Lawns and gardens are thirsty again; so are the crops, corn and grain

Yeah, we need our umbrellas and boots, under a sky gray with clouds

Yeah, it’s chilly and windy, but don’t worry ‘cause this too shall pass

We’ll be wiping sweat off our brows in the sun’s intense heat before you know it

We shall tan again, have our picnics, and ride our bikes, once the rain has ended

May through August are sunny and hot months we enjoy while we can

Yeah, it’s raining today, but y’know, sometimes it does have to rain

may4th2009

2009-07-13T21:49:00.000-07:00

Poem 182 is a circumvalent cosmoswirl: Read the world

Write your life

Be a child

Guard your turf

Be an embodiment of hope

Radiant beacon in the dark

Dreams are the lessons in your sleep

Leaving you inwardly awake

Decades end

Life is brief

Read the world

Write your life

apr6th2009

2009-07-13T21:39:00.000-07:00

Poem 181 goes out to http://360.yahoo.com/lord_bunny_balls: Some of us experience Feeling X, even if you yourselves do not

Some of us experience Feeling X, even if you cannot relate

Someone paid attention, but no one shared the pain inside

World of dudes and honeys, you make the spirit’s journey hard

Please feel free to stare; it’s only natural to stare

Please don’t panic; I am not an entity to fear

Let me fail to answer your stupid questions in peace

I am not your servant, and you were never my boss

Draw your own conclusions, make your decisions, and keep your distance

No one’s gonna stop you; no one approves or condemns your choices

Certainly not the bites of food I chew and swallow, or the breaths of air I take

Whether or not I co-exist is immaterial, or so I’d like to think

Whether you’re having a good or bad day, I hardly give a shxt

Some of us experience Feeling X, even if you yourselves do not

march29th2009

2009-07-13T21:29:00.000-07:00

MUSH ALERT: Poem 180 is another sentimental tribute2my spouse: I am the fingers that love your muscles

I am the palms that adore your skin

I am the hands that bestow caresses

I am your arms when your strength is gone

You are my comfort and joy in struggle

Healing and warmth when the world is cruel

We are renewed when we hug and snuggle

We are the halves of a perfect whole

march22nd2009

2009-07-13T21:26:00.000-07:00

Poem 179 is a piss on you: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

After years of blame and pressure

After years of self-denial

Anger cracks my tooth-enamel

Call this posted text “depressing”

Why the fxxk are YOU complaining?

Every day, the world is colder

Every person’s just a soldier

Now, I fear I can’t recover

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

march9th2009

2009-07-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

Poem 178: This ever happen2you?: Suddenly, I felt this strong craving for fruit

Suddenly, I felt this dry ache in my throat

Suddenly, I felt that Kraft Dinner is gross

Suddenly, I needed sweet, natural juice

Suddenly, I needed and grabbed that can of pineapple-slices

Suddenly, I felt the relief of making sensible choices

Suddenly, I knew my whole diet is shxt

Suddenly, I felt this strong craving for fruit

march2nd2009

2009-07-13T21:18:00.000-07:00

Poem 177 is just another Monday poem: Walking from Marion Street to the Millennium Library and back

Daily routine of returning to the shelves and discovering a book

Living without the experiences others can recognize and share

Learning that nobody reads about the cares and concerns of the bizarre

Yeah, I’m still okay, for those of you who wonder how I am

Hard to entertain a readership addicted to the norm

Each day is a search for ways to entertain the easily-bored

Warm fuzzies are all that people want; whatever else is ignored

Leave me to live at a distance as remote and convenient as you like

Walking from Marion Street to the Millennium Library and back

feb25th2009

2009-07-13T21:16:00.000-07:00

Poem 176 (I'm okay, this is just a new idea I'm trying out here): fists

packed hands

tightly clenched

ready to fight

knuckles bent in rage

dare to attack

win and lose

left right

punch

feb11th2009

2009-07-13T21:13:00.000-07:00

Poem 175 is still in one piece: Dangerously slippery ice on Winnipeg sidewalks

Moment when it rained and it froze, a treacherous nuisance

Ambulances rush to the scenes where bones have been broken

Winnipeggers awkwardly walk in terror, with caution

Each foot shall slide in due time

Safe just to stay inside home

Frictionless terrain is a bane that drives us to madness

Dangerously slippery ice on Winnipeg sidewalks

feb3rd2009

2009-07-13T21:08:00.000-07:00

Poem 174 may offend some shopaholics: Push a shopping-cart through the aisles of the Retail-Maze

Boxes, jars, and cans, grams and litres of wants and needs

Endless, grueling, soul-numbing task that my spouse enjoys

How I hate the grand scenic tour of competing brands

What a relief to finally haul the groceries home

Mention another “coupon” or “sale” to me, and I’ll scream

Has to be the most deathly-spiritless chore of chores

Push a shopping-cart through the aisles of the Retail-Maze

jan27th2009

2009-07-13T20:58:00.000-07:00

Poem 173 is a McHaiku: One day, you were born

A few people learned something

Then, one day, you died

jan5th2009

2009-07-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

Poem 172 goes out to http://www.facebook.com/lindsmac1

You were the friend who gave me a haircut for free

You were the friend who leaned on my shoulder to cry

Now, you embody Thoughtless Authority’s fist

You have become Vindictiveness, Failure To Trust

I do not lie to a friend who cuts my hair and cries on my shoulder

That’s a rash slap on the face, but go ahead and call me a liar

All you can do is focus, command, and obey

You were the friend who gave me a haircut for free

dec26th2008

2009-07-13T20:44:00.001-07:00

Poem 171 is just an update: Those of you who ask, please know that yes, I am okay

Tolerating life’s butt-end by living day to day

Living in a iron-fist-minded world of gain and loss

Sharing with my spouse true love , surviving every curse

Silence is not necessarily a red alert

Sanity’s down-time is healthy in a world of clout

Difficult events take place; we slowly find our way

Those of you who ask, please know that yes, I am okay

dec25th2008

2009-07-13T20:42:00.000-07:00

Poem 170 is a McHaiku: Reindeer levitate

Santa's telekinesis

Makes it possible

dec16th2008

2009-07-13T19:59:00.000-07:00

Poem 169 is another December in Winnipeg: Now, a bus stop to wait beside is a final refuge

Now, a long winter seems to serve as a test of courage

I was “Jon Pear” before, but now I am NeuroAster

I am loved, blamed, and valued more by the pawns of wonder

Valued and loved by those who preach church-hype

Waiting beside a silent, cold bus stop

Busses delayed by ice and snow, held back

Schedules are nonsense; let the sky turn dark

Life is a bus stop where broken souls wait for the Death Bus to come

Nothing was planned; each of us has grown out of a joined egg and sperm

Letting the sky darken black as deep space is a sane, healthy peace

Wallets that puke dollar-bills and coins fail to address modern tears

Moment after moment, and event after event

Zeitgeist after zeitgeist has become ancient and short

Difference-makers everywhere demand movers to shove

Only rootless membots can survive everyone’s drive

Frostbite scars human-flesh like fire or corrosive acid

Let the wind fail to pierce the walls of our own apartment

Salvage each precious, rich, and tangibly real advantage

Now, a bus stop to wait beside is a final refuge

dec9th2008

2009-07-13T19:57:00.000-07:00

Poem 168 is anthropomorphic: Full moon, gazing down on Winnipeg tonight

Pure sphere, high, aloof, objective, and remote

Proud brat loves her privileged spotlight from the sun

Still mute, never known to lecture, or complain

Better off out in orbit than mired in the Earth’s urban sprawl

Better off out in order than mired in the stressed human hell

Stay put, far from growth, technology, and shxt

Full moon, gazing down on Winnipeg tonight

dec3rd2008

2009-07-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

Poem 167 is a transprehensive arithmordinate: One-hundred-percent of the universes all around the world

All peoples’ reality-versions, and the ways our spheres collide

Mass noise, and scrambled counterpoint of question-marks and stares

More failed communication on a web the planet shares

Cyberspace is where mouse-clicks are mass-transit quantum-leaps across time-zones

Messages at enhanced speeds, before wetware figures out what each text means

All open public dialogue is naked, word for word

One-hundred-percent of the universes all around the world

dec1st2008

2009-07-13T19:54:00.001-07:00

Poem 166 is another weather report: Snowflakes float gently downward, and slowly paint Winnipeg white

Now, we wear boots and coats, and we miss July, August, and sweat

Yes, we knew this would happen, and every year, people survive

We persist; we prepare for the months ahead, stoic and brave

Armed with scarves, earmuffs, and thick thermal socks

Let us now tackle the fierce freezing winds

Pavement-gray sky, we wait for the sun to come back with the heat

Snowflakes float gently downward, and slowly paint Winnipeg white

nov17th2008

2009-07-13T19:52:00.000-07:00

Poem 165 is cyclojunct: Lift the world’s weight, drag it away, and thrust it over the edge

You do not need pressure from snobs who make assumptions and judge

Monday’s warm, soft quicksand of bed has tried to swallow you whole

Loud alarm clock blared, and you struggled up and answered its call

Take a few bites; brush your teeth and shower; get dressed

Rush and get stuck deep in morning traffic’s long wait

This routine keeps minds distracted, keeps our souls dead

Deaf-and-blind, pale zombies march to serve a numb god

Dare to leave the dirge of the forsaken

Sneak away; remember to be human

Dare to question everybody’s answer

Dare to probe the failure to discover

Dare to learn the secrets forgotten by strangers, friends and enemies

Dare to teach the secrets that everyone else has found mysterious

Dare to journey forth on a path that is barely even legible

Dare to journey forth on your own, and be barely even tangible

Someone is on the planet Earth loving you now, obscured by the a distance none can cross

Suicide is the only real failure, and inner-peace is the only real success

Tenderness and perspective keep life in the light, the ideobalm that cleanses fear

Touch me with a reminder, reach deep as you dare, and handle the cryptic self in here

Dare to reach deep into the murky septic-tank of the heart

Dare to find thick burdens of solid lead that sicken and hurt

Take the red pill; dare to begin the ontological search

Lift the world’s weight, drag it away, and thrust it over the edge

nov4th2008

2009-07-13T19:51:00.001-07:00

Poem 164 goes out to http://360.yahoo.com/evilfakepage: You are one reader; this text may not be equally meaningless to every reader

Go and chit-chat with some other mind, and look for another to become your lover

Raise your bum off a pink toilet-seat, and keep the appointments on your hectic schedule

Take your new laptop each place you go; continue your service to another devil

Minds of whole entire demographics fail to change, and the world fails to change

Let the stomach starve; let the body age its way to the grave; turn to sludge

Let the spirit sink down within the septic-tank of the heart; let it drown

Life can be a strain; life can drain an aura out until all strength is gone

Leaving our own wrists un-slashed is the final homework authority assigns

We are the blame-takers, makers of punished-efforts that nobody admires

All of our food, clothes, and shelter were left by merchants and tradesmiths on the move

Nobody owes any favors to us; we wait for our failures to survive

Nobody gets the warm-fuzzy feelings they want from news the world needs most

This is a party; real needs and public awareness spoil the fun; fxxk shxt

Why am I here? I’m now just a damper on other peoples’ free spare time

This is a party, that’s it, and if you are here with smug ideals, don’t come

I believed I could get on with life by making a difference that was never welcome

People just fail to learn how to have an innocent-person-with-a-twist around them

Go away; you have no clue about what’s really important, and it doesn’t matter

You are one reader; this text may not be equally meaningless to every reader

oct23rd2008

2009-07-13T19:49:00.001-07:00

Poem 163 is another TGIF poem: There is no way to know how long you will wait; thanks for your patience

We are just human; we are pawns of a boss, part of a process

We have kids; we have spouses; there shall be food, clothing, and shelter

We are all sleep-deprived and racing the clock, dealing with pressure

After we have served you, have a nice life

Nobody is here to cause the world grief

Read the large text that’s posted up on the wall; didn’t you notice?

There is no way to know how long you will wait; thanks for your patience

oct19th2008

2009-07-13T19:47:00.001-07:00

Poem 162 is a McHaiku: Bees, wasps, and hornets

Photoreceptors for brains

Venom-darts for dxcks

oct15th2008

2009-07-13T19:45:00.002-07:00

Poem 161 recognition of Blog Action Day: (PREAMBLE: Special thanks to http://360.yahoo.com/dews24u who has just brought http://blogactionday.org/ to my attention)

Some unthinkable future shall come without affordable air to breathe

We are building a future on sand with individual-blame and myth

Urban-spirals are made of the growing cracks in pavement and skulls and glass

We are letting it happen, and feeling self-assured at a silent price

Full moon calls the spirit like some kind of visual-bell

Glares down over cities of starved stomachs ready to kill

Some invisible crack has begun to form from True Reality’s wrath

Some unthinkable future shall come without affordable air to breathe

oct14th2008

2009-07-13T19:45:00.001-07:00

Poem 160 is a kick in the 66: Stare for a moment, shrug, ignore, and forget

Purchase your fries and burgers; rest and exist

Follow the Monday-morning oozing routine

Cog in the big machine of agony’s groan

Sacred rubies-of-information fall in the ideodumpster of boredom

Briefly stare at a text, and then ignore and forget it; conform in a system

Macaroni and cheese is on a plate on a table with pencil and paper

There are people who know and care that I’m a survivor who tries to recover

Any voice in any wilderness can become another’s voice

Life’s quintessential moments dissolve a sense of dark loss

Set in the west, and take a deep breath before you go to your grave

Breathe deep; an open window has always been a real salve

Love the air, each and every molecule

All the sane minds are closed and cynical

I’m a text-whore for all the literate

Read me now; tell me I’m articulate

All that is left is some posterity’s hope

Go and believe that urgent-vision is hype

Follow the script that broken-spirits accept

Stare for a moment, shrug, ignore, and forget

oct7th2008

2009-07-13T19:43:00.002-07:00

Poem 159 is a subprime foreclosure: Call the state of the heart a quote “negative attitude” unquote

Thanks for saying that smiles are good; thanks for explaining the concept

Be the salt in the spirit’s wounds, cluelessly sheltered, and perfect

Call the state of the heart a quote “ negative attitude” unquote

Pencils and paper are friends without shoulders to cry on

Open, accepting, without advice, mindsets, or caution

Maybe the courage to write can survive the failures to answer every reader’s questions

Maybe the courage to write can survive, in spite of the inner-critic’s growth on steroids

Keep your distance, and have your own fun

Don’t expect me to watch or join in

Turn your back if I make your skin crawl

Kick a football, or shop at some mall

Make sense to hundreds of people; only confuse a few

Whole demographics will never learn what is real or true

Every bite, breath, and step you take for granted must be nice

You’re a team-player, saved by charm and cronies, not by grace

Drive your vehicle through Monday’s hectic traffic

Be an icon of pure photogenic magic

Call the state of the heart quote “depressing” unquote

Call the state of the heart a quote “negative attitude” unquote

sep28th2008

2009-07-13T19:43:00.001-07:00

Poem 158 is in the soul's autumn: Cloudy and overcast, with browning and oranging leaves

Wearing a jacket, in the chill of the Winnipeg breeze

Walking and breathing, on a day when the summer has died

Knowing that snowflakes from the sky shall arrive and descend

Stars, raindrops, leaves, and snowflakes fall

Time’s Chronojectile passes all

Autumn is coolness of perspective, serenity, peace

Cloudy and overcast, with browning and oranging leaves

sep24th2008

2009-07-13T19:42:00.001-07:00

Poem 157 is the werbh in rhabdomanteia: Let the mouth of the universe eat your stomach for dessert

Close your eyes, and you slowly dissolve; the journey is complete

All the berries and bullets were closing chapters of a book

Let the beckoning beacon of light seduce you from the dark

All the thorns and predators’ fangs in the wrong directions

Fade behind you now, in the archives of lame diversions

Joints and muscles relax like the autumn leaves in their descent

Let the mouth of the universe eat your stomach for dessert

sep20th2008

2009-07-13T19:40:00.001-07:00

Poem 156 is just weird, okay?: Let a person with half a cerebellum fail at all the success everyone knows

Let a person with half a cerebellum feel the urge to exist everyone needs

Let a person with half a cerebellum live ignoring the sick screams of the strong

Let a person with half a cerebellum speak a mixture of prose, babble, and slang

Enemies, friends, and strangers punish away the spirit

Anger and fear can only sadden and kill the different

Let a rebel with some genetic cause adapt in spite of the world’s Pharisee-rules

Let a person with half a cerebellum fail at all the success everyone knows

sep19th2008

2009-07-13T19:39:00.001-07:00

Poem 155 is a McHaiku: A September wasp

Starves on our Venetian blinds

All it eats has died

Sep18th2008

2009-07-13T19:38:00.001-07:00

CAUTION: Poem 154 is scary stuff and not4kids: You, the master of power-control, you demand blood, gold, and silver for your strength

Youth is doomed in the name of your own crown and throne; iron-fists are flattened in your wrath

Kings and pawns can be crossing a new border; just draw some imaginary-line

Take the honor, and brag at the sky; gloat and stand smug; just be proud of your design

Stand over cultures like a great giant glutton over a banquet

Shout vocal thunder to the mob; enjoy your most definitive moment

Yakkety yak and blah blah and crazy talk into microphones

Making the sense a mouth makes in front of multiple multitudes

Sicken the human stomach; play the mass trick

Tension, alarm, and panic, make it all work

All of the constitution burns to smoked ash

All of your gains are losses; even friends clash

Once, you stood by a bucket, and held the handle of a mop

Gazing into an angel, the pelvic valley of her lap

Wear a costume; forget who you were; wear a pale clay mask of archetype and myth

You, the master of power-control, you demand blood, gold, and silver for your strength

This was originally posted on September 15, 2008

2009-07-13T19:35:00.001-07:00

Poem 153 is leikw: Let a lost soul fail to make a circle of squares

Let a lost soul fail to share humanity’s cares

Better to see the sun, than to see a window filter the sun

Look in the mirror; see what you want; believe that everything’s fine

Distant, faint, raspy, husky, whispering resonant silence

Mute against frantic, loud municipal sirens and motors

Life in a world addicted to correct events at correctly scheduled moments

Traffic itself is gridlock, when the gods are punctual, cold, precise, and tireless

Wet slime, the quivering, tender warmth has turned to wet slime

Big, fat, colossal, immense ideals have been a nice dream

Get lost; your mortgage is now foreclosed; have a nice life

Get lost, and swim in a vat of thick, acidic skunk-barf

Now an angel-wing-feather floats in the mesosphere

Every eye reads alphanumeric semaphore

Voluntary motor functions feel like a twisted choreography

Everybody keeps their distance now, and it saves you time and energy

Let a lost soul fail to hide our pimples and fat

Let a lost soul fail to share our love and our hate

Let a lost soul fail to share our fears and desires

Let a lost soul fail to make a circle of squares

This was originally posted on September 14, 2008

2009-07-13T16:10:00.001-07:00

Poem 152 is a McHaiku: Under stars and clouds

Enemies, friends, and strangers

Breathe on solid ground

This was originally posted on September 10, 2008

2009-07-13T16:08:00.000-07:00

Poem 151 remembers 9/11: Anger and fear blackened the sky, showering chunks of metal and rock

Pulling the heart down to the Earth’s-core, releasing agony’s shriek

Passionate hate, vengeance, and jet-fuel were ignited horribly hot

Fossilized muck, deep in the sick-spirit, was bled and vomited out

Now the world had made sense for the very last time

Every last gleam of pure innocence met its grim doom

Humans have come thundering down judgment upon humanity’s work

Anger and fear blackened the sky, showering chunks of metal and rock

This was originally posted on September 3, 2008

2009-07-13T16:07:00.001-07:00

Poem 150 is a McHaiku: Dry and aging leaves

Red, orange, yellow, and brown

Falling to their deaths

This was originally posted on September 1, 2008

2009-07-13T16:05:00.001-07:00

Poem 149 can has PharmaBurger or whatever: Silent, cold, and empty, kiosks and vestibules remain silent, cold, and empty

Left behind, when meritocracy promises a free, equal realm of plenty

Freedom without wisdom is just a random walk on the dark side of boredom

Right here, right now, the dirge of servants has died, and become a doldrum

Give the confused a thinking-place, out of the way of narrow minds on the move

Enemies, friends, and strangers live life on the wedge’s edge ahead of the curve

Targets and gods are dollar-bills, wallets, and coins, and all commodities rot

Sweating, collapsing, drained of all energy now, whatever happens is right

This is a poem, you dumbass, now you live and die to make sense

This is a poem, you dumbass, all you fail to love is your loss

This is a poem, you dumbass, go away, and have a nice trip

This is a poem, you dumbass, all the shxt you fxxk is knee-deep

Citizens face another day to rise, rush, and circulate

Citizens face the stress that makes the mind hyperventilate

Citizens face another test of true durability

Citizens face another waste of life’s time and energy

Questions and answers are prescribed, handed down, and final

Everything matters when you watch ghettoes crack and crumble

Eyes of the dreamers can perceive gilded lilies clearly

Kiosks and vestibules remain silent, cold, and empty

This was originally posted on August 25, 2008

2009-07-13T16:03:00.001-07:00

Poem 148 is dheigwh: Leave the soul’s wrists in legislation’s handcuffs

Leave the blamed-victim’s life as a blood-on-canvas

Ask the wrong questions; hate all the answers

Leave the soul’s wrists in legislation’s handcuffs

Proud shame oozes down the septic tank of the heart

We sick humans live devoid of tigers to hunt

Cain killed Abel, and Dorothy killed the Wicked Witch of the West

Gulp down gallons of blood; eat the nailed body of Christ

Let there be failures to communicate; who could care less?

Punish the innocent forever, and leave a huge mess

Oh, to sink my teeth into the eyeballs of the Ku Klux Klan

Pouring salt and bleach into their sockets, and be sick, wild, mean

Homework has made me a vegetable

Pressure has made me an animal

I am a Winnipeg citizen

Taking your dextroamphetamine

Go away if my presence on the planet makes you faint or scream

Hated more than melanin in the skin and semen up the bum

Eggs that you fry in the morning are like your brain on drugs

Pharmacommodities fxxk with your scrambled maze of thoughts

Open my skull and shave my brain without making difficult choices

Enemies, friends, and strangers do the same harm with different intentions

Ask the wrong questions; hate all the answers

Leave the soul’s wrists in legislation’s handcuffs

This was originally posted on August 19, 2008

2009-07-13T16:01:00.001-07:00

Poem 147 is a McHaiku: Dollar-bills and coins

Enter and leave our wallets

Leaves and snowflakes fall

This was originally posted on August 13, 2008

2009-07-13T15:59:00.001-07:00

Poem 146 is thalidomide: Open my skull and stir-fry my brain and see if I care

Open my skull and stir-fry my brain and call it a cure

Open my skull and stir-fry my brain if it makes you happy

Open my skull and make changes, making me not-as-scary

Misunderstandings, hindsight, and apologies

Now until death, authorities are enemies

All of your inconvenience is disposable

Call me a brat, a robot, or an animal

What if every breath you took ruined someone else’s life?

What if every breath you took filled a thousand hearts with grief?

What if you were punished so hard for every breath you took,

You endured the impact each day of life, without a break?

“Limousine Jonathan” is all gone

Far from the property you now own

Serve your employers, and be well paid

Dream of utopia, and feel good

All of the dollar-bills and coins you touch are lifeless and cold

Enemies, friends, and strangers are vermin, crawling low in your world

All you observe is just a bland, vanilla, sedative bore

Open my skull and stir-fry my brain and see if I care

This was originally posted on August 11, 2008

2009-07-13T15:57:00.001-07:00

Go back2sleep (Poem 145): Help wanted, dead or alive; construction ahead

Rise, shine, and blossom for all you dream of inside

Flare up, and glow like a fireplace; beam like the sun

Fxxk shxt from enemies, friends, and strangers in pain

Rays of light and thought zip through the eyes of needles and hurricanes

Days and nights are gone; Time’s Chronojectile zooms with a ruthlessness

Choosers beg for big, fat gains, and lose their spirituality

Songs can open mouths; live life with no casino or lottery

Trailer-saints are starved by the greed of mansion-trash

Trailer-saints are people, whom snobs will never touch

Welfare-churches crumble within the market-state

Still, you must be strong, and endure the reign of shxt

No prayers or baptisms quench the thirst of the globe

Souls lost and found in the void continue to throb

This hiring-project is still in processing mode

Help wanted, dead or alive; construction ahead

This was originally posted on August 4, 2008

2009-07-13T14:34:00.000-07:00

isohell (Poem 144): Dollar-bills and coins enter and leave the wallets of enemies and friends

Mornings, afternoons, evenings, and weekends fill with reminders of your dreams

Demographics enjoy comforts that you are failing to endure

Now you wait for a last chance to remain as innocent and pure

Kings, queens, bishops, rooks, knights, and pawns rule the face of the Earth

Feet march, left and right, race against time, forgetting to breathe

Now you wait for more lessons in sharing everyone’s frivolous concerns

Dollar-bills and coins enter and leave the wallets of enemies and friends

This was originally posted on August 1, 2008

2009-07-13T14:32:00.001-07:00

T.G.I.F. (poem 143)

Welcome to Quicksand Island, the home of Lower Fort Knox

Here, you are fed for helping to move ginormous gold-bricks

Here, you are clothed for flattering every briefcase, each tie

Shelter you get for punctual shift-attendance each day

Now the complacent-people, without even a clue to stand on

People who wave a magic-wand back at each solution

People who read a high-verb low-pronoun diet

Welcome you here, to live a life lost in the public-armpit

Now, and not one single nanosecond later than now

Screams of “SHUT UP ! ! !” burst from mouths, and cars collide on the go

Heart-attacks meet deadlines; every task is scheduled and due

Now, and not one single nanosecond later than now

Cradle to grave, alarm-clock to coffin, the process never does stop

Cradle to grave, alarm-clock to coffin, and every person dies cheap

You are a kludge, replaced by machines when every bone breaks

Welcome to Quicksand Island, the home of Lower Fort Knox

This was originally posted on July 28, 2007

2009-07-13T14:29:00.000-07:00

Poem 142 is groggy and half-awake on a Monday morning: Once upon a duration of chronological time

Monday mornings were tangible, ripe salvation from shame

Interpersonal dialogue bubbled under the sun

Now we live in an age when the Eaton’s Building is gone

Queen Street died in the birth of Portage Avenue

Fast change happens, and life becomes a vertigo

Real truth never conforms to any weltanschauung

No one paradigm ever covers everything

Bite the fruit of a tree; enjoy a full meal

Break the ovary wall, and let the seeds fall

Stand where others have stood before your own birth

Stand where others may stand beyond your own death

Leaves and snowflakes fall, as the dollar-bills and coins enter and leave our wallets

These are days when elders are left in homes, and some citizens vote on ballots

Early, late, and punctual people rise and rush into the morning traffic

Early, late, and punctual people rise and rush into the morning panic

Ghost of Timothy Eaton, avenge the landmark we tore

Haunt the “Centre” we built, and create a horrible scare

We were innocent once, and we had the freedom to dream

Once upon a duration of chronological time

This was originally posted on July 21, 2008

2009-07-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

THE WEATHER REPORT (Poem 141):: Winnipeg’s heat in July and August bakes and bathes your face in your salty sweat

Sandals and shorts and our anti-sunburn-ointments, getting scorched in the rays can hurt

Days when the hornets and wasps and bees are droning, cursed Al-Qaeda of insect-life

Days when our toes and our heels go naked out on sand; we splash in the tides and laugh

Lemonade, ice-cream, and popsicles

Buildings with blessed air-conditioners

Lawns and mosquitoes enjoy the drenching rain, and humans notice the stars at night

Winnipeg’s heat in July and August bakes and bathes your face in your salty sweat

This was originally posted on July 14, 2008

2009-07-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

CAUTION: Poem140 is merely an update and may NOT put readers in a good mood

After I took out the garbage, washed the dishes, and puked

Resting in bed was a healing-time, to pause and reflect

What are the blossoming-spirit’s needs we tend to ignore?

What are the pleasures that nurture more than surface-desire?

Mildew, bacteria, and humans live on the planet Earth

Speech is an auditory-vomit out of the human-mouth

So I reclined, and I pondered; then, I finally slept

After I took out the garbage, washed the dishes, and puked

This was originally posted on June 30, 2008

2009-07-13T14:22:00.001-07:00

We've had better weekends (Poem 139): I am gay, and my spouse’s parents are homophobic

Genealogy’s ties are ruthlessly strict and toxic

How the bullying tears and screams of my spouse’s parents

Make our landlord appear as tame as our fellow tenants

We, the sick human species, prey upon our own

Then, we chit-chat about our “righteousness” and “sin”

Go believe that the world is changing, as if by magic

I am gay, and my spouse’s parents are homophobic

This was originally posted on June 23, 2008

2009-07-13T14:20:00.001-07:00

Another visit with Grandma Dolly (Poem 138): Grandmother laughed when I asked if she ever feels like she’s in a science-fiction story

“Ringtones” of portable-telephones, out-of-context, foreign, abrupt, confusing, scary

Modern-technology changes at bullet-speed; you blink, and you’re out-of-touch and clueless

Clueless, forgotten, and dizzy, unless you’re always making the latest trendy purchase

Grandmother laughed, shrugged, and said: “I guess. Oh well.”

Grandmother smiled cool, and let the world prevail

Now, she’s retired and serene, in a realm of screens with alphanumeric-data-frenzy

Grandmother laughed when I asked if she ever feels like she’s in a science-fiction story

This was originally posted on June 16, 2008

2009-07-13T14:16:00.001-07:00

Namaste (Poem 137): Tumbleweeds and roses love and accept random, wild, real life

Intimate surrender, yes to the wind, peace without hurt grief

Solitude can kiss the truth of your pure self with soft, still calm

Tension can be soothed away in your deep core with life’s first balm

Take time; give it time; these are the days of meritocracy

Rushed stress makes it much harder to find the soul’s tranquility

Brute arms lock you snug; fingers and palms caress with tenderness

Feel safe; close your eyes; blissfully sigh; enjoy the universe

Someone does care if you freeze, melt, or boil

Someone does care if you sink, rise, or fall

Someone does care if you sleep, live, or die

Someone does care how you are every day

Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

Make peace with interpersonal conflict

Make peace with Proud Humanity’s nature

Make peace with each adventurous danger

Reach stars without bowing down to the enemies of friends

Touch hearts without bowing down to authorities and crowns

These days, when strict meritocracy’s deadlines are precise

These days can kill souls with schedules and failures to rejoice

Notice how bubbles and feathers can spread out across fun air

That is how we, as humans, can soar, freed from each clock’s glare

Lilies of the field can silently clear any mind’s thick strife

Tumbleweeds and roses love and accept random, wild, real life

This was originally posted on June 10, 2008

2009-07-13T14:14:00.001-07:00

Poem 136 is a sluzchat geekasm: This poem may contain random, personal thoughts

This here poem is mine; I am calling the shots

Who cares what the fxxk you prefer to ignore?

Who cares what the fxxk you respect or admire?

Four of the eight groups of nine confronted the sky twice

Seventy-two people; thirty-six had the brave guts

Levels within layers rise, and powerful crowns rule

Fingers and lungs bathe in sludge, and passionate souls fail

Left reading the zymoglyphics of metareticulosophy in life

Left lost in the public armpit, surviving anew, and managing to laugh

This poem is a headache waiting to happen for eyes and ears of the redeemed

Who cares if demographics of zombies and goons could ever be ashamed?

Feel free to live in the insulation that keeps you sane

We humans fuss over information we fail to learn

Time’s Chronojectile is one perpetual forward zoom

This post-industrial age induces a primal scream

Smug scribes, have a wild septic party below

Ride waves, make your moves, and live devoid of a clue

Have fun missing self-affirmation’s demise

This poem may contain random, personal thoughts

This was originally posted on June 1, 2008

2009-07-13T12:51:00.001-07:00

Roses and violets lynch the moon (Poem 135): Radioactive, toxic, volatile, flammable, explosive

Powerful witchcraft lurks around us, potentially destructive

Just when you thought the world was safe for a casual existence

Seeds of apocalyptic nightmares contaminate the surface

How do you blossom when the whole globe is hand-made, plan-based?

Live a synthetically contrived life on slick, pale, dead land

Locked in containment-fields where tensions and grudges are abrasive

Radioactive, toxic, volatile, flammable, explosive

This was originally posted on May 28, 2008

2009-07-13T12:49:00.001-07:00

I'm in a good mood today :) (Poem 134): Colors and shapes of oranges and grapes

Dream of a rainbow, dream of an eclipse

Bitters and sweets are melting in your mouth

Gaze at a bold aurora in the north

Junction of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers

Canopy of stars over snuggles and kisses

Open your voice in melody and praise

Open your eyes; delight in the displays

Colors and shapes of oranges and grapes

This was originally posted on May 23, 2008

2009-07-13T12:46:00.000-07:00

12tone blues (poem 133): Depth of cut, down the pit of the self-concept’s core

Hate the game; love the player whose whole world is sore

Bishops, rooks, knights, and pawns are the blind, leading sheep

Go the wind’s way; adhere to the form; take the shape

Archives we keep for posterity

Sink to archaic antiquity

Legacies fade with identities

History swallows our skeletons

Bones of old collateral damage hide in lost muck of the earth, forgotten

Any numbered body could well have died with some honor, or died a virgin

Leaves and snowflakes fall, as the dollar-bills and coins enter and leave our wallets

Leave a gentle nuisance alone; enjoy your own blessings, and curse your servants

Wallow in reputations, dealings, and roles; win points with minds who pull strings

Wrestle with brutes in shallow ideomud; steal spotlights; flex your huge grins

Sure you can render unto Caesar a T4 slip from Mammon each year

What will your adaptations prove when the real, true future leaves your past bare?

All of your gilded silver shall endure more time than your grave

Cold as the guns and bullets the police need just to be safe

Dignity, pride, and status are the 666 of the beast

Toughen your public armor when your most deep self is a ghost

Inner-strength is the weakness of all who declare war on inner-peace

Shoot reporters who ruin the news with the truth; shoot them face to face

You are meat; let the Butcher of Age slice you more

Depth of cut, down the pit of the self-concept’s core

This was originally posted on May 19, 2008

2009-07-13T12:43:00.000-07:00

Poem 132 is a depolarizing mix: Feet march relentlessly each long day

No ear can listen to pain’s rude cry

Make waves and footprints across Earth’s face

Gain more to measure, and count less loss

You judges, juries, and executioners

You vermin, lower than sperm in genitals

You fear and scare the innocent

Force offers no encouragement

Kings and their pawns fail to fathom the mind of Lizamanynames

Sociotypes grow by quoting their memotypes with smiles and charms

How is a vast void of geolocations now a great divide?

Access denied, now a clickable window fails to intercede

Maybe there was hope to save some redemption

Now you are cold, frozen, strict intervention

Open your yes-hole and let passion enter

Open yourself; live the real, true adventure

Each solution is just someone else’s problem in disguise

Have convenience; let nameless humans wander in a maze

Take the breath of your life; just observe whatever has transpired

Let the fireworks explode over jurisdictions of the dead

Gee, thanks a lot for a few stale crumbs

Gee, thanks for moments when each door slams

Fxxk shxt, get out of my life-long way

Feet march relentlessly each long day

This was originally posted on May 15, 2008

2009-07-13T12:40:00.001-07:00

Poem 131 is an equal variant: Access to the second level of operations

Radiance and glory rise to the sun’s occasions

Contemplative caution quivers within the courage

Having-an-agenda shines as the prime advantage

Dark stink in the coldest silence

Deep absence of sleep or chaos

Wolves cry as they starve and weaken

Lambs crucify minds who question

We exist, and we still continue to exist

We are not an invasion, parasite, or guest

This is true, and the truth continues to be true

Let there still be a place where everyone can go

Nothing to be proud or ashamed of

Rising from the fall of perspective

Done with an instructive directive

Nothing to be proud or ashamed of

Walk tall through the low crypt of the flushed sewage-soup’s filth-broth

Take time, you who feel need for the whole world to break all faith

Sharp tusks puncture flesh under the sun, soaked in pain’s live blood

Wild beast, learn your place under the sun, prowl upon free land

Freedom of abundance in a land without epiphanies

Telescopes are useless for the souls who need kaleidoscopes

Amplitudes are screaming in the ears of friends and enemies

Headphones are the solitudes of punks within our silences

Life is a bus-stop where broken-souls wait for the Death-Bus to come

Dream of a pure globe of laughs and play, dream of a globe children claim

Access to some level over stars, access to some hive-control

Promised by some king of rooks and pawns, promised for some precious jewel

Nicotine, cocaine, and opium hide in chocolate

Cravings and addictions lurk in the legal market

Gratitude was all the power the barons gave us

Access to the second level of operations

This was originally posted on May 12, 2008

2009-07-13T12:34:00.000-07:00

boo hoo waah (Poem 130): You who hate to read anything sad for even a moment

Fail to learn about anything real, important, or urgent

Tell the world to shut up so it doesn’t give you a headache

Live without a mind newer than any fossilized relic

How do commodities make you more of an adult and less of a child?

Legally purchase your perks and leisurely enjoy society’s ride

Ride around the sun free on the one inhabited planet

You who hate to read anything sad for even a moment

This was originally posted on May 1, 2008

2009-07-13T12:33:00.001-07:00

Poem 129 is kitsch: A advances

B betrays

C convinces

D delays

E is everywhere

F is far

G is globular

H is here

I’m an intruder

J is a joker

K is the kaiser

L is a loner

M wants more

N is new

O is old

P is in the pew

Q questions

R respects

S is sly

T is tricked

U has utilities

V has a view

W wonders what the whole world is worth

X plays xylophone

Y says yes to youth

Z zooms through the zone

This was originally posted on April 28, 2008

2009-07-13T12:30:00.000-07:00

Poem 128 is metasick: You results-driven, goal-oriented scum

Your demands punish pure sanity and calm

You create panic, stress, poverty, and shame

You create wild, concealed anger in the home

Breadwinners bring home raw-nerves that burst behind privacy’s walls

Children become rage-crazed adults filling up all of our jails

I could peel off your skin slowly while you scream
You results-driven, goal-oriented scum

This was originally posted on April 25, 2008

2009-07-13T12:28:00.000-07:00

2 has 3ed the 5ly 7 (Poem 127): Teleojourney metahome before chronodark

Gobble and gulp a nourishing and hot midnight-snack

Sing for your bed-and-breakfast, as you grow, vote, and shave

Enemies, friends, and strangers are deprived slaves who give

Circulate eternally in gray streets of urban-spiral

Intimacy’s distance is confined now, in stone and metal

Flavors-of-the-months are the acquired tastes of demographics

Preferences are merging in a shared world of informatics

Cause a loud effect, bang big, then you get a cold, silent response

If, and only if, that’s that, then you take or leave anything else

Motion zooms, jumps, crawls, oozes, and flows

Live a real, true life, praise your desires

Blessings-to-count are giving you the prime spark of fire

Targets-and-gods are focusing you keen, sharp, and clear

Nobody knows your secret, the divine mother’s-milk

Teleojourney metahome before chronodark

This was originally posted on April 20, 2008

2009-07-13T12:25:00.000-07:00

How dare you exist (Poem 126)

No redeeming qualities can save you now

Thankless time and energy is blamed on you

Now your sole-providers are about to crack

You transcend what anyone could ever take

Now you’ll pay for innocence you never chose

You’re an easy target, and a source of stress

Your existence challenges the status quo

No redeeming qualities can save you now

This was originally posted on April 13, 2008

2009-07-13T12:22:00.000-07:00

"You're proud of WHAT ? ? ?" (Poem 125): April is Autism Awareness Month

We are the targets of embarrassed wrath

We are a presence in the world around

Whether you fight us, or you’re just confused

This diagnosis is love’s oasis and hatred’s crisis

We live and die as eccentrics, punishing us is useless

We are uniqueness, we are breadth and depth

April is Autism Awareness Month

This was originally posted on April 11, 2008

2009-07-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

Red is the color of love and revolution (Poem 124): Take the red pill

Answer truth’s call

Rise and wake up

Leave the dream-trap

Shout the real news

Tackle hate’s lies

Make machines fall

Take the red pill

This was originally posted on April 9, 2008

2009-07-13T08:02:00.000-07:00

Nobody panic, I'm okay (Poem 123)

Loved by some, hated by others

Living life, knowing what matters

Walking through parks in the sunshine

Keeping this body in motion

I forgot to comb my hair today, and a few scared people stared

Wrote this text in pencil, tried to make it a neat, non-boring read

We are all people with futures

Loved by some, hated by others

This was originally posted on April 6, 2008

2009-07-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

Poem 122 is a STRANGE behavior symptom

Red roses and blue violets never reach the stars

Red roses and blue violets never cough or sneeze

Red roses and blue violets never read or write

Red roses and blue violets never fxxk or shxt

Red roses and blue violets never go to jail

Red roses and blue violets never frown or smile

Red roses and blue violets never share our cares

Red roses and blue violets never reach the stars

This was originally posted on April 3, 2008

2009-07-13T07:54:00.000-07:00

poem 121 is a fake plastic poem: then you had a scholar’s interest in each thought in my mind

then you had an angel’s compassion for each feeling in my heart

then you had a devil’s lust for each square-inch of my body

now you have an athlete’s eye for body-fat

now you have a diplomat’s ear for wrong things to say in public

now you have a health-inspector’s nose for dust-mites, hornets, and microbes

now you have a mechanic’s task-performing hands

now you have a drill-sergeant’s demanding mouth

This was originally posted on March 31, 2008

2009-07-13T07:50:00.002-07:00

Poem 120 is raw: Grouchy, screeching workaholics and bored, blissful blobs

Toxic swamp of post-industrial life, ruled by snobs

Stomachs tied in knots, cholesterol blocks blood inside

Screens are preaching dreams that fail to address every need

How my kitchen’s heat leaves you cold ices the taken cake

Pressure-cooker life lived by each person who dreams awake

Toxic swamp of post-industrial life, ruled by snobs

Grouchy, screeching workaholics and bored, blissful blobs

This was originally posted on March 24, 2008

2009-07-13T07:47:00.000-07:00

Poem 119 has a Monday-morning migrane

“Negative attitudes” are NOT the world’s only problems

“Positive attitudes” alone are NOT real solutions

Cut off my fingers if you hate this loud text-catharsis

Cut off my fingers if this text is just grouchy rudeness

Old, exalted exiles

Sicken sheltered stomachs

Monday-morning’s mattress

Fails to lure the restless

Old, exalted exiles alternate between parallel alleys

Palms and fingers rise and silence the alarm-clocks of annoyance

Now the world is changing faster than a king’s horses could gallop

Virus-memes are driving all of the contrived ways we develop

Drones are now going public with a Song-And-Dance routine gone haywire

Wireless, wild mobile messages unite the zones the rich guns conquer

Empires gulp down communities and then decay as big, dead giants

Leaving gross phragmaplasm on a planet paved with hot-rod commerce

System-survivors have endured enough gentle verbiage

Spoken by merchants who have always met every challenge

“Positive attitudes” alone are NOT real solutions

Text is the jungle for my legal, safe temper-tantrums

“Negative attitudes” are NOT the world’s only problems

This was originally posted on March 19, 2008

2009-07-13T07:45:00.000-07:00

Credo in unum datum (Poem 118): Live a life you can see, hear, smell, touch, and taste

Have a future that pulls sharp minds forward fast

Probe the secrets your gut feels deep down within

Use your mouth to report each real truth you learn

Let the plot thicken in ways that sicken your stomach

Still remain human enough to be a neurotic

Give the future the best saved text you can write

Live a life you can see, hear, smell, touch, and taste

This was originally posted on March 5, 2008

2009-07-13T07:43:00.000-07:00

Poem 117 is blogwash: Yes, we still eat a diet of salt, sugar, and fat

Yes, we still eat synthetically made chemical shxt

Habits don’t change as fast as the new rules we design

Habits don’t meet the needs that we most recently learn

Once, we grabbed fruit from trees like we grab burgers and fries

Once, we speared beasts who roared like the worst shxt from our boss

We can plan well, but few of our rushed choices are smart

Yes, we still eat a diet of salt, sugar, and fat

This was originally posted on March 3, 2008

2009-07-12T20:52:00.000-07:00

??????? (Poem 116): Some readers may appreciate this text more than others

Feel free to hate this text or assume this text is "worthless"

No reader has to like or observe each observation

This text is just my therapy, I heal, that’s my mission

Chit-chat is NOT my purpose, desire, need, strength, or talent

Strange brains exist, believe it or not, quirks ARE important

What traits will we, as humans, preserve through coming futures?

Some readers may appreciate this text more than others

This was originally posted on February 23, 2008

2009-07-12T20:50:00.000-07:00

:D smiles (: and (((((HUGS))))) (Poem115)

February 23rd was comfortably warm

Weather is chaotic; days are never the same

Winnipeg is known for frostbite-weather indeed

February 23rd was pleasant outside

Yes, there was still snow on the ground, half of which turned to slush

People conversed strolling along, minus chilled angst and rush

Even the sun made a guest appearance

Minus the gray dome of interference

Not what we endure this time of year as the norm

February 23rd was comfortably warm

This was originally posted on February 21, 2008

2009-07-12T20:49:00.001-07:00

Who cares if you read Poem 114?: Leave me here in the margin of your frame-of-reference

Be confused by this text, and assume this is nonsense

I have seen an eclipse that was more black than orange

Then awoke in the morning and ate milk-and-porridge

All your light dismissals are so convenient

All your glazed hypocrisy gives you comfort

Make selections from options for each chosen preference

Leave me here in the margin of your frame-of-reference

This was originally posted on February 19, 2008

2009-07-12T20:47:00.000-07:00

. . . and Poem113 and et cetera . . .: Nothing fun to chit-chat about has happened

I am entertained just by living, dammit

I am breathing air, I’m awake and conscious

As for trendy-fads, you can call me clueless

I am a single 7-billionth of Earth’s human population

You are dismissed if you are bored with this text, make your own decision

Still in search of new ways to be more candid

Nothing fun to chit-chat about has happened

This was originally posted on February 17, 2008

2009-07-12T20:44:00.001-07:00

NIU (Poem 112, another Columbine has occured)

Grapes to wine, grain to bread

Leave the womb, mourn the dead

We on Earth’s mortal plane

Fail to learn pain’s design

Eden’s fruit is ripe and juicy, the juice is our own blood

Now a karma-spiral breaches a stubbornly closed field

Yet another autonomic response at a grade-guild

Yet another autonomic response in a sick world

Through today’s morbid dark

May this text soothe your ache

May this text warm the cold

Leave the womb, mourn the dead

This was originally posted on February 15, 2008

2009-07-12T20:42:00.000-07:00

POW ! ! ! (Poem 111): Can you sustain the impact?

No one is ever perfect

If you can still recover

You are a true survivor

You are a hopeful presence

You are the soul’s resistance

Life is a storm of conflict

Can you sustain the impact?

This was originally posted on February 12, 2008

2009-07-12T20:40:00.000-07:00

Poem 110 is like a box of chocolates (Happy V-Love Day, everyone)

Rose-petals are soft as skin and red as the blood within

Our love is an aura glowing vibrantly as the sun

Our heavenly pact of solidarity holds us tight

Our nurturing bond sustains us, making our life complete

Shared failures to keep our clothes on weld us forever close

Mouths blossom with smiles and vowels, the mantra we chant is: “YES! ! !”

Love’s power ensures that we forever intertwine

Rose-petals are soft as skin and red as the blood within

This was originally posted on February 4, 2008

2009-07-12T20:37:00.000-07:00

Poem 109 is a McHaiku: In a water-dish

Pontius Pilate washed his hands

Then he turned his back

This was originally posted on January 12, 2008

2009-07-12T20:29:00.000-07:00

Poem108 is circumcised: Never again will I return to Yahoo Dot Com

Treating our blogs like piss and feces, I could just scream

Online community, I hate the way this turned out

Yahoo is NOT where you can find me, that's my key point

Blogging at ANY site you love would be my first choice

Technocrats really rule the web with such an iron-mouse

Doubtful the cyber-slumlords here could ever learn shame

Never again will I return to Yahoo Dot Com

This was originally posted on January 4, 2008

2009-07-12T20:28:00.000-07:00

Wetware of Mass Poem107: Miss Romper is watching you; Her spyware can see you now

Each word that you read or use

Each image your screen displays

Each cent in your bank account

Each purchase and each ammount

Each thing that you cyberdo

Miss Romper is watching you

This was originally posted on December 29, 2007

2009-07-12T20:26:00.000-07:00

Eeew gross Poem106 eats turds from the emoticon-hive festering in your monitor you disgusting slob: This disposable poem is obsolete by the time you read it

Now I’m failing to care if I’m exalted or just insulted

Born a human with hidden special needs in a world of choosers

Choosers beg to the merit gods and hate what they see in mirrors

Fail to make metapeace with humanity’s failure to make peace

Upgrade-pushing technocrats rule the web with an iron-mouse

Online-cronies purchase attention sold at a high price

Fail to bleed time-and-energy on accountability’s cross

This world’s arrogance has too much presence

Too much dominance and loud flag-anthems

DNA is an obeyed code-bible

We curse Darwin as the mind’s worst devil

Let your therapy fail to be art

Let your innocence fail to be smart

Let your purity fail to be sick

Fail to be what denial can take

Let the world’s mouth sing through interpersonal-counterpoint’s curves

Let real truth fail to be what humanity craves

Impact on the planet is the impact of what wetware decides

Wetware is the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored informatics in codes

Tie rainbows around the necks of Ku Klux Klans and lynch them

Veins pulsing in wrists contain the slick, stealth serpent’s venom

You’re reading a poem that has met its fate: Planned Obsolescence

You breathe as the fruit of your mother’s womb while friends feel your absence

You were conceived and arose from just an egg and a sperm

Why are you reading an obsolete disposable poem?

This was originally posted on December 20, 2007

2009-07-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

Poem 105 is a McHaiku: Boxes shine beneath

Psychedelic evergreens

Sweaters, toys, and cards

This was originally posted on December 13, 2007

2009-07-12T20:17:00.000-07:00

Poem 104 goes out to all my fellow citizens of http://winnipeg.ca/interhom: Bone-chilling Winnipeg Decembers

Bus-stops where everybody shivers

Scarves, gloves, and earmuffs are essential

This city teaches you survival

Winds that feel like some kind of corrosive acid eroding your skin

Sky above us glares gray ; a translucent overcast muffles the sun

These are days we all fail to recall when summer is making us sweat

Days we don’t recall during July and August and outdoor-events

Each winter feels like it’s forever

Each winter makes you a survivor

Each year, we hibernate by heaters

Bone-chilling Winnipeg Decembers

This was originally posted on December 3, 2007

2009-07-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

I Poem103ed in your CodeFlakes (The Breakfast Of Emoticons): Time-zones cover the whole globe

One big spherical mind-job

We wild humans are so proud

Cross vast oceans and claim land

When do we take the whole universe?

When do we hunt our real predators?

Singable curves in love’s counterpoint

Give me the strength to face elements

Be confused, read and be confused

I am too strange to be explained

You can share any old complaint

I do not charge or pay a cent

This is therapy ; this heals me

I have taken abuse badly

Judge me, call me “excuse-maker”

I am nobody’s mood-savior

Born to exist here, now, serving the muse

Born to accept real truth nobody chose

Humans across all Earth synthesize worlds

Not that a logged-on mind worries or cares

Vent forth all your demands of me, exercise your freedom of speech

Make no promises ; bets are off, other than what life can arrange

Time-zones, carving the globe in sliced sections, are humanity’s walls

Mouse-clicks rocket our text across oceans, and divisiveness fails

Let all humans share what silent minds know

We wild humans had to rock the planet anew

Let all minds discuss and share what words describe

Time-zones carve, divide, and slice the whole globe

This was originally posted on December 2, 2007

2009-07-12T20:13:00.000-07:00

Why is Poem102 licking saliva off your wallet???: I’m okay, thanks, I hope that you are okay

I’ve just run out of normal things I can say

Out of known things of which you chat and converse

I’m just wired weird, and have a lot to discuss

Those who’ve asked, I appreciate your concern

English, our language, fails to capture the brain

Being all kinds of ways existence can be

I’m okay, thanks, I hope that you are okay

This was originally posted on November 26, 2007

2009-07-12T20:11:00.000-07:00

Poem 101 is a McHaiku

Snowflakes now descend

Gently, and in multitudes

Down on Winnipeg

This was originally posted on November 20, 2007

2009-07-12T16:50:00.000-07:00

AND THE BLAUDIENCE GOES WILD (Happy 100th Poem, everyone): I’m a caffeine kinda guy

Being my sane/crazy way

Weirdophobes need not apply

Colorful minds make my day

I’m a caffeine kinda guy

Born to belong, not to die

Born to be new, not the norm

Born to confuse, not conform

Born to befriend, not to blend

Born to be free, not designed

Whether or not life was planned

Whether or not life’s explained

Whether we’re not meant to be

Here we exist, all agree

Whether or not there’s a why

I’m a caffeine kinda guy

This was originally posted on November 19, 2007

2009-07-12T16:46:00.000-07:00

Poem 99: Glory to http://fu22u2.net/ in the highest, and peace online, good will toward networks: Pigments of autumn leaves and human skin

Noodles and trains-of-thought can intertwine

Death to the English language we have known

Let us revise its rules and whole design

Then some communication can begin

Death to the English language we have known

Word from our sponsor, never touch that dial

Mammon can buy emotions people feel

Real truth and perspective rockets you through clouds and stars of glory

Now minions anoint the foreheads of damned souls with coke and pepsi

We humans were tribes who gathered and now airplanes hunt our buildings

We started with agriculture and now live with global warnings

We’re the perversely sick species ; we rape the whole universe, tweak it, and we give orders

We’re the perversely sick species ; we fail to make peace with the universe’s best features

Know that I never came out of my mother’s womb promising anyone a rose-garden

Ideofruit obscured ideobeasts and spiked veins in our bodies with a fanged venom

“Jonathan Pear” is who I was before

Now I am Neuroaster, texting here

I am a man with hidden special needs

Networking where the blogosphere provides

Current events include nocturnal dreams

Unicorns lick and snort eachother’s bums

Pigments can co-exist below the sun

Pigments of autumn leaves and human skin

This was originally posted on November 16, 2007

2009-07-12T16:44:00.000-07:00

Poem98 has hidden special needs: Absent without leave until further notice

Trembling soul treads a thin, cracking surface

Having a pulse, breathing breaths, being conscious

Threatened when minds notice shared, choiceless patterns

Shoes and tires cross municipal pavement over Earth’s blood

Let us waste bursts of energy racing through a vast void

Bishops preach knighthood’s chivalry ; rooks abandon starved pawns

Under love’s constellations and moons, we see the sky shines

Avenues intervene between interpersonal-counterpoint’s curves

Let us misplace our clothes and just thrust in beds, where we snuggle and kiss

Let us remain pure and share kind caresses

Absent without leave until further notice