Hide yo kids, hide yo wife (mustard NaPo)

Again, garbage

Not. Allowed.
I'd put an angry black man here in a gif, but I dun want Kamas to think I'm even interested in the position of gif master.

Something long and spectacular will be posted here

I look forward to it.

Persephoneia wrote:

Again, garbage

Not. Allowed.

Maybe I'm a lion?

Oh-hoho puns.

Day 9

Whispers of the Fall

We left Wall Street in a watershed prophecy,
the ghost of Rockefeller stood with us, as we
set fire to Carnegie in praise of Gabriel, fed him
a prophet, a sacrificed Host shaved of skin shaved of meat
whom we rented out as faith in a Fifth street apartment
to a born again Church, didn't tell them Indians
were buried there, and collected a dowry signed
in blood to be paid at our deaths, sentenced to Hell
we said “Satan can't touch us, we're Immortals”
and we left God wandering in New York, sleeping like
a stowaway in Europe, alone in a closet with the Jews
and we took flight in a trireme to an old world
before a flood, remembering an omen the
Three sluts who jerked fingers in the Virgin
-ias told us

“King of Man, King of Man, gods ye all, ye have lost the hearts of man”

and the names of our Founders led us home to Delphi,
to redraft Constitution and Commandments in new stone tablets,
but the Temple was gone, the Temple was gone
the Senate was high before being murdered in their sleep, pity
their next Bill on barbarians at borders
and financial orders run raw like rancid meat,
and the hands of their people were empty, screaming for bread
and parched throats lapped aloud like dogs, for wine to drink
and we tossed a bolt at Olympus for a prophecy whispered
"Rage sweet rage! Tremble mortals!"
Back in my day things were better,
Ah, yes, those were the days

Day 10

stream of internet

download
chambers, down chambers, down
wires wound wires like a heart bleeding
sad dirges, walking, to
a tunnel to Hitler's bunker,
in an Internet feed through a high speed cable
from Earth to Mars, sending
"Roger we're lost, Roger we're lost...
...one second, Houston...Watson...it's binary"

data packets, cracking like cyanide capsules
prompting logins, shrieking prompting black windows
like babies at night left alone "will I die? will I die?"
networks cried for a password, administrator response
"what is your ISP?"

a message richocheted back to Earth
in Einstein's voice, "welcome back to chat",
talking typing huffing, impressions like
do you know what my dog ate yesterday? download me

chambers in a net space, plastic, metal, electric signals race
I can see a human face in a screen, I s e e a f a c e i n l e t t e r s
download me

Hey, MM! Sorry I haven't "stopped by" until now. I mean, I've been reading, but I find things hard to grab on to in here sometimes. But I wanted to say that I really appreciated your Reverberation of a cool sound because that experimentation with a black voice is something I've been interested in and have pushed only a little in my own NaPo thread. What do you think about it? Like, is there a place for white people to write in black voices and black people to write in asian voices pidgined up and asian people to ... anyway. Sometimes I wish I had that natural authority in my body (in how I was born), but do you think we have a real place to take that authority? {WOO POST ON MY WALL}. I really liked that poem, anyway.

Day 11

Trees Swaying with Produce

Content warning, mind the 18+ rating

Spoiler

When I was a boy, the world was full of surprises
and trees alike, called sycamore, oak, or willow
were the names of streets in my neighborhood,
which crisscrossed train-tracks from north to south
of town, passing the marketplace and town hall,
where fresh apples were handled, sold, to mouth's
watering holes serving as natural community centers
from sunrise to sunset, until the children went home
and the n****** came to town and we only heard
stories about nights and saw pretty lights as our parents
gathered around trees called sycamore, oak, or willow
that lined our streets in our town, having festivals
with the darkies who were sold like apples at auction
swaying in the moon, we thought they were wolf men
when I was a boy, the world was full of surprises

Day 12

Reflections on a Human Society

Censorship̫̩͎̙͙̖̖̕͟ͅ.̴̶̨̢̭̞̰̯̖̳͍͈̕-̶̨͔͕͓̯̭͕͢,̴̶̳̬͚͔̗̝̗̬-̱͇̬͖̝̩̘̣͓͈̮͜͞͡.̡͜͏̫̲̝͉̦̲̠͚͎̱̪͈̘,̢̧̞̘͙͉͕̬͢-̵̧̱͖̟̬͚̀͡ͅ-̶̖̻̩̠̪̮͘͠͡-̵͔̮̘̘̠͘ͅ-̧̳̖̝̙̫̠̠̭͎̀͘̕ͅ,̙̦̖̯̜̮͎̖͖̰͡.̴̳̤̰̙͜͢,̧̛͏͈̟̟͍̩͓̳̮̙͔͇̩̤̱̱̫ͅ,̙̮͓̠̺̯̦̘̠̦̰̣́̀͢͡͞,̵̡͔̲̭͙͈͓̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̶̙͔̺͜ -̷̡͖͖̫̩͎̙͙̖̖̕͟ ,̷̛̺̜̺͕̭͉̠̞̳̞̪̩̬-̷̧̢̟̲̳̖.̛̼̣̗̫̱̤́,̶̦͉͕̩̝̝̬̤̰̣̗͍̘̥̣̝͝-̵̞̳̱͈̱͔-͉̳̠̳͙͕̀́͘͞ͅ-̢̺̬̦̞͍̻̦̯̟̮̜̘͔̀̕-̶̨͓̯͈͙̮̠̬͎̪̠̥͘͠ͅ,̶̺͕̬̪̠̮͉͓̱̟̬͜.̷̟̝̗̞͍͉̞̯͕͖̜͍̯̣͈̰͈͟͞͠ͅ,̸̫͕̯̞̣͡,̛̬̜̰̰̜̻̥̪̙̙̩́͘͟͡,̬̘͓̱̟͞.̷̧̡̜̰̬̱̼͕̱̼̠͈̣̥̖͘,̵͚̯͔̯͍̤͍͠.̡̀͢͏̠̟͖͔͔̻̝̜-̬̫̖̘̰̰͢͡͡,̵̧͚̼̻͍̳̝̖̳̥͞͠-̷̶̛̙͉̲̞͇̫͔͖̼̤̥̘̤̣̰͜-̷̛̛̯̭̙̠̭̰̺͕̖̻̘̥͚͖̙,҉̨̱͔̲͍̤͍̭̞͎͖̠̼̱̪.̷̢̜̗̞̱͔̙̟-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̜͖̝͍͇̀͟͝-̸̶̨̝̪̬̩̣̱̺̜͖͈̬̳̯̀͝-̛͉̗̩͍͈͔͉̯̭͎̻̥͍̥͚͘͟ͅ,̸̷̜͍͉̫̪͙̱̞̯̞̭͖̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̧͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲͠͡.̴̡͕͚͉͚͓̤͉̣̥̙̹̘̞,̨̡̡̰͍̲͉̀͡.̶̘͕̦̜̮̦͡͡-͖͕͚͍͚̪̺̀͟,̵̭̰̺̺
̳̭̙̪̜̺͟,̧̰̺̗̜͙̪̪͇̘̮̩̘ͅ.̛͖̪̖̞͍̰̙̼̥͇͠,̷̞̱̰̤͙̙̗͕͎̼̕͘-̡͞͏͚͔͍̮͔̗̣̳̭̥͓̩̙͍̟͙͔̻,̕҉̤͔̟͖͢.҉̠͍̦̠̠̱͕̣͎̼̦͉̻̺̺̠.̢͖̲͔̬͔͝,̷̻̲͍͢͠-̴̵̦̺̣̱̗̗̪̺̥͚̹́-̨͔̣͍̹̗͕̝͟,͓̲̣̠̤͇͙͎͔̥͜͝͠,̴̳̝̮̩̗͈̺̲͚̻̖͍̜̀ͅ.̷̤̳̯͍̞͚̮͇͞͡.҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͘͜͟ͅ-̷̥̩͚͉̖̬͔͍̘͚͝,̴͕̠̥͍̻̻̻̟͞ͅ.͍͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨̯̟̼̙̳̲̪͙̺͖͇͎̪̲̀͡ͅͅ,̴̨̗̤̯͖͞͞,̵̡̩̭̪̱͎͙ is͠,̴̳̝̮̩̗͈̺̲͚̻̖͍̜̀ͅ.̷̤̳̯͍̞͚̮͇͞͡.҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͘͜͟ͅ-̷̥̩͚͉̖̬͔͍̘͚͝,̴͕̠̥͍̻̻̻̟͞ͅ.͍͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨̯̟̼̙̳̲̪͙̺͖͇͎̪̲̀͡ͅͅ,̴̨̗̤̯͖͞͞,̵̡̩̭̪-̜͖̝͍͇̀͟͝-̸̶̨̝̪̬̩̣̱̺̜͖͈̬̳̯̀͝-̛͉̗̩͍͈͔͉̯̭͎̻̥͍̥͚͘͟ͅ,̸̷̜͍͉̫̪͙̱̞̯̞̭͖̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̧͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲͠͡.̴̡͕͚͉͚͓̤͉̣̥̙̹̘̞,̨̡̡̰͍̲͉̀͡.̶̘͕̦̜̮̦͡͡-͖͕͚͍͚̪̺̀͟,̵̭̰̺̺-̜͖̝͍͇̀͟͝-̸̶̨̝̪̬̩̣̱̺̜͖͈̬̳̯̀͝-̛͉̗̩͍͈͔͉̯̭͎̻̥͍̥͚͘͟ͅ,̸̷̜͍͉̫̪͙̱̞̯̞̭͖̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̧͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲͠͡.̴̡͕͚͉͚͓̤͉̣̥̙̹̘̞,̨̡̡̰͍̲͉̀͡.̶̘͕̦̜̮̦͡͡-͖͕͚͍͚̪̺̀͟,̵̭̰̺̺-̜͖̝͍͇̀͟͝-̸̶̨̝̪̬̩̣̱̺̜͖͈̬̳̯̀͝-̛͉̗̩͍͈͔͉̯̭͎̻̥͍̥͚͘͟ͅ,̸̷̜͍͉̫̪͙̱̞̯̞̭͖̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̧͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲͠͡.̴̡͕͚͉͚͓̤͉̣̥̙̹̘̞,̨̡̡̰͍̲͉̀͡.̶̘͕̦̜̮̦͡͡-͖͕͚͍͚̪̺̀͟,̵̭̰̺̺
-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .
the ̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͘͜͟ͅ-̷̥̩͚͉̖̬͔͍̘͚͝,̴͕̠̥͍̻̻̻̟͞ͅ.͍͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨̯̟̼̙̳̲̪͙̺͖͇͎̪̲̀͡ͅͅ,̴̨̗̤̯͖͞͞,̵̶̡̨̩̭̪͔͕͓̯̭͕͢,̴̶̳̬͚͔̗̝̗̬-̱͇̬͖̝̩̘̣͓͈̮͜͞͡.̡͜͏̫̲̝͉̦̲̠͚͎̱̪͈̘,̢̧̞̘͙͉͕̬͢-̵̧̱͖̟̬͚̀͡ͅ-̶̖̻̩̠̪̮͘͠͡-̵͔̮̘̘̠͘ͅ-̧̳̖̝̙̫̠̠̭͎̀͘̕ͅ,̙̦̖̯̜̮͎̖͖̰͡.̴̳̤̰̙͜͢,̧̛͏͈̟̟͍̩͓̳̮̙͔͇̩̤̱̱̫ͅ,̙̮͓̠̺̯̦̘̠̦̰̣́̀͢͡͞,̵̡͔̲̭͙͈͓̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥-̵͔̮̘̘̠͘ͅ-̧̳̖̝̙̫̠̠̭͎̀͘̕ͅ,̙̦̖̯̜̮͎̖͖̰͡.̴̳̤̰̙͜͢,̧̛͏͈̟̟͍̩͓̳̮̙͔͇̩̤̱̱̫ͅ,̙̮͓̠̺̯̦̘̠̦̰̣́̀͢͡͞,̵̡͔̲̭͙͈͓̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͘͜͟ͅ-̷̥̩͚͉̖̬͔͍̘͚͝,̴͕̠̥͍̻̻̻̟͞ͅ.͍͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼
-̵̀͠҉̡̬͈̫̲͎.̡̨҉̷҉̺̙̣̝͍̼-̝̰̮̤͓̘̱̖̩̥̖̦̫̲̹̹̦̞͜͠,̵̲̺̳̹̩̙̯̹̤̖͎͚̟̺͘͢-̡̛͇̰̲͙̗͟͝.̷̨̫̞̥͇͘ -̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬
politically ͟,̸͞͏̲͚̫͕̠̪͈̰̝̲͈̻͡.̵̷̪͖̙̼̬̹̬̱͔͔̩̬͖͡ͅ,̸̡̛̳̦̰͖͓̼̖̟͘-̢̧͉̫͈͙̫͍̼̹͓,͏́͟͏̧̺̼̟͈͉̳͉͍̖̘̖.̨͙̣̠̤̥̣̬̺̰͎̮̰͞-̵̀͠҉̡̬͈̫̲͎.̡̨҉̷҉̺̙̣̝͍̼-̝̰̮̤͓̘̱̖̩̥̖̦̫̲̹̹̦̞͜͠,̵̲̺̳̹̩̙̯̹̤̖͎͚̟̺͘͢-̡̛͇̰̲͙̗͟͝.̷̨̫̞̥͇͘,̵̸̯̠̱̳͇̖̮̬̘͈͚̝̟͎́͘͟-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜͖̝͍͇̀͟͝-̸̶̨̝̪̬̩̣̱̺̜͖͈̬̳̯̀͝-̛͉̗̩͍͈͔͉̯̭͎̻̥͍̥͚͘͟ͅ,̸̷̜͍͉̫̪͙̱̞̯̞̭͖̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̧͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲͠͡.̴̡͕͚͉͚͓̤͉̣̥̙̹̘̞,̨̡̡̰͍̲͉̀͡.̶̘͕̦̜̮̦͡͡-͖͕͚͍͚̪̺̀͟,̵̭̰̺̺-́͡͏̯̠͙͚̺͍͈͔̮̮͚̝͓͉̺ͅ-̵̥͈̳̙̫̘́,̢̳̙̲͈̱͙̲̲͔̻̝̟͎̣͎͔͈͔͢.͏͙͇̯͍̥̺͕̳̝̮̖́͞.̧̭͙̻͎̣̳̥͙̤͔͖̻̗̞̙̼̩̀́͝,̶̧̼̟̜̱̥̗̜̖͈̠̹́.̸̡̛̤̘̰̬͍̞̥͚̣̖͈̤̗͉͕̫͖-̧̧̰͙̪̮̭̩̹̖͕̺̪͉̙̲̝̲̤̳́̕ͅ,̨͖͈͖̀̀͘-̲͉̝͓͉͇̙͔̖̕͢-̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘ -̵͔̮̘̘̠͘ͅ-̧̳̖̝̙̫̠̠̭͎̀͘̕ͅ,̙̦̖̯̜̮͎̖͖̰͡.̴̳̤̰̙͜͢,̧̛͏͈̟̟͍̩͓̳̮̙͔͇̩̤̱̱̫ͅ,̙̮͓̠̺̯̦̘̠̦̰̣́̀͢͡͞,̵̡͔̲̭͙͈͓̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͘͜͟ͅ-̷̥̩͚͉̖̬͔͍̘͚͝,̴͕̠̥͍̻̻̻̟͞ͅ.͍͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥
-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̶̙͔̺͜ -̷̡͖͖̫̩͎̙͙̖̖̕͟ ,̷̛̺̜̺͕̭͉̠̞̳̞̪̩̬-̷̧̢̟̲̳̖.̛̼̣̗̫̱̤́,̶̦͉͕̩̝̝̬̤̰̣̗͍̘̥̣̝͝-̵̞̳̱͈̱͔-͉̳̠̳͙͕̀́͘͞ͅ-̢̺̬̦̞͍̻̦̯̟̮̜̘͔̀̕-̶̨͓̯͈͙̮̠̬͎̪̠̥͘͠ͅ,̶̺͕̬̪̠̮͉͓̱̟̬͜.̷̟̝̗̞͍͉̞̯͕͖̜͍̯̣͈̰͈͟͞͠ͅ ̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̧͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲͠͡.̴̡͕͚͉͚͓̤͉̣̥̙̹̘̞,̨̡̡̰͍̲͉̀͡.̶̘͕̦̜̮̦͡͡-͖͕͚͍͚̪̺̀͟,̵̭̰̺̺-́͡͏̯̠͙͚̺͍͈͔̮̮͚̝͓͉̺ͅ-̵̥͈̳̙̫̘́,̢̳̙̲͈̱͙̲̲͔̻̝̟͎̣͎͔͈͔͢.͏͙͇̯͍̥̺͕̳̝̮̖́͞.̧̭͙̻͎̣̳̥͙̤͔͖̻̗̞̙̼̩̀́͝,̶̧̼̟̜̱̥̗̜̖͈̠̹́.̸̡̛̤̘̰̬͍̞̥͚̣̖͈̤̗͉͕̫͖-̧̧̰͙̪̮̭̩̹̖͕̺̪͉̙̲̝̲̤̳́̕ͅ,̨͖͈͖̀̀͘-̲͉̝ correct ̠̥͘͠ͅ,̶̺͕̬̪̠̮͉͓̱̟̬͜.̷̟̝̗̞͍͉̞̯͕͖̜͍̯̣͈̰͈͟͞͠ͅ,̸̫͕̯̞̣͡,̛̬̜̰̰̜̻̥̪̙̙̩́͘͟͡,̬̘͓̱̟͞.̷̧̡̜̰̬̱̼͕̱̼̠͈̣̥̖͘,̵͚̯͔̯͍̤͍͠.̡̀͢͏̠̟͖͔͔̻̝̜-̬̫̖̘̰̰͢͡͡,̵̧͚̼̻͍̳̝̖̳̥͞͠-̷̶̛̙͉̲̞͇̫͔͖̼̤̥̘̤̣̰͜-̷̛̛̯̭̙̠̭̰̺͕̖̻̘̥͚͖̙,҉̨̱͔̲͍̤͍̭̞͎͖̠̼̱̪.̷̢̜-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬
-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬ alternative,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͘͜͟ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̷̥̩͚͉̖̬͔͍̘͚͝,̴͕̠̥͍̻̻̻̟͞ͅ.͍͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨̯̟̼̙̳̲̪͙̺͖͇͎̪̲̀͡ͅͅ,̴̨̗̤̯͖͞͞,̵̶̡̨̩̭̪͔͕͓̯̭͕͢,̴̶̳̬͚͔̗̝̗̬-̱͇̬͖̝̩̘̣͓͈̮͜͞͡.̡͜͏̫̲̝͉̦̲̠͚͎̱̪͈̘,̢̧̞̘͙͉͕̬͢-̵̧̱͖̟̬͚̀͡ͅ-̶̖̻̩̠̪̮͘͠͡-̵͔̮̘̘̠͘ͅ-̧̳̖̝̙̫̠̠̭͎̀͘̕ͅ,̙̦̖̯̜̮͎̖͖̰͡.̴̳̤̰̙͜͢,̧̛͏͈̟̟͍̩͓̳̮̙͔͇̩̤̱̱̫ͅ,̙̮͓̠̺̯̦̘̠̦̰̣́̀͢͡͞,̵̡͔̲̭͙͈͓̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡
̳̭̙̪̜̺͟,̧̰̺̗̜͙̪̪͇̘̮̩̘ͅ.̛͖̪̖̞͍̰̙̼̥͇͠,̷̞̱̰̤͙̙̗͕͎̼̕͘-̡͞͏͚͔͍̮͔̗̣̳̭̥͓̩̙͍̟͙͔̻,̕҉̤͔̟͖͢.҉̠͍̦̠̠̱͕̣͎̼̦͉̻̺̺̠.̢͖̲͔̬͔͝,̷̻̲͍͢͠-̴̵̦̺̣̱̗̗̪̺̥͚̹́-̨͔̣͍̹̗͕̝͟,͓̲̣̠̤͇͙͎͔̥͜͝͠,̴̳̝̮̩̗͈̺̲͚̻̖͍̜̀ͅ.̷̤̳̯͍̞͚̮͇͞͡.҉̵͏̶̧̣̘̹͔̗̞̼̼,̷̨̤̰̮̦͓.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎ to ̨҉̷҉̺̙̣̝͍̼-̝̰̮̤͓̘̱̖̩̥̖̦̫̲̹̹̦̞͜͠,̵̲̺̳̹̩̙̯̹̤̖͎͚̟̺͘͢-̡̛͇̰̲͙̗͟͝.̷̨̫̞̥͇͘,̵̸̯̠̱̳͇̖̮̬̘͈͚̝̟͎́͘͟-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜͖̝͍͇̀͟͝-̸̶̨̝̪̬̩̣̱̺̜͖͈̬̳̯̀͝-̛͉̗̩͍͈͔͉̯̭͎̻̥͍̥͚͘͟ͅ,̸̷̜͍͉̫̪͙̱̞̯̞̭͖̳̱͈̣͉͚͞.҉̶̴̶͈̲̖̞̤͙̞̣̣̹̰̙̞̭̟̲͙̀ͅ,̷̡̧͍͇͙͍̞̣̟̞,̻̦̻̯̫̫̣̟̜͈̭͍̺̞͕̭͔̠͘͞͝,̶̷̧̨͚͚̠̟͎̘͉͍͎̲̤̰̮̦͓͠͡.̀͡͏̦̰̙̗̙̻̜͍̱͎̲̭̗̬̯̥̜̞-̶̷̮̖̗̦̯͉͔̜͢͞,̨͢͢҉͙̝͕̙͉͙̗̘͙ͅ-̨̻̦̻̣̯͘͝.̶͏̡̛̼͎̘̼̰̠̗̗̫͝-̢̮̟̜͕̩̜̳̳̻͕̘͙͍͖̳̖͍͈͠ͅ,͠҉̭͖̪̲͇̟̭͇͎̣͚͙̠͜ͅ-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ -̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬
͎̫̹̼̹͘͜͜ͅ,̨̯̟̼̙̳̲̪͙̺͖͇͎̪̲̀͡ͅͅ,̴̨̗̤̯͖͞͞,̵̶̡̨̩̭̪͔͕͓̯̭͕͢,̴̶̳̬͚͔̗̝̗̬-̱͇̬͖̝̩̘̣͓͈̮͜͞͡.̡͜͏̫̲̝͉̦̲̠͚͎̱̪͈̘,̢̧̞̘͙͉͕̬͢-̵̧̱͖̟̬͚̀͡ͅ-̶̖̻̩̠̪̮͘͠͡-̵͔̮̘̘̠͘ͅ-̧̳̖̝̙̫̠̠̭͎̀͘̕ͅ,̙̦̖̯̜̮͎̖͖̰͡.̴̳̤̰̙͜͢,̧̛͏͈̟̟͍̩͓̳̮̙͔͇̩̤̱̱̫ͅ,̙̮͓̠̺̯̦̘̠̦̰̣́̀͢͡͞,̵̡͔̲̭͙͈͓̬̣͉͔̘̻̟͍̖̭͓́͟.̵̢̟̘̼̥͍̥̩,̧̗̞̲͖̟̺̬͜.̷̝̠̝̙̜̱̳̹̯̘̮̞̪͟͞-̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ͈̻͡.̵̷̪͖̙̼̬̹̬̱͔͔̩̬͖͡ͅ,̸̡̛̳̦̰͖͓̼̖̟͘-̢̧͉̫͈͙̫͍̼̹͓,͏́͟͏̧̺̼̟͈͉̳͉͍̖̘̖.̨͙̣̠̤̥̣̬̺̰͎̮̰͞-̵̀͠҉̡̬͈̫̲͎.̡̨҉̷҉̺̙̣̝͍̼-̝̰̮̤͓̘̱̖̩̥̖̦̫̲̹̹̦̞͜͠,̵̲̺̳̹̩̙̯̹̤̖͎͚̟̺͘͢-̡̛͇̰̲͙̗͟͝.̷̨̫̞̥͇͘,̵̸̯̠̱̳͇̖̮̬̘͈͚̝̟͎́͘͟-̧̟̪̬̬͍̬͉̺͓̱̫̮̖̣̭̖̘͢͞ͅͅ-̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ .-̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬ -̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬ -̴̙̰̥̰̪͈̤̙͉͖͠.̴̬̜͈̝̲̯̟͜͠,̵̵̦̘͓̝̝͙-̀̕҉̴̸͉̱̞͎̥̖̻͙͚͎̼͙ͅ-͏̣̝̮̜͔̭͚̻͟͜͡-̶̵̶̢̤͍͓̠̩̫̞͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬-̢̨̬̝̼̝̘̗̟̳̪̼͙̪͚͠,҉̴̟̹̯̙̦̻̞̘̰̀͡͡ ̵̶̢͚͉̩̰̘̯̗͖͖̹͕͇̱̩͓̙,̛̼̻̹͚̟̘̻̘̜̙.҉̶̢͖̙̤̼̣̠͙̩̺̱͔͉͍͔̫͎̞̲͚͜,̨͢͏̦̟̲̳̦̣͕͇͚̤͈̝.̷̡̝̘͙̥̮͈̬,̧̨̕͟҉͚̮͉̖͙͉͍͎̟̬ abortion

Day 13

Navigator flies a Kite in the Gale

Dis' smart cat, one time she flew kite in gale's
face, she wanted a' test ole Frank's key theory, get kite jolted for kicks
by gale's wind an'da lightning bolts, ate musta'rd wit LSD tho'
thems' three discussed philosophy an art

“What is the relationship between artist and audience?” she asked screaming from the pulpit
“You should focus more on content than form.” kite's voice rolled lazily, drowned in a kite tongue

words coalesced wit' jelly beans in they mouth
harking back ta ole dry springs in da south, gale
just said “Dent.”
and thems' three flew in gale's poe tree wind, bent
da Queen's speech like the bitch she was, dey

went to sea to
see to shining things in Aegean reefs,
chitchatting under the seas with mermaids bout'
anarcho-primitivism, dat shit dey talk bout when we drunk
and kite get himself struck by love, a bolt burnt hi' yellow fields crisp

damn man, damn, dat Navigator may dem go on to march
for year, ing's needed to be complete, think they on Baton's
death marathon in Israel t' ask “can you love Palestine an Allah?”
an' gale say “fucking intimate my man”

dat smart cat, kite, n' gale, meeting
dere dirty laundry in Eden wit' Earl o' France
“A mistake I regret to this very day.”
addicted like cat on heroin, man

man it's just like flying a Kite off a yacht
in the Mediterranean with Gale force wind
to take pictures to show close friends

“YES, EXACTLY!”

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

Very much enjoyed those two newest poems. ESPECIALLY THE ONE ABOUT ALL MY FRIENDS. D:

Edit;
Okay, fine, I'll elaborate. I really love the idea of the oscillation between the two voices, which is the opposite of ... Okay well have you READ Their Eyes were Watching God? If you haven't, it's the opposite of the way Hurston wrote -- more "proper" English in the narration, and dialect in the dialogue. So, I really like it. It helps that idea of giving the reader a place to "rest" sometimes? Just variation. I like it. xD THERE. ELABORATION OVER.

“You should focus more on content than form.” kite's voice rolled lazily, drowned in a kite tongue

True dat.

Kite

Day 14

Parched peaches dry in the Sun

Spoiler

2-3 minute quick write, these are hit and miss

She has a few words to share, but she's been scared since last night
with fear, like fun nightmares skewering throats
through an apple that promises, asks “daddy can't keep them”
once we swallow, sap and phlegm
mixed with jism motor oil, elucidating a mind with desire for speech
she was prepared to die before sharing, locked in mind terrified of rape
by eyes, eyes there-eyes here-eyes everywhere,
no thought
to breathe,
and speak

Day 15

SteamWave

“workings of a deus ex machina deconstructed with a rubix cube,
a paradigm is a pair of dimes,” she said in riddles and rhymes, dead
was literature as we flipped channels and channels, fishing off the English Channel
to hike across the French Toast on commercials in London public radio-waves
shot into outer-space for aliens to feast on when we are all dead; I could not read
because so many things were on my mind

like

death and father Death and Godfather Death, the Grimms wrote
Death was equal, God and the Devil selfish, children writing Faustian contracts
old Pimp Death, who demanded trustworthiness (but an apple can't keep the doctor
away when we have to eat it!) and
to not cheat on tests or go to hell; wait I thought Death was kind?

like, really, topics on my mind straddle Neoclassic into Abstract Pollack,
oh death was my fallacy? I said meaning was arbitrary because life is a paradigm between
deus ex machina and conceit; two things we mean, but parallel things never meet

until they do, colliding like atom crushers off a duck's back,
the duck back effect, shutting mouths before they open across the ocean
and killing time to save time, because ducks, unlike Miss Cleo, are gifted soothsayers
flying with winter and coming back in spring

I

I like modern age post modern post motormen mortem, returned to sender “1969”
we still hung up on that rubix cube and pet rock, trouble paying attention because
her riddles are like LSD and MTV, whispering “please die, please die I need to

test this theory, please die”

meaning now? I have no spare change, fiat meaning is fiat, crack logic and philosophy

is one shoe falling off the boat, ahead of the gaggle of geese before the end is nigh, Fonzi
jumped the shark, that fucking fool, where do we go now? Oh porn, been there, done that, twice.

SteamWave I, Steam the waves through a generation's mind; logic? Where're the mines as
I Wave to steam kettling your mind, steam gray tissue like kleenex, blind like Miss Cleo, SteamWave
you ride steam waves across time, but you keep talking about the present, the now

stop. just stop.

live stop. shout stop. life stop. stop. searching stop.

Lies in wolf skin lies in sheep's clothing lies in beer foaming lies in panties dropping lies
“My son, my children, my lover, my friends I trusted you, but you were all the same, all out to get me!”

That was fantastic. I'm not going to call it by its name, because it's in need of a name change -- SteamWave does it no justice whatsoever.

Your sense of balance is getting better. More control, better -- faster -- audience manipulation; what I like to see -- a constant flux, tilt-a-whirl of emotion, a roller-coaster ride of imagery to mimic thought and feeling and all the rest of it. You are doing what I asked you to do in what seems like so long ago in poetic weeks: surprise me.

Of course, you will argue that it's all subjective. I know. I don't care. I liked it, and I'm telling you why:

workings of a deus ex machina deconstructed with a rubix cube,
a paradigm is a pair of dimes,” she said in riddles and rhymes, dead
was literature as we flipped channels and channels, fishing off the English Channel
to hike across the French Toast on commercials in London public radio-waves
shot into outer-space for aliens to feast on when we are all dead; I could not read
because so many things were on my mind

like

You start off with something as stale and cold as rubix cubes and deux ex machina and then throw in the characteristic Englishy warmness of riddles and rhymes and the internal rhyme that makes with 'dimes.' You flip again in the third line -- no puns intended -- back to the metallic world of channels, but (see, here's the thing; you even vary the pacing of each flip) flip back again to tangible, earthly imagery in the 'fishing off the English Channel,' and then -- surprisingly -- sustain that for longer than we expect in the next line with the tangibility of French toast. Commercials and radio waves and outer space and aliens' feasts all dance in that strange inter-realm of tangible and intangible -- on the one hand, they're such a part of everyday life/knowledge that they're almost tied down to ground, but on the other, they're not -- they're anything but earth, or nature, or anything remotely natural.

I like that. Duality, and the constant flux between the two sides. Oh, and the tease of 'like' put there all by itself -- that 'like' is like a pull-back, a reign-in of all your breathless lines of before, just before you let loose even more wildly a second time; a point of irony which any reader loves because they love and hate it at once -- the irony that it is the false calm before a storm.

And the rest of the poem continues in the same fashion; in and out, macro and micro, head and heart, tangible and intangible, soft, hard, warm, cold etcetera. Look at it. Do you notice what you've done?

Some other particular favourites (by no means does it mean I want the poem full of more of these moments -- the very scattering of them makes them all the more worth something -- I just wanted to point them out, in all my glorious subjectivity):

wait I thought Death was kind?

The moment in reading this is like running full-sprint towards something and then suddenly stopping in mid leap to take a huge breath. That 'wait', in particular.

“please die, please die I need to

test this theory, please die”

Jesus. Made me laugh and then made me horrified at my laughter.

stop. just stop.

live stop. shout stop. life stop. stop. searching stop.

Great moment in the writing.

Of course, I can love this aesthetically but disagree with it thematically, in part. For example, that 'stop. just stop' -- I thought you liked journeys?!

---

Regardless, I don't care what you say, as long as you say it well, and, all in all, well-said.

Regardless, I don't care what you say, as long as you say it well, and, all in all, well-said.

HAHAHA, you're a bad liar, even if you mean that. Don't be silly, you won't get off that easy. But to writing, I'll elaborate in messages.

Day 16

The Last Messiah

shot into the veins of arms as Goya painted silly appeals to execution,
a dozen times for an almost baker's dozen
of massacred families in line at the World's Fair convention
in Napoleon's christening of glory
in blood be spilt "Viva la France!", shots in the arm
delaying what one bullet to the brain said
"I have no words but what you write for me"
thought a messiah on their deathbed,
a vagabond in burlesque rags and strips
of dripping flesh in a fish paste texture off their bones, hands chained
by a cultured society observed in petri dishes for a deist deity
to play jacks with while the rules were rewritten in the sacrificial rite
of enthusiastic messiah absorption,
"tasted like salmon" said the children innocently
that sweet nectar of ashes from the ovens
in prison camps for children, a sea of children
drowning in their own shit, lavatories called Sodom and Gomorrah,
what a bad trip to addict your kids to, damn

the dam has broken, the Red Sea drained for Noah
to be stranded in the ocean's cellar, lincoln logs
that little jerk thinks he made a boat,
but the Icebergs are coming and it's full speed ahead, full speed
and no one wants to look past tube screens,
frightened with shit up their throat tasting like sour anchovies,
and they turn to god and turn to myth three left turns making a fallacy
as people stand shitless in their deathbed, bowels emptied cooly, refusing
to see themselves in Mirrors on the Wall
but all too happy to hear one talk,
did you know they used to reflect souls?
Wait here, wait with the turkeys in rain for another savior
t' sway dem hips n' tells us bout hound dogs; but
they're not coming, left the building, while you were out
the next savior stopped by, reserved their time to die
and recorded a new album, got high hopes in writing
gospel truth I swear, so forgive these messiahs
they know not what they do, but god be damned got
this one already addicted to crack and drinking Jack,
be dead before they can collect royalty and speak
for themselves

like a raw pig to be roasted in time for a family dinner each year
justify that my sweet virgin dear, the messiahs are already dead
by winter, or was it spring? no matter the posthumous works are
the only things remembered,
signed

I miss Enkidu

Day 17

Poetry in Still Life

a 747 is 13
feet off the ground
before 8 comes down, a lead ball
Galileo tossed to Newton, reactions
in action in sequenced Slinkies waltzing
down the steps of a monastery like children
on the first day of Sunday school; their faces
wrap like beats from the garden, dance like doves
cooing to cats watching for the right moment to leap
as children scratch them tenderly, a child's lips fertile
crescents guarded like the lost ark of the covenant
between parents and child, because child will be lost, but
the real surprise is the parent is lost between the last hello
and the first goodbye; a plane taking off at the same time
lead balls fell from Pisa, a baby popped out, and husband and wife thought
“fuck if I don't like them perfectly, this kid is perfect, everything will come together”
but Lennon is dead and Leary is dead and everything falls apart and children leave
a painting in our eyes of how life should be, an old painting we made ourselves
with eyes that've lost their luster, mustard that's lost the kick and we paint like a mixture
of Van Gogh and Warhol in shades of Beige and Beige

these are the old days and we sit watching planes leave and go and leave

it's raining again on a Sunday