War is popular mostly because it is simply easier to blow stuff up than build things up…
Won Piece Is a Hole
They sow covet
A piece of the axin’
A common miss take
Posing that
Reaping peace
Can be racked up
Like sum trophies
Off
With their aheads
Just upending
In realty
Won piece
Is a hole
In Comprehensible Poetry
My papers were indecipherable
By awe
But God
Speaking clearly
You have no ID
How easy this is fore me
To recognize my own son
As like wise pure of art sea me
Rolling long
Even without papers
Burned by mirror mortals
This is some good shit
This poem alludes to one of my favorite quotes in one of my favorite movies, Good Will Hunting, where the young uber-genius says to the standard genius: “Do you have any idea how easy this is for me.” The poem also is a tip of the hat to the sermon on the mount’s “the pure of heart will see God.” Lastly, in case you were wondering what I might be smoking, my poetry, mystical ink, exists “off the books,” often neither formally published nor even on a written page. For the record, I am profoundly sober — high on life. Awe of this is tied together with the ID of “no papers,” foremostly as an illegal in this worldly realm, and lastly as smoking some good shit even without papers.
We are all kin. What kin you due?
The Nothing Special — Owed to What Kin You Do
They took
Care of their own
The giving
Nothing special
Of average Joe’s
Every wear
In thin
A regular
At that owed time religion
More likely to court
Than lovely woo who
Amor a bout
Probable cause
Then what
Possibly kin
Do
That in suffer Abel brood
My brothers, a keeper?!
What are we
As kin
At best
Amor much like
Kin dread spirits
Mything the point of awe
Racing to our clan
When effaced
With the holy uncompelling
As prey for your enemies
As fodder forgives them
Fore they know knot
What they due
Amor
Then some Dad joke
I’m telling!
As sum propriety formula
Of pleas
And thank yous
Passably
Not the most
Mature
Butt have to
Do
Rather entreating us
To entertain being
As full groan
As your father in heaven
Sow wanting
Just us to be
Awe you kin be
This poem is loosely inspired by Matthew 43-48:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be mature, therefore, as your heavenly Father is mature.
The word “mature” in the last verse is typically translated as “perfect.” Years a go I heard that a more accurate translation was “mature.” This struck me as more accessible. Plus, I am a recovering perfectionist — the shadow side of my unrepentant idealism. The point is to grow “up” not mirrorly follow the herd.
For those who may claim that you are living precariously in some fashion, just know that it may be difficult to be more suicidal than planet human right now…
On the Sacrificial Lam
To live sow precariously
They couldn’t help
Heir their concern
That’s danger us
What
You’ve given up
To wit I udder
I am know more
Suicidal
Than the plan it
As a hole
Volunteering is worth every penny…and then sum…
Volunteering, Worth Every Penny
What due I
Get out
Of volunteering
How do I no
What it is worth
In the free market
What is given freely
Is pennies on the dollar
The wrest
Is awe weighs down
Fore negotiation
Asocial contract-ing
Amiss valuation
Of what counts
As sum kind
Of whores trade
And who has the bigger dickering
Piddling and peddling
A bout
Who cares
What madders
All day traitors in the presents
Of the futures
Mark it
As awe that you can
Get out of it
Yet what ails
Can we due
How a bout
Give of one’s own
A cord
That binds us
As give
Aweigh
Awe
That wee might
Have
Fore shared fates
And well
Prepared fetes
Worth amor
Then the largesse treasure
“Who is my neighbor” is a rhetorical question originating from the parable of the good Samaritan, where Samaritans where the sworn enemies of the Israelites and the Israelite did not want to recognize Samaritans as his neighbor, nor answer the high moral calling of being a good neighbor to all. The correct answer to being a good neighbor is: “The one who has mercy.” This parable parallels the biblical story of Can and Abel, where, after Cain murdered his brother Abel, Cain deflects God’s inquiry as to where his brother Abel is. The correct answer to the rhetorical question of “Am I my brother’s keeper?” is: “Yes, you are your brother’s keeper.” Unfortunately, in common parlance, each in this pair of rhetorical questions is most often employed as a way to parry responsibility for one another, entirely missing the moral lesson. The intended moral lesson is that we have a deep and abiding responsibility to awe of our brothers and sisters, and our neighbors, which includes our enemies and foreigners in our land. This poem is a tip of the hat to awe of the protesters and resisters who get this moral lesson and protect the human rights of all, including immigrants and our enemies…
Neighbor’s Keeper
Are you familiar
With the explosive rhetorical device
And intimate biblical no’ing
As just a quest in
Am I my neighbor’s keeper?
Are we awe mothers us
In our rejoinder
Flooding the street
With a righteous and riotous yea!
That holy yes
I am my neighbors’ keeper
And awe of my neighbors
Are keepers
Go and do like wise…
I came to accede in common ground, and I took the long and longing view…
Poetry Cede
Awe that he had left
Was giving
Up
That poetry cede
Having awe ready
Rooted
Deep into
Common ground
Yet destined
For the stars
All sow accustomed
To unsurpassed surroundings
Of the darkest pitch
Still
The one
Singularly close
Overlooking the wrest
That which burns
Bright in the knight
Illumines from gazillion smiles
Aweigh
Giving site to the blind
And incite to awe others
You can
Run
But you find yourself in cant
Hide
Long enough
To root
For awe unearth
As it is
In heaven
You can’t sell what is awe ready souled…
Can You Buy This?
Everything is awe ready
Souled
Once you buy this
You are free
I love writing poetry, how ever useless it may peer to others…
Whatever Ridden
He lived on the margins
Of life
His works of heart
Peered as doodles
Too many others
Living their own
Writes and wrongs
Like a paper wait
Bearing the gravity
And lightness
Of whatever
Ridden
For me, awe is write with the whirled…
Love Being
You can be wronged
Never the less
Be happy
Mysteriously still
I love being
Write
Life keeps happening; better to adjust expectations accordingly…
On the Journey
Are we there yet?
Know
There is awe ways amor
Stop axing
You are on
Knead to know bases
And will let you no
When ready to go home
This poem is an owed to those who love animals but oft don’t mind eating them, caging them in zoos for our enrichment, or using them in sporting — perhaps something to amor, then think about…
Feral Love
In the range of life
She finds it a zoo
Or a pet project
She loves animals
Though oft derivative of her own
Her love of domestics
Tasteful table service
The beast of burden
Sporting
A given
A lessen
In what might be
Feral love
Human rights are fore awe humans, transcending borders and all boarders within a nation…
D Humanize
Bombed
Out of their mine
Doggedly a dicked
To bred
Kneading to know
Of what damn nation
Won is a citizen of
Before reckoning that
Entreating you as a human
In such dispensable practice
Soully scorn enough points
To make that steep grade
Of D humanize
Us
And them
War is a terrible way to prepare for peace…
Wore In Peace
There is allot
Of terrible realities in war
Won
Of the saddest lots
Is the unfortunate luck
Of being
The last casualty
This misfortune is
Exceeded soully
By the first casualty of war
The truth
Beaten to dust
Bye awe rights
Left to resurrect
From the carnage
And lessens
Wore upon us
And what might
Knot have been
There at first
The thirst
For peace
And awe of us
Here is my poetic take on today’s announcement of a tenuous ceasefire deal:
Ten U.S. Peace in Middle East
In the daze of deals
Superlatives fly
Still
Gazans killed
This day
Soully hoping
To bare their dead
From the rubble of genocide
Tears
In the fabric of life
Wile co-genocidaires give high fives
As if add up to a perfect ten
We’ve a textbook sew what
Seams like tens
Of thousands of lifetimes ago
What is it that
Might be
A greed
That nethermost temp
In taking
Won’s foot off the gas
Chambers emptied
Arms re-stocked
Prostheses of the soul amiss
The countless endings
And endless passabilities
Where have we landed?
A real state deal?
A taste of my poetry…
Delivering Life By The Palette
I am an artist
Who delivers
Life by the palette
In efface of a savorless whirled
And crazy profit
Crying
Is salivation clothes buy?
A medium every exorbitant minute?
Know!
I eschew ten times
Any mouth watering fooled
Up helled
As whatever
Your taste
At present, we are all equal, deserving of the same human rights. Still, there is not equity in life, our rights are not present equally. This poet awe weighs pines for just us…
Per Verse Equity
She pined
I ache for a world
Wear
Elders are appreciated, even revered
And the poet fooly quipped
Wrest easy
Your are in good
Company men
Women and children
Reckoned in kind
Weather experienced elders
Passionate youth
Caretakers of those unherd, not scene
Amid life cries
And grave worker be’s
Life is fare
No
One
Dares be tolled
You are awe
To be treated
In differently
That dive
Into like manor
Equal measures
Of vague dis saddest faction
Halving@ThatConundrum.com
Under taking
That life long odyssey
Of straight up queer poetry
Spinning we’ll
Awe pine
Just
The same
I strongly suspect, and certainly hope, than humans are more than mirror animals. This poem is a meditation on the self-destructiveness of a whirled-view of competition and re-lying on sects for perpetuation of humanity, plus an invitation to live for the benefit of awe…
Origin of Specious – Owed to Piece Makers
The origin of specious
Is defined
Buy who you will
Halve sects with
Whatever you kin due
To survive
Against awe others
Fucker be fucked
Killer be killed
That goaled in rule
That parently natural selection
Of won patriarchy
Too rule them all
And sew determined
That seamingly favored race status
A blood liable
Too shroud the truth
Of the finish lyin’
Fore posed losers
Never seeing it coming
Wrapped up in flagging feat
Awe the wile
Steeling humanity
With pick it fences
Dens of thieves
Master bed roams
And sale of partisan ships
In that sea of sucker punch
Drunk buy the liter of the pack
Hammered buy anything it can nail
For a faction of the price
The gruel being as thin as the veneer
Of bettor then the wrest
Sundays at exclusive clubs
Assault of the earth people
Yet soully thorn bushes
Mirrorly reproducing fig leaves
And no fruits aloud
As quiet the grave undertaking
Yet never enough
As awe that madders
Is getting
A peace of the axin’
Yet sum wear
Long the weigh
As less than
Promiscuous peace makers
Labor for won family
Undivided bye lust
That sacred culling
Of awe that can
Be a greed
No longer trashing one
An other
A dumpster diver city
Where every treasure recycled
For the benefit of awe
As awe of our grit
Brings us pearls
Stringing us long
Besting lowly booty
And dreams come true
Without re-lying on sects
And brute farce
Living in light
Heartedness
Never back to stuck in the dark
At that fervor pitch
That soul preyer
As game themselves
This poem is about how complicated relationships are, with pasts, where we are at any given moment, and what we aspire to…
A Couple, of Sextuplets
In every relation ship
Their re-sides
At least six persons
First person
Who they were
Who they are
Who they want to be
Second person
Who they were
Who they are
Who they want to be
And on occasion
Third person
It can be
Quiet
Boisterous
Wee may seem like sojourners, nomads, yet know that we only get there in won peace…
Know Mad
They thirsted
To get
To the next oasis
In the desert
Of long and longing daze
In dispensable brake
In a perpetual spell
Helled fast
Never moving
Lodged in yearning hour keep
Nothing knew
Under the sun
Save for the life
Of a know mad
Each mourning
Rising to the feverish
Pitch
Of high noon AND mid night
At wince
As be moaning
What is
Mirage and reel
Sow scattered
To the win
In a baron land
What can be see’d
As awe asunder
A part from
Being able
To sea
The horizons of life
Sow much amor
Than fecund terrain rex
More than anger re-seeding
And loosing won’s heart
In stead-y
We must travail to gather
Wee we
Soully saying to life
Oui oui
As très sure
Awe together
No madder
Sans any land escape
We abide
