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I have never been much of a fan of: “Nothing off the table.” This strikes me as boundary-less sociopathy.  Similarly, I am not much of a fan  of: “Politics is the art of compromise.” This strikes me as more often about being compromised than compromising…

Nothing Off The Table

The art of the compromised
Is taking
Nothing off
The table
Awe is negotiable
Human rights
And the whored of wrongs
Buy enlarge
Thankful
Fore daily bred
And barren fruit
Soully sorry
For any crumbs
By miss take
Floored
By the error you breathe

I’ve have always found the juxtaposition of folks without any housing with folks who have second homes, especially when those second homes are far bigger and more expensive than most people with housing. This chasm may be a particularly telling indicator of the level of collective empathy of our nation. This poem is a utopian, anti-Orwellian fantasy where “second home encampments” are raided rather than “homeless encampments.”

2084: Novel, Utopia

Up and down
Awe the shoreline
At the second home encampments
The police raided
The “More-hommes”
Those citizens who couldn’t get enough
Sucking up
Resources beyond their need
Masses of second homes
In prime locations
Was emblematic
Of such illegal encampments
Their collective licentiousness
Was matched soully
Buy their generous excuses
Of “God permits”

This poem was uninspired by what a preacher once declared to me with some resignation: “I can’t preach on that.” My first thought was: Wow, that is precisely what you should preach on.

Minimizing Prophets

The Rev’s revved
We can preach on this
We can’t preach on that
Or the sheeple in the steeple
Would be something else
Somewhere else
And we like it hear
Preaching to acquire
A friend too norm
Whether pastor present
To the unherd
Those few
Who dis possession
As a weigh of life
In consideration of prophets
To be had
To know awe
To well
That christening accost
Of riding won’s ass
Into that capital city
Where our rulers and high priests mete
A strange mission state
Meant
Soully as
Minimizing prophets
And voiding immanent danger
Every won no’s the rules
If you can’t preach
On it
That’s the spirit
Preach that

NOTE: I am very proud of my mission statement for Top Pun, “Maximizing Prophets.”

Our treasure rests in our interdependence upon one another, gifted to each other…

In Dependently Wealthy

He unearth
A truth caste aside
His treasure
Can knot be
Stored
Soully given
The amor you get
The soars of awe
True treasure
Enduring
The whiles of the whirled
That priceless turning point
Pain forward
As others grasp
Wealth un-own
Passed by
Buy most
Inter dependence
Living on
Remains
A mist
Eternal presents abiding

This poem is a meditation on spirituality as any perspective that is not nihilism or sociopathy/amorality.

Vacating Spirituality

What ultimately is
Spirituality
Abut
The science
Of subjectivity
A third eye
Witness
Certifiable
In a court of lawlessness
Subject to wrong doing and unlicentiousness
Reduced to a vile
As holy unsatisfactory
Fore such a rock bottom baseness
For those drunk on 100% proof
Sow de-fined
A whirled without
Affliction or affection
Scene as know better
Accept for awe that
No better
Or worse!
Nothing ails
Heels or re-pairs
In a ledged will
Falling for nothing
No weigh to a void
Real gated
To being stuck
In pitch
Darkness
Submitting too
No light for the wicked
In a moral suicide
Wear wee
Can due
Know better

Sometimes having my expectations burst is an awesome thing…

Beyond Teeming

God is just
Sow much more
Then I can in vision
Burst my bubble
What due I expect
When awe is
A given
I am sow
Out of my league

Perspective on light and darkness…

Shedding Light

The sun rises and sets
Shedding light
On countless situations
No no know
The spin is earth’s
Round itself
Round the sun
Awe the same
Wresting upon
The point of you
Alight in the darkness

I’ve seen enough.

Show Enough

There’s long
Been rumors
That God is dead
Perhaps a bit
Exaggerated
On the other side
Of curtains
And to get beyond
Swearing
At any and every attest
I can’t quiet say
That I have scene
The goods
Show enough
God shows up
As many times
I don’t get
What I want
Just
The same
God gives me
Something amor
Sow much better

Pin Money, On Me

Rich folks don’t no
The value of money
Too much
Stuff buying
Versus those
Who know the slight
Of scratch
In sufficient
For their itch
The exacting accost
And the dear prys of things
That soul lessen
Of learning the value
Of halving little
And the toll of ease
Shelled
Out
Bye others

As people are freely abducted by masked, unmarked federal agents; soldiers police American cities; and the U.S. ruthlessly backs genocide in Gaza, cruelty and bullying is the point. Perhaps America was great when merely sociopathic, rather than sadistic.  This cruel chaos has nothing to do with supporting law and order, let alone national security. Thanks for setting the bar so low and making it soooo easy to do better than this. Let US do better.

Post Traumatic Stressed Is Order

There is amor to life
Then sadism

It’s funny how poems strike when I don’t expect it…

Slap Shtick

I am
Just
Going
A bout
My day
When awe of the sudden
Taken aback
Hand of God
As a poem is borne
Wake up, sleepy ahead!
In the whirled of dollareds
God’s cents
Of humor

A pair of poems. Wait, for it.

A PARE OF POEMS

Due You Halve the Time?

Does any won
Know one
Who has time
That doesn’t
Work us
Over
Or threw us
Rather as sum kind
Of magical spell
A twinkle of the I
A flash of incite
Between moments of grays
Wear know one
Has time
Time possesses us
The soul quest in
What weigh

Weight Lessness

Life came a cross
As sow grave
Plowing threw life
Weight
For it
Weight
For it
Un-till
The light
Shows up
As weight lessness
Wait
For it
Wait
For it

Quantity Knot Quality

“Don’t expect fruit from a thorn bush, especially from allot of thorn bushes.”

He did knot real he
Have much
Satisfaction
With the quality of his life
Abut
What he wanted
Too focus on
Was the quantity of his life
Craven to power up
Regardless of the strange fruit borne
A farce multiplier
A small numb-er times
A large numb-er
In deferent too
The worth of
The after math
Anathema to being
Woke
Know madder
What the amount
Of pricks

This poem is a reflection on the phenomenon of believing is seeing. Life changes every moment and we tend to see that which we believe, good or bad. This poem starts with hope, ever present and new, but gets stuck in “bad luck.” Our lives awe too often peer as a cautionary tale…

What, He New

“Don’t you know, it’s bad luck to be superstitious…If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

As much
Like hope
He new
That it is
Bad luck to be
Superstitious
Coincidentally if
He did not have
Bad luck
He would not have
Any luck at awe
Know madder how much
He new better