We have everything to do with being creatures on a role planet. Our time in space blackens our time in thought. I promote myself spits in the wind. Art and thought, I wonder if you feel anything derelict. I’ve perished this bloom. Since everybody’s here, except any majority of people, I might as well clear my throat.
What do I hog to you today? I wanna pull existence out of the hat, be right on the ground of being. I want you to say, "that’s me." I put it in flower pots. I sit here all day and fight it, our anonymous with each other. This is stadium big.
We are all points in space too big for our britches. We see ourselves huge in other’s eyes. I’m talkin’ about ourselves. We feel and think and be the center of any room, so big to ourselves, and even if we are not the reason everybody’s there, we see reality that way.
Take us off the megalomania lists. I’m just talkin’ what it means to be human, or the dog in the corner, or the ant in the windowsill, and you know that plant think? It’s just not corralled its self-aware. It just does not pedal to the end of the room. Those thoughts aren’t in motion, but you’ve got a plant big there, everybody in the room.
How do I toll the star-gate? We are stuck on one world in our rounds of thought. We cramp existence here. Oh my God the experiment, would it be the same in every laboratory? Can we count existence a cheat? Does it handicap worlds, universes, or does it just stage things properly?
Do you know you’re blind, deaf, and dumb to what you see on the inside of the person sitting next to you, or leaving a comment, or submitting a poem, or who’ve you’ve encountered on the news? Their inner reality is blind to yours. We have bleeding cakes in dream and vision and in our thought wares unawares, but these things are disguised.
You can’t hear another person fill reality’s room. You only hear yourself. Hey Jim, let’s create a world… Screw this. You handicappers. Can I explain the problems in the world?
Taste another person please. Know they’re there as big as you, and if they think they’re bigger, well, how many times does this happen in any given day? We have to mitigate it.
They’re just stupid that’s all, like we all are. I’m sorry you’re stupid too. Do you treat everybody as you, give them a break, the benefit of the doubt, or forgive them their trespasses? You will have a million excuses why you can’t identify with them.
Come on people please. You’re the center of everybody’s pole, as you imagine them looking at you, but they put themselves there, you know? We can get better at it, givin’ people the credit they deserve, givin’ people their own self in our very own eyes.
Who’s humanity in the room? Can a poet speak that voice? Can we ride poetry there? The productivity’s there be a hurt bag and find humanity. And watch everybody spill the beans.
I am so very blacklisted, I could rise to the occasion and blossom humanity in my heart and write it down in gifted speech, and they would just turn and look the other way, the stadium managers in humanity, who’s who who block poems. Now do you hear me blossom humanity? Now do you hear me blossom poems?
A bridge is the universe. We are reality big. It’s a major crossing. Focus on the many aspects of this visual poem heard while doing science. In a round about way put it on your shoulder I’m your friend. It’s been a lot of Scottish in here. I’ve done a daily put people in the shoes with me. He put the swim in there. I am the render in time, the render in space, that’s the One I’m worth.
That farm, that house is play, here’s where you too, not the separate consciousness but the localized in space, God of the whole evolves. That’s the cherry blossom. That’s where we all rise in sync. I’m an American band I’m comin’ through your town, [sing line] this is exactly what the stadium room, that cherry bloom.
The barriers of time, I don’t think you ride them very well. We come up against them all the time. They’re in our shoes. They hurt a lot. You can’t see this for the daylight, the great big prison playroom we are in. It’s got walls to it intrinsically built into each one. That’s where our cameras go. That’s how we feel this test.
Your loved one’s on the other side of the room bakin’ pies. In symbolic meaning that’s a round of thought comin’ your way. You’re separated by time’s barriers. You can’t get at each other in the physical sense. Great big surprises come your way when you do, cramped experience that puts relationship to the test. You hold them there sweetly, and then you may never see them again.
You don’t know what’s up, what’s goin’ on. I’ve left my poem alone in a fire so heartfelt in love’s embrace. I can’t get at the tires, or maybe death’s got your door, and your dog’s died, the great big sloppy-lickin’ dog of your life, and no ma’am I haven’t just lost a dog. I’ve lost a reality so big it took up half my room. She was always there lickin’ paws next to my life. Losing her took my front teeth— my daughter you know.
She’s melting time’s barriers tryin’ to see me. I don’t think you know the cough of this universe. It’s horrifying. I see her damn near every day tryin’ to reach through vision to get me near to her. Death’s reality would spook you if you knew it’s there. I’ve muscle on this, but I’m pigeon-toed. I can’t just hold my girl like she’s right up against me. I hold her paw in some astronaut’s gleaming Interstellar there at the back of the house. The confines of death, they break us apart.
The muscle of time, do you know it’s there? It separates you from everything— one little lonely being at a time. Times barriers put us in a single physical space where we can’t figure each other out. We laugh out loud, then cry.
You’re a pickup truck that can’t pick anybody up. You hold yourself the station of the universe, but you can’t move a goddamn thing if others block you. They are themselves the center station too. The great paradox of life makes you powerless to act where you would give your right eye to act but cannot, in those places most meaningful to you you have no power over. You sit in time scaling your life, a sheer wall of belief and hard fact, never any top in sight. What are you doin’?
It puts us to the test. Time’s warriors bake and sell us at the flea market, but this is not why you’re here, and you last longer than Heaven, a safe haven at the back of the house to get our strength back but that can trap us too. We are so much bigger than death that blinds us all while we’re still alive. Hold your child close. Can you protect him from anything bigger than your arms of control? Fiend death my friend, he sucks. What’s the answer to all this? What are we doing?
The answer lies on a page in a WordPress blog? Definitely, if you know how truth presents itself. It’s not haughty and it don’t wear spears. It might even be embarrassing, hittin’ in society’s low spot. It would be uglier than the norm, the vehicle of truth, but it would shore you up with sincerity if you test it. It would be one among a mass that your truth sense recognize, because it is beyond belief in name and form. It’s not part of the system that ensnares you.
Come to my party? There’s no snaking you there. You just have to realize what’s been true all along, but that you have never seen because it’s so represent itself, and you only see the representation, the figure in time, or the one who has wings to be your figure of God behind it you thought about a lot but never really met. The scientist would just see a meaningless void.
Can’t you see I got your skies on? I’m not pollutin’ the skies. I’m not anything wrong. Well how about that? I hold my boy in love’s embrace, and we figured out time. That’s the challenger for your social skies. I’m not doin’ business. I’m a love angle on time to make us greater in it. That’s the vehicle in the room. Can you dig it?
The limits of time, they are both normal and strange. You can’t be in two places at once a sudden trapdoor to a greater life. You are either who you are upstairs or the little I down there livin’ life. I’ve seen this juxtaposition, where I got out of time. It was a railroad. Greater times are comin’.
Now I just comb my hair and wash my face and shoot my gun? No I land this in your lap reachin’ through a poem to you. It’s fresh meat now, but where will I be when I am dead, and you’re readin’ these words? Look around the room. Am I there a thought stroke?
That’s life, you know the big one. Strict society belt won’t even let you think this to yourself. I’m bein’ looked in on by me with a question: how much longer you runnin’ half the house? You will have a future integral with who you are on high. My God this is big, and we meet time’s barriers down the because in the room. I’m comin’ after you foldin’ time, a lesson in reality completely out of the script. You’re gettin’ that script.
I’ve come all the way from the ground up. I’m not an existential crisis. I know who I am. I’ve been shot that’s all, ghosted by most everyone, put out to pasture. What do you do with that, and you identify with the world, hold it close your livin’ self? You have gone out of time and been the big who we are, enough to see it, enough to be it to know it’s there.
I’ve seen outside the symbolism, outside the roles we play. Even if you call it a computer simulation, figuring the unknown with the known, whatever you call it, I’ve been in compassionate reality, the bigger reality beyond this one. I’ve seen the real thing. No one counts this as a thing to be known where animals food our feeding faces as our reality, no depth to it, no meaning, nothing behind, except Gods to worship and obey or enlightenment’s sweepstakes that bring you empty shell.
Can’t you see beyond time? What’s bigger than the universe? Is that just empty skies? What’s bigger than playpens? I’m a figure on that. So like the show to give you the universal accepted scapegoat as the one to show. I can’t get my name in public. I can’t even write it down anywhere near heard. Is that just because I’m lying?
Can I show you my flag? It’s not rainbow screwed. It’s your heartbeat and mine symbolizin’ time. It’s where everybody goes to school. It’s the time of day in this poem. It’s where we all meet at the end of the classroom. I’m sorry it’s me, but hello I’m yours.
The terror is only a being in time. The face of evil, It can’t get at that larger you in transcendence’s sphere. It has no power there. It can only rattle your cage. Anything it does to you it’s not doing to you but to the actor in that cage. This is the meaning of no harm can come to you.
It’s beyond time time's relevant, time's keeper, truth's formula, but it can act within time and space with impunity, with absolute, unhindered power. It is bigger than evil. It has eyes on you, not to save your life but to bring you home. It does not stare you down. It doesn’t even guide you with any advice. It’s up there. You’re down here, but it’s comin’ to meet yah. It’s comin’ to be who you are down here. This is the plan of Earth, what her victory skies.
You are a crossroads to that. We are at Earth’s great turning point to land ourselves there. I am a seed bearer that is all. I come to tell you what’s comin’, and if my voice don’t get out someone else will. This is the mystery time hides, why it put you in a straight jacket, why it won’t leave you alone. Can you understand me? Do you see what I’m doin’? I’m meetin’ you with your maker who is you. I’m solvin’ the mystery of time. I’m giving you wings to grow. Take my hand please, these worded verses, and make it all worthwhile.
Protracted, a polar bear’s smile. It’s gonna take a long time to reach Supermind. It’s not there at our feet. It’s not your garden grow. It’s not at the hoof of your horse. It has to be as common as a cold for you to see it. The more people up there for a moment’s gleam, it holds you up there breakout sweepstakes.
This area’s comin’ into our view portal now the hesitancy in time. It’s comin’ your way in poems Emily Dickinson’s undiscovered continent she looks out on from her pier. Rumi’s love poem says you can only see the sun by the sun. Did we see him there? Now this poet speaks in plain as day. I’ve reminded you of Supermind in Savitri’s care. I’m just the outcast that says it.
Now hold me close. You don’t have to do nothin’, just read the poem the miles that you work today, the poem that you reach today. It’s such a piano to look at the subway and see supernal skies. Stand the subway of time. Is that tomorra mornin’?
Emergency level truth’s barriers, time’s walls. There’s a lot goin’ on. Right at the turning point. Except for the money I wanna tell you somethin’. Your morality drinks beer. You’re not the captain of the ship people. You’re who we go to to take our stories off. Right here for you on your mark, get set… The restrict we have, we put it on things. We use safety to protect ourselves from safety. Actually a lot right here. We’re movin’ on. What’s your plan, bring us all to safety? That one சாவி, I’m inside a poem.
Have brain damage, that’s not really politics. It’s a funeral. Who would see The Last Tree Trunk on Earth? Critics say it’s a good movie. It’s spills bad. It was filmed inside Iran in secret trees. It’s got a wallop to it. You see freedom up close thrown out in the street and beaten on. You see it shot with knives. This is a real camera folks, and girls just want to have their scarves not choke them to death. Is anybody watching this? Can anybody care?
The Seed of the Sacred Fig was put in the wrong house. Brilliant you hear the arguments at the table theocracy speaks, but it’s shot in red and white, and we practice human nature with a murdering gun. We do not show human nature. A father and daughter are not that red apart, suddenly, unexpectedly, so the plot can aim its gun. Would a family go mad, horribly so, for a strength to resist evil that none of them felt they had? An entire lifetime together with daddy milk and a mother devoted to everyone, it lands on the freeway I will hunt you down and kill you love said.
How tall these movies are in our backyard. They bring humanity under the gun. Has human nature been robbed of its sense? It’s blow out of proportion so it can impress audiences and score award points. We see human nature sick and dying in movie after movie, and we can’t get over the villain. He is so perfect in his craft, miraculously a monster just doing the impossible. We love to hate him, and if it’s a her all the more.
They’ve confused us with what’s real. Human people don’t act like that, and these movies have us all alarmed, riding out our hate in tickets sold. What’s the point of all this mess? Make more bucks, and let’s take these artistic challenges and make them rob people wear. My God that’s a talented movie just on our disease.
Alejandro in Problemista almost makes the villain human, but then he wrote the apology. We’d have to go to Sing Sing for a good movie in emotional fare, so Shakespeare on Earth. Let’s not get too gay in National Anthem and spoil the show. We have purpose in our lives this movie knows not of. You wear a good Holocaust in A Real Pain, tryin’ to show it right, on the level of human eyes a human drama. What am I doin’? Showin’ you my movie list. I watch a lot of movies. I’m really into them. This is the way we spend human nature, in identifying roles. We get involved with a part. We identify with a character, a plot. It wears our lives in symbolic meaning. We get at the stuff.
We invest ourselves there oh so strongly. We’re raped with a bad ending. A good movie can make us feel good about ourselves and improve our lives. It can heal. It can do bad things. It can tear up our lives for a moment of all meaning. It is so very powerful, cinema. It goes directly to the starting point, where our lives came from and why. Alejandro is good at this. Amazing creativity those scenes where he’s talkin’ to someone, and it shows the whereabouts, the representative part.
Drum roll please. We are creative edges of time. We stand and sing our lives an entertainment for deep meaning. So many roles wear our lives. Can you get at the audience? Being after being, shrouded in unimaginable mystery, have a total immersion gamble with our lives. Of course we like movies. We are there.
A Rumpelstiltskin comes along and plays the keyboard, and we’re on bended ground unable to figure out destiny, but we can get back to ourselves. Audience after audience prevents us, the cliffhanger of our lives their entertainment point, but they value our lives in our bid for freedom and to discover who we are. It’s their thrill. They clap when the angels sing.
Are you crazy yet? You’re just gettin’ started. There is so much behind the scenes in the dragnet of who you are. I cannot show this to you, the person you are on high, the actor that has donned this long line of all these lives. I can only keep tryin’ in poem after poem and my symbolic life, but it’s a farce you know. I’ve really let yah down, right where you needed me, and there’s no way to make that up. When you see it’s a game, though a meaningful one, know like you know the body you wear, because you have seen it with your own eyes, that you are an actor in a cage, a player playin’ time, the first thing you do is fuck up. It’s the proud of human nature. It’s so stupid.
It prevents me from showing you who I am and who you are, unimaginably big, but that’s life, a goddamn movie that just throws you for a loop, and you can never get it right until you stop the pretendin’ and come together on yourself what you need beyond time. You’re not the audience I’m speakin’ to when I say I’m puttin’ on those shoes. Feel the thrill? A poet measure this poet smiles.
How do you chew on that poem? We grow in stadiums. A Watcher watches our lives. It’s dream big. It’s not who we are the audience in prerecorded time. This is not the first time creation mount. Great DVDs we live for their viewing pleasure. We are that Watcher you see, not the audience pang, and we can’t get over him. It’s too stadium big. It transcends time and space, but above our roofs it’s there, the hidden keeper of our lives, who we return to, the one who started it all in our little universe.
You don’t believe me I know, but you’d like to. The hidden meaning of our lives are compassionate witnesses beyond number and form. Everywhere they look they are there the meaning behind creation on this bended globe, in this starstruck universe, and they change us with a look the bearing on time. They are the Watchers behind time watchin’ the movie us them very selves in time. Can you feel them?
Your true self, they bring you home. Months of capacity open those gates, if you’re ready for them again, and you’ve been there before for a brief moment a time or two in all your many lives where afterlife grows. It's a certainty you remember. It’s a certainty you hold in your skies that you farm into your very ground I’ve planted this poem with, a vehicle of my own return one sudden afternoon before the death of me. You come up with yourself in the ultimate game of life, the ultimate paradox of life. That’s a round of applause. You hear the whole stadium sing your great escape, your victorious mile I put better in progress.
Alejandro, he did it. I’ve seen what movies list as our great surprise. Too mundane to take it where we meet beyond the universe, they give it gas and go. Are you hearin’ this?
What’s the biggest love you ever had? The receipt is in the bag, and you’re probably torn apart by it. Good how you doin’? That’s the ode of life, our first knowledge of it. You can’t get over its size. It jumps out and bites you all the time.
There’s somethin’ here. Your love has nothin’ to do with it. It’s a list of hard. You can never reach it. Look at the dog. That’s payment of love let me tell you. The point of this somethin': Donny get your head out of your ass. Get so close makin’ it look like people look, hear their voices, hide their fears, and they are the lovers of your life.
You want me to tell yah this dangerous love? You look awful. Do it, love you in the perfection of love’s care, and you’re this simple little organism that must awake to itself as the horseman, that you are the starship, you are the unicorn, that shatters time and all barriers to arrive back at the house the One, who wears time as his robe and space as his molecule.
Ever the mystery of God finds God, and God himself is a station of the One, created before time began. He bids you a self-discovery bigger than himself but that can fit into an atom and a plant or any ring around the rosie, but only the human being can make it real to itself. The dog just loves its master.
Now I am clothed in time, but I have worn this identity in an unimaginable sphere, and that brief moment has determined all my life. I have to deal with God’s love putting me on those tracks again, day in and day out, and I have been given a load to bear that makes me hated by you. Only the most exceptional people, and they are few, will make my life easier with their care and concern, give the comfort you get every day from friends and family. I am almost completely alone in this world, and I don’t think you can grasp this isolation it hurts so.
So I have taken the world what to make of it, and I have found God. Wrapped in unimaginable mystery, he holds my hand and lets me see things you don’t and gives me keys to man’s change, and I can still love my boy and my best friend and my dogs. I can still love the world. I can love mankind. I can love it all because I have gone through a holocaust of human abandonment, and I discovered what love is. God is love my friend. God is love.
Tribute to the poetry of tradition. I’m an art student. I’m blowin’ the lid off poetry. I can’t get poetry right to save my life. If you study poetry you’ll get it. It’s just about our choice words, painting things right. I dare my pen. Let’s follow some tradition, and I’ve exposed poetry to be in the lair of predicament, every syllable counted and every i dotted. Someone on the internet will like it. These Germans, they like system and order.
Picked her brother apart, except that Skeptic’s Kaddish fella, who goes around publicly and discerns poetry, and he can make you meet poetry in a formula. It’s not weathered beat. It’s not the formula he’s lookin’ at. It’s his heart and matter. There’s a haiku, or a whatchamacallit he’s discovered that no one’s ever heard about. A poet has these easels, and he makes them shine with the testimony of word.
He passes the feeling test. He goes beyond words into something else. How elusive it is to say. You know you’ve met a poem, but let’s hand it to ‘im will yah? David Daylight, ben Alexander, measured right everybody call home.
You can’t find this on paper. It’s in the poet’s test, what he meets inside himself to write the poem, a sensibility in time that’s brought him world after world of be the horseman in the room. He moves humanity along in great waves of identification and another brand of thinking that goes for the goal of everything, its reach and purpose in time, how the world was made and why, and can I be pretty in it?
Every little thing is a poet’s mule, the suddenness of his mile (the traditional lift to pronoun stutters my feet), not to figure out and keep, to brandish science in the room or the philosopher with his stone. We must show them to you as they are with their mystery still behind them made greater by the sacrifice but revealed in the paradox of life. Oh my great big friend David thank you. You’re the bravest man alive.
Alone for you, state it and I’ll bring it. That’s our duty. I’m not a poet I’m a blog artist. These are thousands is that so? Would you gear with me the impossibilities of paint another form of blog?
I wanna get in your living room the poet speaks aloud, the blog artist refashions the internet, and it is as legitimate as a piece of paper sayin’ things. I’ve got out the bugs, the pieces of electricity put into us electronic think.
This is my whirl with you. I take the possibilities of poetry and group think and put them right in your lap. I’m a rebel I’m a holder. I’m sincere with you. God it all stinks, and a better world is coming in the kitchen sink.
Sylvia Plath did not Gertrude Stein. You know what a kitchen is thought, and how many people sink there? I bet you didn’t include the kitchen sink, and I double meaning my poem blog post.
It’s all gone to hell ain’t it? I sit and count God on my fingers. I can’t get at it that way. I’ve got to get bigger than your living room, your apocalypse see. I’ve got to get bigger than the loss of my boy and Auroville stinks. I’ve got to be a bigger poet than a blog post. Fuck you I said. That aughta do it.
Oh my fucking God, I’ve got to get bigger than my pen. I’ve got to say to you words that open up worlds inside you that change the world. I’ve got to make you see for one goddamn minute we are not animals in a bullpen. We’re not even That. We’re ourselves in time with the means to change out of this skin of loneliness and disease that even all good people wear.
We can improve the human condition. We can get better at ourselves. I’m finding that in myself as we speak. Adopt a belief? Change yourself into the bigger man when met with the opposition, your own damn faults or the shit storm of others.
You can be a bigger person to life’s faults. You can be the skies all take room in. Do you hear my apologies?
photo of the author by a camera salesman, image by the author
I wanted to die. Everybody knows how to die. Sufferin’ from panic disorder my only friend. I have no comfort in anyone, and this woe is me will not say it properly. I cannot believe I have no worth to anyone. I’m just a field of crap, and I have seen God’s eyes, feel the world’s pain like my own.
I sit in a height of thought where almost no footing is. I’ve taken you there in our thought realms unawares. The All-Negating Absolute has me by the throat, and even God is buried in immensity. I cannot discover God one last time as who we need in immensity.
3:33, 28-years-old, I can’t give God the proper numbers. He is too right and wrong. Mexican, He took my pants off and raped me at seven. It hurt too much to tell anybody. I was cleaved.
Why am I telling you this? Afraid to tell anybody, I put back action comin’ up in the rear. Squealin’ inside me, they crossed death too a courier of the same disease, those little tummies.
I can’t give you molten lava and expect you to cherish me. I can’t even say my name. I’m a brick in a wall that you don’t identify with, bricks in the same wall.
Up here, I’m a way to photography that wall, to hold it out open to daylight. I’m a measure of that peace, but you can’t come to terms with me. I’ve sinned to much for God cares, or I remind you of sin. I’m an enigma with an open door. God the carnage at Troy, sit back everybody and tell me what hero came home. The canonical field of Troy.
Do it again, I stand before you now. Will you hear me? We swim in oceans of blood. Don’t underestimate life. There’s a moment before you when you can give it to the challenge it tasks a man with, and he must stand alone in immensity and be the voice no one wants to hear turning every ear on to a future in ideas that will save us all come that future, whether I’m the voice that says them or not.
See me today sittin' with you holdin’ your hand likewise tell me the world has turned its back to you too. A pencil in agony, it’s too early to tell, and I’m a measure of that immensity.
So brothers and sisters, I’d help you. Those tummies are in good hands. You cannot electrify them like that, put them on lurch little boys and little girls.
A needle in a haystack give you a tap. Raise Supermind, I’d be one in the world. Get ‘im a chair to latch from our very disease and bring us all to peace.
You know how it works: no ignoring you world enigma. My OMs are here. My front door’s open. Enjoy a body of ideas. Do it again, I’m really intercepting your thought.
About concessions surpassing condition in this mutual lust’s core. / From Don to poet in 30 seconds. I’m on poet duty. I’m a hole in One. Can I tell yah our range card? The ego sits in its bunker wonderin’ over friends and family, excused about relationships the very center of relationship. Hey you I’m a world, a big planet unto myself, the center of my see. You have not that validity.
You’re just out there, and I’m in here the substantial train yard. I wanna melt these barriers down, but I grab myself again, and that’s impossible. I really love you, and that’s sweet and kind. No it slaps you in the face sometimes. I’m all animal whirl when someone gets my goat, but I mitigate it with you must be in there too, just fightin’ your own wars really feelin’ yourself a wounded soldier.
Can we get out of this? I try. I don’t know where to put you if you don’t see my worth, if I am just a blob in a corner to you. We sing awhile the injustice in that. Oh my God do I compensate. I think I feel every hole in humanity. I so understand your pain, and it moves me to tears I’m embarrassed to show. My God you have a rough time little Gaza boy alone in his bed of refugees. I don’t know where to turn from your pain Parkland shooter realizin’ what you’ve done.
I’m a hole in the fence to a greater life I can’t fit my own self through, but I’ve been there a time or two, on the other side of that fence, miraculously arrived in the very vision of God’s eyes, and I know we are safe caught in the lifetime passage dream to bring us all out of strife at the end of the tunnel.
My God I would be there now if I could unrealize the dream. So I sit and suffer in a peculiar sense of humor that sees beyond the show. I know we will be made right. I see this in my puppy dogs trying to crawl into me to feel safe and ease their loneliness. I am the master of love to them, and I am but a prototype based on God. We’re headed somewhere, you and me and the whole damn crew, so I hold my dog and comfort you, who set bars alight wantin’ to get at this lust’s core to dream to change it.
I would not be bothered safe. Now tell me now would you? Would you give it to ‘im, this poem over there, if he were your little boy in trouble? We can fly the world on a single point where suffering goes and capture the whole poem. Oh my baby dog Nithish, we wish you a happy birthday on tomorrow’s wings.
We all understand tomorrow. I’m goin’ somewhere. It’s not dishes. I find my boy, bring him home to me and do something bigger than life right there in my homegrown. It’a about my consciousness and its see. I arrive my boy first, giving him healing. This is a new brand we will get good at so it can be mass-produced.
I’m in enlightenment shares healing my boy, a spiritual consciousness override. They’re dealing with a mass showdown. Right now it’s all black. Not even a pinpoint of light gives hope. It’s all gone, the whole save my boy plan, and spiritual practice has fallen by the wayside. I’m merely drifting to no ends.
I count my stupidities now, where I am half-crazy in rants. I sound good on a piece of paper: I’m gonna see my boy; I’ll get that spiritual consciousness again; it’ll all work out. I talk to his parents like I have the power of God. His parents have the absolute power to rule his life. I just make them mad and guard him more. You’d think I’d learn by now my voices are deceiving me; my voices are derailing me.
You’re in trouble. You’re on a stage. Are you there with anything bigger than life? The world’s not gonna listen to you. Everyone ignores your pleas, and your knowledge don’t turn anybody’s head. You just sit there and sing. This is the gist of life. This is how almost everybody feels the world. It’s impotence sings.
I’m a diamond in the hall. I’m on top of everything. I really know my business, and I understand the rise of the world. I don’t spit there. I feel humanity like it’s my very self. I can see the cutting edge of time. Movements I see, world shaping movements, that give me a great yard. I’m of few people see them. Now I come back to myself again. I’m not the stupid guy.
I have reason to believe my boy’s comin’ back to me, and I will put on the Silence once again. It’s evidence I can get big as the world in tellin’; I can wrap the hours around God, and I can make you examine yourself in your hands on children. You sit there and believe me, some of you, because you hear the angels sing in this poet’s gut. I’m a strong one you know, and I hold up the world an Atlas unknown. I really do it, take the ideas that change the world and transmute them into verse, one rocket at a time.
You know I’m there because I love you in that special formula that makes you feel me in the very place we meet, in the intimacy of a poem that’s got handles on it that bring the world closer to you as God sees it, dangerously in love.
You must have some grace to journey this day. It’s the vulnerability of a poet I give it, just role of bein’ hallelujah. [line heard sung to tune of Leonard Cohen’s song “Hallelujah”] You doin’ okay?
That kid sees daddy God’s will. That kid never sees daddy again. His parents are evil saying that. Evil and horny, they market this child for themselves. This is bad business. They stomp on him every day. They can’t help themselves. It’s gleeful. They like making this boy suffer. The power surrounds them. They feel like Gods in his presence. They get off on his pain. They know he loves daddy, and they punish him for it, every single day.
They are beside themselves with hate— their child wants to be with daddy, and they know that. The terror they put through him to force him to keep his mouth shut, or to force him to lie, is what you do to your child when you’re monsters. He is so scared of them he has thoughts they will kill him, smother him in his sleep I’ve already told you in another poem. Can you imagine doing that to your child, being the terror of his life?
They revel in this, will not let him up, and the power they have over God, it’s where they find themselves stupid. God does not honor them or what they do. How God allows evil to take us for a ride, is everywhere apparent. You saw how long the Nazis rule, how long Islamic State cut people to pieces. Then God comes in, and evil forces are destroyed, like the Earth itself does it. You see it happen every day. Evil gets reckoned with.
Evil gets changed, can we show you the gist of this story? Nithish is not here to suffer so his parents can be punished for it. They will know what they did, and their love for their child will show them, what has been there a measure on the situation, keeping the beatings to a minimum, keeping the abuse from killing him. You know he thought of suicide. What this boy has done is shown what child abuse is when it’s not recognized as abuse, here in India where you can beat children and totally and absolutely control their lives, bend them to your will, even expect they worship you, and even adulthood does not find freedom.
Nithish has gone through this so you can see this. They’re not expecting art. They weren’t expecting mine. His parents aroused a poet to defend his boy, to help his boy, to save his boy, the likes of which you’ve never seen, have you? A power of poetry that gives God reign, that let’s Him do His business, you hear it now.
But we find another poet here, tender in years, his parents have tried to murder because they associate it with me. I opened up poet in him, and you’ve heard him sing. He has the future in his hands, a poet of prophecy, and he prophesied this abuse and his waylay in it. Read his poetry this can’t be denied.
Can we come to terms with Nithish? His future poetry writes a verse that will finally free children from being someone’s property, from having the status of slaves, not to buy and sell and trade, but to make them obey with no say in the matter, and to make them do their parents’ will regardless of the cost to the child, to make it as though the child was born for them, for the parents’ pleasure, for the parents’ rule, to obliterate the fact that a soul came down on this adventure Earth to work out its purposes in time. This slavery we need to see, and these slaves we need to free.
To abruptly stop his childhood in the slam shut of school, when he has a learning disability they do not address, they know but will not admit, will scar him for the rest of his life. It’s their thang with him, and they love it there. You’re meant to be crisscrossed. You’ve stolen the boy’s life, but you cannot see you’re wrong for the trees, the stupid people who back you up, the negligent police, the blatantly ignorant Child Welfare Committee, and a school that is so backward in education they let parents abuse their child and don’t even know what a learning disability is. They are ridiculously called New Modern Vidhya Mandir Higher Secondary School, and they’re not going to stop me from showing them to the public when all this is over. They need held accountable for this. I will see to that.
Interstellar from national backgrounds, I will show where Earth is wrong in school, school responsible for the shape we’re in, and school we need to change. Academics take a backseat to being human you colonial legacies fillin’ the Industrial Revolution’s need. Antiquated, outdated, and on steroids, it’s destroying our world. Beavis and Butt-Head are to help us through kids to their appointment in time, to their children now adults later, to the sting of childhood making us examine ourselves in roles as parents and teachers crammin’ adulthood down their throat, and they are yet but children. You very ignorant and narrow-minded, corncob stuck up your ass, uptight bunch of people, did you hear that?
Good, I’m weighin’ on yah now. Just wait till that boy regains his pen you stop shoving school down his throat and let his poet speak, his purpose on this God’s green earth you won’t allow cause you’re dim in the head and give his parents absolute rights. Just wait till he gets that pen again. Just wait. Nithish will give us the right ideas to parent children, and that is his future fate. That poet is among us now silenced, gagged. You think so? Let’s wait and see.
Harm's End 