TOP TEN POUND-FOR-POUND POETRIES

#1: poetry of man/words slipping through mind fingers/barely a grain's truth
#2: poetry of trees/roots scrabbling into dark earth/tweaking for water
#3: poetry of trucks/rust motherfuckin' rust flakes/rotting metal hulks
#4: poetry of fucks/serotonin memories/blood rushing nether
#5: poetry of death/my dead dad's spirit showed up/playing old records
#6: poetry of work/no time for words, master tasks/enslaving focus
#7: poetry of lies/stifling self with excuses/deny what truth is
#8: poetry of truth/never sitting still, shifting/with each spin of earth
#9: poetry of earth/haha that motherfucker/don't know "poetry"
#10: poetry of man/masturbatory explore/of pretentious self

TOP TEN POUND-FOR-POUND RECURRING CHARACTERS IN THE WORLDS INSIDE MY CAVERNOUS HEART

#1: Nasreddin Shifflett/the Blue Ridge mountain sufi/mystic detritus
#2: am master, I-Self/Lord, two Fs - fighting, fucking/while unfucking earth
#3: GG Rasputin/Alaskan wilderness voice/bearded honestly
#4: infamous Russian/mystic's grandson, tell a path/ist type setting course
#5: Cuervoblanco born/shrunken of spirit, plastic/to his very core
#6: worth less than nothing/regarded as self-madness/yet still he struggles
#7: Molecules Austin/except his first name extends/as four syllables
#8: soccer striker, was/abducted in Congo, but/saved by strange dragon
#9: young Zeta Darger/the greatest wrestler ever/stifled by haters
#10: NEW now earth wrestling/heavy meta parking lot/of carney ethos

Dollygdrazyllika: Part One

It’s nearly impossible to not be conscious of audience when putting words together, since language by organic design is a means of communicating to others. And yet by letting ourselves get polluted by salivations for the fruits of word actions, we impose limitations on our reach, not necessarily in relation to human audience, but more in terms of what our language is reaching for. There is a vast wasted land we ignore when we become too attuned to audience.

That term “wasteland” is commonly enough used within language that it conjures up images of a post-explored world, completely to point of pillage and rape utilized by men, with the carbon-colored dilapidated hulks of abandoned civilization scarring the landscape. But the wasted land I speak of here is an internal wasted land, as vast and expansive as the space above, best exemplified by a clear night sky, with seemingly endless stars stretched out further than our monkey existence has come close to even guessing exists. That same space – unexplored even partially, and full of potentially everything, every Thing, and all of It – sits inside each human, and maybe each animal, and perhaps plants and even on the molecular level. Who is to say? Not me, because I’m only a man, writing humane words, attempting to ignore audience, though being these are humane words, obviously they are strictly for humans being.

Being human is not naturally a complicated procedure, though it is highly complex. The complexity of life is best exemplified in man through the corpus callosum connecting the right and left hemispheres of his walnut brain. A poorly developed corpus callosum, creating a bridge between the two sides of human existence, leaves a human being extreme and unbalanced, and unable to handle complex tasks or mind meanders. A thickly developed corpus callosum, bridging the two hemispheres, gives a more balanced and complex sensory processing organ, and enables complexity of existence. It is said that scientists studying Einstein’s brain found a deeply developed corpus callosum, which supports the theory I just now threw out at you, but also is dependent upon the findings of research scientists, so perhaps questionable information. All too often, they are polluted by their desired audience.

Man, meaning us humans being, tends to break things apart, literally, but also philosophically. We are less attuned to understand the overall complexity of life – the Big Picture, so to speak – than we are at splitting hairs into parts to analyze DNA and put together puzzle pieces we think will one day give us the Big Picture, when in actuality it destroys the Big Picture into fractured shards and spiritual fragments that lose their natural complexity. In other words, man complicates shit immensely, by breaking it apart, making it harder to be a simple human being, much less a complex one.

So that is the wasted land I speak of, that potential of richly explored vast space lying dormant within. Very much like the factory carcasses and fire-stained smokestacks we envision when we think “wasteland” is our existence as women and men walking around, upright, unused, exploited, wasted, scars upon the landscape. That is what it means to be humans being.

External is always reflection of internal, always the complicated senses complicating a complex but simple world. (We are trained to think of “complex” and “complicated” as synonymous, while “simple” is an oppositional word, but simple and complex are on the same dynamic plain whereas complications are an entirely different lower level of existence, which breaks all things – It – into parts, for interchange and exchange and rearrange. Complexity cannot be broken into parts, because it is simply whole.) So many of us immersed sadly into the external world as a reality can see all too clearly how the internal wasteland is reflected in our external structures. From the fire-breathing riverside factory to the simple white pine pallet, the madness and haphazard conditions of our humane geometry is somewhat obvious, if you are able to deny the dopamine triggers dwelling too heavily in the sensory experience causes.

This world we inhabit – externally speaking – becomes a dreary one as it is the sensory reflection of a collective wasted state. We indulge in touch, and then use those hands of the addict to “create” useful tools which further reinforce the complication fallacy that all things – It – is nothing more than parts to be piecemealed together in a limited variety of combinations. We indulge in sight of moving electronic images which further reinforce the complication fallacy by manufacturing “realistic” portrayals of pretend events necessitating complicated robot programs to “create”. The robot programs, built upon the philosophical spirituality of believing in complication fallacy, become an external extension of what we think it is to create. We indulge in listening to sounds to where we take the complicated sounds we make using the robot programs, and allow earbuds to blossom these manufactured sounds directly into our heavenly dome, blocking out the true complex sounds layered infinitely into the background or existence. Essentially, we are damming the simple complexity of all life with our own manufactured complications, all while doubling down on the complication fallacy, and proclaiming this new order of the world as Progress.

“You can’t fight progress,” a wise old curmudgeon of the darkest heart and harsh prejudiced brain once told me. I still consider him wise because despite his closed mind quick to condemn so many swaths of our shared society space, he had somehow navigated existing for many decades, thus had seen many various forks in the life path, and these travels always give our heart valid “sense” even if our closed mind is not open to exhibiting these lessons in our words. And he was right, because to fight the external Progress man claims to build, would be to attach one’s self to that external unnecessary complication, to grab through war the fallacy. One can’t disprove fallacy by beating at it with anger and hatred. Fallacy is just fallacy, and the nature of life is complex enough for one without complicating it into endless pieces, and then demanding that all the other pieces not considered self also agree completely, or at least partially, or at least tolerantly. Tolerating fallacy acknowledges it exists to an extent, so by fighting the wasted land, you get further buried into the wasted land.

Thus, as the external wasted land reflection of collective internal gluts becomes too much to bear, for some souls the personal goal for progress is to beautify the external waste with whatever sensory color they can find to best replicate whatever beautification efforts are going on internally. Not all make those internal efforts, or feel that umbilical tie to creator spirit, a possession of spirit to splash “beauty” by any means necessary upon the waste.

Within the wasted land systems, and ruled by the complication fallacy, are orders called Civilization, ruled by those who benefit the most from the complication fallacy. With these pyramid-shaped schematics of civilized life, the ordered beneficiaries more often than not are ordained with the accepted (meaning commonly taught through cultural education) appearances of “beauty”. Thus, those born outside that benefit, or crushed deeper down on the pyramid structure, have to struggle to create an alternate beauty. A harsh side-effect of the internal/external complication is that just as external reflects internal, we falsely theorize that internal reflects external. So this creates large swaths of humans being who become heavily conflicted with feelings of self-loathing, self-ugly, weighed down by pyramid scheme’s educational enforcement of fallacy, so that we lose our part in the basic and simple beautiful complexity of existence. We feel like we are shit, quite literally within the metaphor of civilization.

If blessed with perseverance of raw spirit, these crushed types will begin to flourish the industrial detritus they are condemned to live amidst with splashes of the internal beauty that somehow still blossoms inside of themselves. But make no mistake – this is no chance “somehow” so much as it’s affirmation of the beautiful complexity of life, that even the ugliest industrial part or piece of the complication fallacy, when properly aligned with universal creator spirit, becomes beautiful, in direct contradiction to the accepted and educated fallacy. In fact – actual fact – this becomes a contra-indication to narrative of the pyramid structure, and simply by being simple and naturally beautiful, these aberrations to the fallacy are actual acts of rebellion. The layered beauty to this type of rebellion, however, is that the rebellious force does not become at war with the pyramid civilization and the fallacies it considers truth. The force is not working counter to the fallacy, fighting it and thus becoming further enmeshed within it, so much as it is simply returning to natural complex intertwining of all – ugly and beauty, together in one, as one.

This is not a complicated process for a person, but it is hard, not as in having a lot of parts necessitating more difficult-to-procure robot programs, but hard as in the act takes strength. And though, being all our humans being, every person has the potential for that strength. But the pyramid crushes downward hard, and the education of our minds attunes us to external senses not internal census, and this all unnecessarily complicates our strength, which again – is simple though complex. Each of us has the strength of the universe within us, at the nuclear power level.

Many times, the chance vagaries of life put packs of us nomadic, socially-inclined humans being into small localities confined by geopolitical magic or actual physical jutting rocks or inconvenient waterways. These become our psychological notion of “home”. Usually, these areas will be defined within accepted power structures in place (current masters of the pyramid schematic) by commonly shared visual representations, historically silken flags of some sort. The practice of utilizing these visual displays as representation of collective self is generally enforced through educational programs offered “freely” by pyramid power structure masters; thus the notion of “home” becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts, and all the various localities all somehow are able to think “we are the best”.

A negative consequence of this effect is when multiple localities with differing psychological representations of self butt up against each other, the conflicting “we are the best” notions often initiate a “we are better than them” conflict. A further consequence of these conflicts is that within each separate tribe, so to speak, minority contrarian thought streams will feel solidarity with outsider groups, and thus be regarded as a threat from within by the pyramid power system. So the pyramid works tirelessly to instill strong sense of self-identification with the master pyramid schematic, all while weeding out dissent, as well as protecting the individual power scheme against threats from neighboring power schemes.

For the purposes of this story being created through language, the particular locality conjured up is known “officially” as Dolyggdrazyllika. It exists without a historically-known (in your “world” as reader, coming from your own self-experience pyramid power structure form of control) flag, and the visual image its inhabitants self-identify to represent “home” is a bird stencil.

Oddly enough, not the shape of the paint left behind, but the stencil itself is regarded as the identifier of Dolyggdrazyllika, so that citizens of this land do not publicly paint the image on buildings or linens or elder trees or stone slabs, but instead cut a stencil and spray paint the image on wood slabs, over and over, to give the stencil itself a layered appearance, according to position in life usually, and then burn the wood in ceremonial fires every thousand days during a holiday called Idol. (More on Idol practices later, should it come up again during the course of this word wander, but the name of the holiday was born from the raw notion of a wholly day – day to be whole – off an acronym for Intercultural Day Of Letgo, known briefly in your world as International Day Of Lounge.)

Higher-ups in the pyramid used gold and silver colors for their stencil layering, as is common amongst most humans being and their power structures, as humans worship shine as a signifier of power. For the support networks just below the tips of the pyramid, often darker earth tones were used – blacks and browns and deep greens, much like the camouflage of modern earth soldiers. The further down the pyramid you got, the more outlandishly bright the stencil coloring, to give dull oppressed lives splashes of hope.

The central character and potential hero/antihero of this story is Cuervoblanco. In many ways, Cuervoblanco seems like myself, but there’s a lot about him I don’t know yet. I would expect that you as reader are expecting me to be the omniscient narrator, who comes into this mutual agreement of writing/reading knowing everything that’s going to happen, having mapped it out in a creation process. Unfortunately, that’s not what this is. I’m no creative. Dollygdrazyllika is an actual world with an actual resident named Cuervoblanco, and actual events are ongoing. For whatever reason, this world has crossed realms with visions which seems to be emanating within my physical existence somehow, but with all the strange human technology related to transmission of stuffs, and with human technology always chasing universal technology (that word feels clunky in relation to the universe though), I would imagine – no pun intended – that the universe is more than able to transmit these visions into my physical being with little control to resist or accept it on my part. In other words, my free will in this mutual agreement of writing/reading is somewhat limited.

My relation to all this is more of a reporter, sharing what details I can uncover through words, although none of it is exactly covered up in the first place, so much as I don’t know about it. Thus, this is an ongoing investigation I am reporting on, and the story may at times lack the strictly chronological narrative standard “stories” you are used to in the conventional writer/reader unspoken agreement. I can’t promise that seamlessness, as the universe doesn’t really give us that, does it?

From what I’ve gathered though, there are points of empathy on my part for Cuervoblanco’s existence. And then on the other hand, I live on the earth we consider real, where Dollygdrazyllika doesn’t technically exist. So I can only be but so empathetic.

It is difficult to share stories as they unfold because I, in telling, and you, in reading, place so much of ourselves into what is being told. We desperately want to be part of the story, to relate, and the loose definition of each word compounded infinitely by all those loose definitions added together into sentences and paragraphs attempting to recreate the existence of Cuervoblanco simultaneously enables us to do just that while complicating telling the actual story as it actually in actual fact happened.

This, of course, doesn’t even take into consideration our real earthly way of believing these types of stories aren’t actually happening, but created, so that the creator can own the world. I can’t own this story of Cuervoblanco and his happenings and struggles in Dollygdrazyllika; I am simply sharing as much as he allows sharing with me. This is his story, and to be honest, I’m not sure how much I am betraying his trust by even relaying these things to you, the reader. Were he to catch wind of this happening, he might be pissed, and cut me off entirely, ending forever the visions being transmitted by the universe into what is considered my physical being.

Nonetheless, Cuervoblanco is the main character as he’s the one relaying the story. The first thing you notice about Cuervoblanco is his face hidden behind a white mask, which he always wears, and plans to die in. This is because of his own immense shame felt internally. The face is what we are most often visually identified as by others, and it also masks the part of the body where brain is concealed, which is where we are educated to believe our sense of self is most deeply shaped. Thus, when psychically hobbled (sometimes even crippled) by internal doubts and struggles against chemical tides of depression, the face – which we also identify as self, through mirrors and photographs and selfies – becomes the representation of our own horrible shame. This is certainly the situation Cuervoblanco is born into the middle of, and from an early age, he took to wearing the all-over mask to conceal anyone else from regarding his face as what was him, for fear of them also seeing the loathing and persistent questioning coming up with poor answers.

To what end? Would he realize happiness and unmask, to reveal his face to the world? If not, and he truly was these awful things his psyche conjured as self-identity, wouldn’t the external world, which is somewhat superficially motivated in Dollygdrazyllika, much like our real earth, just regard his white mask as what Cuervoblanco was, and see that as the horrible, wretched thing associated with his name? What was he truly accomplishing by wearing the mask?

I can’t say, and if he knows, he’s not told me. But the mask was always a part of what he appeared to be. He was careful to have at least three, so that a clean one was available to change into at all times. The first time as a child he was stuck with his lone mask, muddied by normal childhood existence, it filled him with just a touch more self-loathing and doubt, as if his face’s perceived failures was leaking through the mask, sullying even that. So he got a second white mask.

It should be noted he sleeps, eats, baths, exists entirely in this mask, so having the second made sense for those moments when he needed to change it out for a fresh one, to launder the dirty one. But who among us launders all their garments in a timely and perfect manner, even those of us required by our tormented psyche to always wear a white mask? So Cuervoblanco kept a third mask, in case more than one hit the laundry basket for too long. And he’s made it clear to me that he actually possesses four of these masks, with the fourth one never worn, and saved for burial, so that no matter what happens in life, even in those last moments of physical existence, no matter how tortured and bloody, he’ll have a fresh, crisp, pure white mask to be laid out nicely for death.

(The question occurred to me, though, who would change his mask in that moment, and be the one to see his “real” face, if that hidden mass of organic molecules will even be considered his real face after a lifetime of residing behind a white mask. I didn’t dare ask him though, because a struggling man sharing his story with you doesn’t need you questioning the wisdom of his decisions towards getting right again.)

TOP TEN INSTANCES OF RAPPERS MENTIONING BLACK CATS AS CULTURAL SIGNIFIER OF RACISM

#1: infinite theory/answering query, leery/with human eyeball
#2: reading poetry/that doesn't "exist" inside/my cavernous heart
#3: the mind's a flashlight/scanning through dark heart, searching/for creative runes
#4: fuck mind, fuck mined, fuck/mine, anything inside heart/is universal
#5: raw universal/electromagnetics ebb/& flow of spirit
#6: white rocks my black elk/wichasa wakhan, which is/healing feral stones
#7: realtalk: our black cat/called Lounger caught this black snake/whom I freed for life
#8: snake was curled in death/but back at woods, uncurled, flicked/snake tongue, then eased off
#9: directly beneath/where I'd put this snake down in/woods was white quartz piece
#10: I carry it with me/now, universe medicine/black cat black snake style

TOP TEN SIGNATURES IN GOTHIC FUTURISM FONT

#1: R eye exist/in senses-census of "self"/occupying space
#2: alpha arrow pierce/from heaven-dome(head), climbing/penetrating space
#3: V historical/fracture, false peace, planted flags/poison-tilling "place"
#4: sigma energy/evolved past roman, roaming/interior space
#5: N moment, (in) now/physics - movement of charges/concentrating place
#6: math-m(addicts) making/mechanics for (master) E/lectromagnetics
#7: alpha arrow pierce/again, two legs support heart/support shot to space
#8: cee snake biting tail/infinite loop hacked through tricks/indicating chase
#9: king dome, internal/wholly whole-istic quest for/generating space
#10: X claming nation/staking to earth felt, heart rate/instigating race

TOP TEN ARROWS OUT ME FROM IONIC TREATISE STUDIES

#1: molecules (4)/infinity symbol’s X/disallowing life

#2: motor + water/nurturing self-destruction/cultures self-disease

#3: ikonoklast panzer/ISM energy or gone/ISM (organs - gut)

#4: wild style is feral/feral is advanced geo/metric energies

#5: (civil)(is)(nation)/= civilization/= forced orders

#6: (election) born from/electromagnetic charge/insinuating POS

#7: “wild style has no rules”/mosaic pros(e) build POS charge/is against order

#8: order as design/(placement) order as demand/(debasement of wild)

#9: true wild self creates/infinity; order’s/creation destroys

#10: false charging language/de-ionizes “wild" for/(civil)(is)(nation)

TOP TEN PROPHECIES OF DR. WOLFGANG VON BUSHWICKIN THE BARBARIAN MOTHER FUNKY STAY-HIGH DOLLAR BILLSTIR

#1: device scrolling herds/strolling on brown ughs, ear buds/blossoming secrets
#2: masses accessing/inter-nettal infusions/of mixed messages
#3: media "duh"s me/dullard mind drifting aimless/refreshing focus
#4: raw skyward eyeball/dpi measures at ONE/whole motherfucker
#5: holidays galore/for spending dollars but few/wholly days allowed
#6: whole-istically/thinking involves heart & gut/but mind be playin'
#7: "this year Halloween/fell on a weekend" lyric/hints at the mind's tricks
#8: will we ever wake/up & realize civilized/life punches concrete?
#9: we're sensory fiends/unable to unclutch screens/chasing dopamine
#10: tha otha level/of human advancement might/not involve robots

TOP TEN HEART TRUMPS MIND BUT WE WORSHIP MIND I GUESS WTFS

#1: buzz wordy thinkpiece/speaking upon privilege/because that's what's up
#2: pyramid structure/of holistic human has/open mind at top
#3: but closed heart becomes/trump, sealing shut shelter of/interior space
#4: answering hatred/established with hatred learned/supports status quo
#5: even if you are/hating the establishment,/following their lead
#6: revolution porn/fuckboys abound nowadays/with open mind hate
#7: strive to be warrior/of spirit, in tune with rocks/& birds, not books & words
#8: which ain't to suggest/that shit ain't important, but/don't get it twisted
#9: don't get self twisted/up in sense of self-righteous/hate, hating haters
#10: like pecking preachy/ass haiku into robot/machines as hobby

TOP TEN LOST-FOUND IMAGES THAT WILL CHANGE YOUR MIND ABOUT EVERYTHING ON EARTH EXCEPT YOURSELF

#1: "don't read the comments"/says the consensus thinking/due to ignorance
#2: endless constant feed/of relentless nonsense thought/techno-persistence
#3: trained to not click links/to not read all the words to/not listen through buzz
#4: that quiet buzzing/electronic high-pitched scream/buried in background
#5: human eyeballs learn/to scan like robots, dilute/for faster intake
#6: power of language/reduced to psychic triggers/pavlov responses
#7: yesterday, I went/outside, kept walking 'til no/wifi signal bars
#8: U.S. radio/quiet zone outskirts, no cell/signals for my phone
#9: underneath white oak/I heard crows congregated/deeper in the woods
#10: sermon-like chorus/of cacophonic cawwing/said "Raven...listen"

TOP TEN CUSTOMIZED CARS FEATURED IN MY NEW VIDEO "FOREVER SOUTHSIDE VA (REMIX)"

#1: green caprice classic/three tight rims & one donut/window tint bubbling
#2: deric's pontiac/catalina, me driving/acting like it's mine
#3: gunmetal volvo/station wagon, with flat tires/on fire at my mom's
#4: some sort of dirt track/late model race car, blaze orange/with sneering rednecks
#5: old jag (couldn't write/that whole word 'cause how many/syllables is it?)
#6: aforementioned jag/is sparkle green, yet the jag/emblem's now a goat
#7: the goat comes alive/when I stop by the river/beside railroad yard
#8: we both start tagging/idling coal cars with paint sticks/chicken scratch figures
#9: token graffiti/shots, twilight scene, bright light shines/as train approaches
#10: candyflake lime freight/train stops, me & goat climb in/ride off to heaven

TOP TEN SELFIES IN FRONT OF POETRY STACKS SO FUCKIN LITERATE

#1: so many people/so bitter because life ain't/what was promised them
#2: man is an until/the last minute type of beast/putting off undone
#3: when I say "man" you/say "hop" MAN! (muffled silence)/MAN! (booing begins)
#4: (turns out my mic was/just a keyboard; the crowd just/abandoned accounts)
#5: (half my followers/were previous characters/created by me)
#6: (all my sock puppets/matched, same IP, same MO/same ol' song & dance)
#7: (HBO offers/cheap streaming of consciousness/monthly subscriptions)
#8: (curate artifice/through selective consumption/with strong pretension)
#9: (I am an outsider/unscreened & subscriptionless/feeling so alone)
#10: (a more pretentious/author's photo might "sell" more/self-published bullshit)

TOP TEN EBOLA PROTOCOLS FTW

#1: behind the mind is/heart; how sympathetic do/your eyeballs see shit
#2: when you heard something/from another perspective/are you listening?
#3: do you hug nasty/motherfuckers, or double/glove them with acreage?
#4: underneath the heart/is gut - bacterial/congresses meeting
#5: without you "knowing"/they be making decisions/called intuition
#6: science ain't jigsaw/puzzled those pieces wholly/yet, but it's trying
#7: the shit with science/is science be like "I can't/do that, it ain't real"
#8: realtalk: nothing's real/except for every thing/but most of that's fake
#9: as for ebola - /conspiracies give humans/far too much credit
#10: civilization/is not as clever as we/think ourselves to be

2014 Hand-to-Hand Haiku Tournaments

ROJONEKKU HAND-TO-HAND HAIKU NONSENSE. Probably worth nothing there are only two of these officially left for the year - the last Richmond one and then the year-end championship invitational nonsense. Participation has waned at times recently, as has enthusiasm both from others as well as myself. Looking forward to shutting it down for the winter and perhaps coming back with a revamped style next spring. BUT FOR NOW LET'S MAKE THESE LAST TWO EVENTS RAUCOUS AFFAIRS OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE GIBBERISH!

• October 22: Balliceaux, Richmond, VA, 8:00 pm sign-up, 8:30 pm kick-off
• November 8: BON, Charlottesville, VA, 7:00 pm sign-up, 7:30 pm kick-off

PREVIOUS POSTERS PLUS HOW THIS SHIT WORKS IF YOU STILL DON'T KNOW

TOP TEN PROTONS/ELECTRONS ALWAYS CAUSE EXPLOSIONS

#1: experi mental/experiential rental/of this physical
#2: mental broke into/fragments - digital haiku/shards stabbing boredom
#3: boredom with this life/with these routines considered/civilized & right
#4: moralities of/right & wrong - panopticon/pyramid power
#5: judgment from on-high/by uncrushed eyeballs watching/slaves all directions
#6: I-self-slavery/who am lord and master, bro/master destiny
#7: fuck masters, find mates/fuck revolution, let's make/dopamine like dogs
#8: (get it? doggy style)/(wolfie style)(coyote style)/(trickster raven style)
#9: "raven" is "real name"/it's what earth people called me/from the beginning
#10: off-the-grid off-earth/no name necessary, just/pure raw energy

TOP TEN WRITING TIPS FOR NOT WRITING ACTUAL THINGS WHEN WRITING BURIED BEHIND THE SYMPHONIC BUZZ

#1: I always laugh at/"video game culture" as/some shit people write
#2: then again, "culture"/is whatever the fuck us/dumbasses make, right?
#3: low-brow culture still/seems too far aboveground &/"lamestream" amirite?
#4: "hacking collective/known as Anonymous" the/hack journalist wrote
#5: lifehack: machete/lifehack: surround yourself with/motherfuckin' trees
#6: there are no elders/to learn from regarding words/so I sit with trees
#7: not to sound racist/but white oaks are impressive/pine trees are trashy
#8: you see so many/pine scrubs, giving birth to more/pine scrubs - disgusting
#9: sometimes I wish we/would kill all stupid pines &/make paper from them
#10: make something useful/out of them, affordable/notebooks, then I'd write

TOP TEN DELUSIONS ON A DREARY TUESDAY LOST IN THE DREAM THAT IS LIFE

#1: encourage or judge/build or destroy, live or die/thrive or just survive
#2: stifling world chokes me/poking with condescending/condemnation flags
#3: withdrawing inward/as external devices/seem to lack much heart
#4: "heart" and "real" and "art"/and "feel" and "part" and "whole" and/"beginning" and "end"
#5: the end's always near/right behind that, beginning/again, same ol' shit
#6: routine boring wholes/into compartmentalized/wanderings nowhere
#7: can't "know" where, as path/is subjective sensory/dream of delusions
#8: waking up from dream/or doubling down on sleep - this/is our dilemma
#9: technology makes/for the most vivid of dream/states - deep delusions
#10: and still I enter/nets, shaking free here only/to ensnare my self

TOP TEN REASONS TO LISTICLE ORACLE UPON DIGITAL SHARDLETS AGAIN

#1: social media/halogen malls like fasebook/so bright so devoid
#2: IRL, I'd skip/rocks along empty creekspots/so why socialize?
#3: empty personal/website like empty backwoods/creek rippling quiet
#4: Rojonekku Word/Fighting Arts spiriting hearts/unconscious word sharts
#5: these are guess haiku/as typecast "haiku dude" yet/revolt against self
#6: screen tentacles sink/into DNA daily/new family tree
#7: you build or destroy/you do both, but take paycheck/for only latter
#8: number one tip for/self-publishing - fuck the world/it will never care
#9: internet machines/made for trimbeard shinefaces/not dirtbags like me
#10: gentrified deep web/with judgmental minds opened/to exact same page

Shakespeare Greenheart sample

Some of you may or may not know I've been in the middle of a project where I "write" freestyle sonnets, off the top of the head, woven into heroic crowns. They got rhyme scheme like Shakespeare but syllable count like Alexandrine. This is one of them.

#043
Enamel earth-toned security cinderblock
perimeter holds infinite circumference
of existential potential, first born soft rock
head hardened by chance, by luck stuck behind this fence
or that wall, each and all of us seeing the same
sunshine skyline but trapped within our life’s details,
bigger picture baked into background behind name,
behind history, both true earned and false impaled
upon unsuspecting beings birthed upon earth
surface to nervously scratch out salt-wounded lives,
we’re all striving for comfort, for a sense of worth,
sense of self, knowledge of self through bright heights and dives
into darkness, but people’s people, born a hunk
of universal energy, feeling that funk. 

#044
Of universal energy, feeling that funk,
I speak feeling somewhat fake, taking stand in front
of attentive eyes, open ears, where I am punk
ass bitch in my own head, trying to keep it blunt
objectively, beating myself with strong failure
demons dwelling inside; still, I smile and deep breath,
try to loosen them bammas up, search and seizure
of ill negativity ‘til little is left,
enough I can quiet – maybe conquer – in time,
in incremental mental steps taken inside
my own world before emitted as free-born rhyme,
formed and fermented with intention but no pride
because humility is a feudal lesson
learned through osmosis, forced internal impression. 

#045
Learned through osmosis, forced internal impression
of external influences smashed through eyeballs
beaming as baby but fogged out from deception
over time, slow steaming, speed streaming cyber walls
until organic thought’s disrupted with dammed buzz
what which fuzzes the edges of pure grey matter
until black-and-white psychology’s all there was,
at least as you see it since real truth caught scatter
through advertising prisms, panopticon schemes
building pyramid scams on fault line foundations,
painting nightmare existence as red-white-blue dreams
lacking proper bootstrap grasping – shine caucasians
trashing rest of us, stuffed into history’s trunk,
speeding recklessly towards edge like bitch ass punk. 

#046
Speeding recklessly towards edge like bitch ass punk,
chasing compromised dreams shineface pimps done planted
with political smiles – political thoughts thunk
by political classes with upper-handed
grasps at ladders far above my birthright levels,
natural born prisoner class, steady struggling
daily to dance around rules made by these devils
pulling all the levers while both my hands juggling
a hundred broke parts in one thousand directions,
saying I lack drive with my single manpower
while harnessing labor through social conventions,
turning out mental prostitutes born to cower
in dark thought streams due to organized deception,
trying to right myself through written confession. 

#047
Trying to right myself through written confession,
chasing rambling muses that rumble like coal train
through my wide open mind, mothering invention
of tales necessary to escape life so plain
as to pain the soul where spirit’s still desiring
planes higher than physical me ever could reach,
trapped inside existence with synapses firing
magic creative sparks impossible to teach
other than being open to universe’s
flow – unexplainable by science’s process
of order and repetition plus proud curses
against anyone’s faith in believing what’s best
comes to pass without forcing my ways until dead,
embracing the chaos storming throughout my head. 

#048
Embracing the chaos storming throughout my head,
replacing the false safety of benevolent
mystery gods demanding worship of what’s said
in texts’ frozen prophecy, yet irrelevant
to my post-modern breathing; fluid existence
mostly adjusting on the fly as hourglass sands
slip the fuck away quickly despite resistance,
time keeps on dripping between my grasping ass hands
clasped into prayer ritual, more symbolic
than authentic sign of actual faith in things
unseen, unfelt, unknown as I roam and frolic
through my sensory delusions, which always brings
wild-eyed notions of life lived in ways like wildfire,
striving for quality, not quantified desire. 

#049
Striving for quality, not quantified desire,
trying to survive endless sensory onslaught
of advertising brainwash as devils conspire
to consume your raw mind with identities sought
to be purchased with credit maxed out overhead,
far higher than could be paid off in one lifetime,
indebted genetics born deep into the red,
black marks by government name, scarred deep with sublime
precisions, decisions made with little input
by recipient except as necessary
for tacit endorsement of ass receiving foot
from birth, being beaten until cemetery
spots are readied to rest in peace your weary head,
born chasing numbers ‘til that six feet under bed. 

#050
Born chasing numbers ‘til that six feet under bed;
born chasing scriptures ‘til that promised paradise;
born reaching out, ignoring what’s inside the head;
born chasing head well-learned instead of heart real nice;
born using words to bitch, moan, compromise, complain;
born deciphering madness, pretending it ain’t;
born to self-medicate, to masquerade the pain;
born worshipping fallen angels, calling them saint;
born dead, born lost, born bossed, told what to do and when;
born to never question, to accept lessons told;
born domesticated, living inside a pen;
born chasing carrots instead of the stick to hold;
born following distractions until I retire;
try to focus beyond what’s at hand – to aspire. 

#051
Try to focus beyond what’s at hand – to aspire
beyond my external senses’ fences around
real truth – deep universal truth burning like fire,
natural animal yearning to reach new ground
unscratched and salted by poison souls before us,
pointing out the easy paths lacking supreme math,
they built with a crooked square, using damaged truss
and warped pine distorted by warped minds – it’s their wrath
inflicted upon the rest from their oak tree perch
plantation atop the pyramid, all-seeing
eyeball rounding up each direction, while we search
for underground connections, raw humans being
what we are – brothers, sisters, digging at new homes,
conspire with others to build networks like rhizomes. 

#052
Conspire with others to build networks like rhizomes,
bloodstreams like rivers, trading the knowledge we’ve done,
healing depleted livers born from broken homes,
fractured minds slowly pieced back together as one,
meditating hard upon the senseless, trying
to find concentrated truth with which to reclaim
lost half-lives, whole lives spent in avoiding dying,
clutched into protective internal ball, with shame
and pain in abundance, shoulders heavy with stress
carried from before we were even conscious, fight
or flight anxiety, physical escape less
likely than break down, so seek like temples of right
minds, just hearts, to trust and build and sort through your past,
spreading like spiritual crabgrass to outlast. 

#053
Spreading like spiritual crabgrass to outlast
glyphosate plots, to line us straight into low life
crooked existence pre-natal, folks fatal past
up family trees, pruned by the law’s well-honed knife
down to troubled shrub of nothing, shrugging shoulders
search for drink or drugs to self-medicate away
the painful moments alone; but yo – these molders
of folks’ behavior only hold the alpha day,
omega’s still rising, first three, then nine, growing
wherever each one reaches then teaches one-plus,
internal god we trust, thrust fire fists up, showing
our unified blossoms of resistance, no fuss,
just refuse, one re-psyched people wirelessly roams
social engineering, putting fear in hearts/homes. 

#054
Social engineering, putting fear in hearts/homes,
steering clear of heart desires, chasing trick treasures
of the flesh, sensory pleasures, idled mind roams
through devilish courtyards, mass media measures
empty spaces inside to be filled with messes
of nutritionless nothings, endless mental snacks
of celebrity facts, who fucked who congresses
gathering to gossip it back, wheezing mind lacks
deep breaths of fresh thinking, re-evaluation
of what circumstances forced upon us crudely,
re-examine what’s us real and what’s invasion
of outside poisons injected rather shrewdly,
learning to reject it, to nurture thoughts that last,
re-imagining ourselves as forged from what’s passed. 

#055
Re-imagining ourselves as forged from what’s passed,
born from essence written in cursive over hearts
in memorial ink, remembering outcast
black sheep we kept company with through fractured parts
of piecemeal lives, peacing god when meals fill bellies,
but mostly navigating beast’s belly, hungry,
feeling empty in twisted guts, poison berries
everywhere you look where lives lacking money
cluster and fuck themselves, by eating what’s at hand
in abundance – hopelessness and broken dreams lost
to crushing realities most can understand
on personal basis, faces that paid the cost
of being stuck behind secured walls, key and lock,
trying to touch green grass and blue sky while we rock. 

#056
Trying to touch green grass and blue sky while we rock
life like last breaths, good days to die like Crazy Horse,
slitting the snakeman’s throat, escaping chopping block,
stopping not for forked tongue promises – lies, of course,
like always, shinefaces consistently stake claim
to whatever they deem has value, deciding
and deeding, writing and reading their own kind’s name
as most prominent, dominant force presiding
over the course of human history, teaching
English dreams and American scams to the young,
brung up to worship demon overlords, preaching
opiates and submission to ropes from which hung
all our people before, cheap resource human stock,
enamel earth-toned, security cinderblock. 

Heroic Crown #04
Of universal energy, feeling that funk
learned through osmosis, forced internal impression,
speeding recklessly towards edge like bitch ass punk,
trying to right myself through written confession,
embracing the chaos stomping throughout my head,
striving for quality, not quantified desire,
born chasing numbers ‘til that six feet under bed,
try to focus beyond what’s at hand – to aspire –
conspire with others to build networks like rhizomes,
spreading like spiritual crabgrass to outlast
social engineering putting fear in hearts/homes,
re-imagining ourselves as forged from what’s passed,
trying to touch green grass and blue sky while we rock
enamel earth-toned, security cinderblock.