The air in the basement archives
tasted of rotted velvet and wet
copper.
A low, wet breathing synchronized
perfectly with the rhythm of your
own pulse.
Skin-bound ledgers bled dark,
viscous oil onto the warped oak
on the floorboards.
The whispers began, raspy
and toothless chanting your
true name from the shadows.
You looked down to find your
own fingers drying, flattering,
and turning into yellowed
parchment.
The emergency exit signs bled
into a deep, sickening crimson
that cast no light.
Something tall, loose- limbed,
and blind crawled upside down
across the ceiling timbers.
Every exit had vanished, replaced
by endless, towering stacks of
blank, waiting tombstones.
Needle-sharp, paper -thin claws
drove deep into your shoulders
from behind.
The entity peeled back your chest
to index your beating heart under
CLASSIFIED!.
A Kingdom Built on Ash and Sin
For eighteen years, I was reared for the blade,
A lamb in a house where the monsters played.
They hid their sins in the floorboard cracks,
And led me home on my own bloody tracks.
A welcome-back trap, a dark, hollow room,
Where chants in the shadows sealed my doom.
They tore open hell and flung me right in,
Trading my flesh for a ledger of sin.
I woke to the cold, completely alone,
Stripped of my youth, my blood, and my bone.
Now they sit high on a mountain of gold
Built on the back of the child they sold.
Then came the husband, a beast of a man,
Who traded my flesh for a new wicked plan.
Deeply in debt to the legions below,
He threw me to hell for a cash-out show.
But the pit gave him nothing; his gamble fell through,
So he fled like a coward when the cold wind blew.
Now a collector from hell has crawled to the light,
Searching for souls in the dead of the night.
The ledgers are empty, the debtors have run,
But the hunt for their blood has only begun.
The demon is tracking the scent of their fear
To seal every fate as the reckoning draws near.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The body keeps its ledgers~
purple ink beneath the skin,
a ledger of missteps and collisions.
Some bloom tender as dusk,
others harden into topography,
maps of what we survived.
They whisper in fading yellows:
here,
you were alive enough to hurt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The body keeps its ledgers~
purple ink beneath the skin,
a ledger of missteps and collisions.
Some bloom tender as dusk,
others harden into topography,
maps of what we survived.
They whisper in fading yellows:
here,
you were alive enough to hurt.
It seems so long ago
is if in days of old
When the locomotive riding the tracks
always had a red caboose at it's back
Inside the cupola the conductor riding high
if any trouble to the train he could instantly spy
As children would wave is the train would ride
the conductor smiled and waved goodbye
The caboose would protect and provide
a shelter place for the crew to abide
A stove for warmth and hot food
lanterns, tools, ledgers and bathroom too
A desk for the conductor, bunks for the crew.
But all good things must come to an end
the caboose was removed on a financial bend
Replace by FRED technology scored
All the crew and caboose not needed anymore.
Just a simple device on the last train cart
allowed railroads caboose and crew to depart
Flashing Rear End Device
the money it saved to railroads was nice
Nostalgia feeling hard to explain
when now a days you see the train
Something is missing it does not look right
without the conductor smiling and waving in height
In his cupola on top of that red caboose
along side the brakeman for sight to boost.
Not bronze for feast days, not for weddings rung,
The Black Bell hangs where margins keep their score;
It learns the names misfiled on every tongue,
And counts the steps that never reach the door.
It speaks in hours when the town looks past,
When ledgers close and mercy takes a seat;
It marks the cost of choices held too fast,
And taps the truth beneath a practiced beat.
Like black sheep set apart to bear the blame,
It carries weight the silver bells refuse;
Not cursed, but chosen for a harder name,
To tell the rule by showing what we lose.
Hear it, and know the measure it reveals:
The bell that names the outcast, yet still heals.
Sometimes you feel like nothing good happens to you—
The Sky withholds its Blue—
Yet unnoticed—Morning passes
Bearing You—
The Orchard does not praise the Bee
That sweetens every Rose—
Nor does the Lamp recount the Dark
It softly overthrows—
You wait for Fortune—like a Guest
Who never learns the Road—
Unknowing—you are Bread and Fire
Along another’s Load—
The World keeps ledgers—bright with Gain—
But Mercy keeps no Score—
It writes its Blessings—silently—
On Doors you never saw before—
So if your Heart feels poorly paid
For all the Good you do—
Remember—God keeps better Books—
And often—Writes down the Good You do--
I learned you first in fragments—
not trust, not fear, but both at once,
a trembling compass spinning
toward the very hands
that taught you how to flinch.
Your heart kept two ledgers—
the one who comforts
and the one who harms—
yet both wore the same face,
spoke the same lullaby.
So love became a fire exit
sealed shut in every dream.
You ran toward safety,
but the path bent back
into the burning room.
I watch you now—
how you brace for impact
even in a gentle voice,
how you search my eyes
for storms I do not carry.
Child of scrambled signals,
you were not born in chaos—
it was given to you
like a map with no north.
But hear this softly:
your nervous system
is not your destiny.
There is a door
no one showed you.
Take my hand—
we will walk slowly.
The past can be rewired;
even shattered patterns
learn new rhythms.
And someday
when someone reaches for you
with honest, steady palms,
your body will not mistake
their warmth for danger.
You will not run.
You will not freeze.
You will simply stay—
and call it home.
He wouldn’t feed — his People —
Though Hunger — made them Pale —
He stored the Grain — in Secret —
And called their Pleas — a Tale —
Ten Million — went to Silence —
Disguised — as Mercy’s Sum —
His Wife — received the Portion —
The Needy — received None —
The Bread — became a Symbol —
Of Justice — left to Spoil —
The Poor — were Ghosts at Supper —
Who labored — for his Toil —
And still — the Wind — remembers —
The Names — the Ledgers — signed —
For Truth — though Starved — is Patient —
It Feeds — the Human Mind —
Business
In singled hour resignations letter documented and also documents retrieve towards poverty's laws
As a poor man's writing ledgers.
#realdonaldtrump #cagovernor #asmirwin #mikeytaylor #repbrownley #tonybiasotti #washingtonpost #nytimes #latimes #aoc
The voice within, a whisper bruised,
Fights the noise the world has used
To carve a man from primal bone
To cage the beast, to leash the lone.
The mind, a mat where wars unfold,
Instincts wild, but nurtured cold.
They tame him not with chains or rods,
But with applause and wooden Gods.
He wears the mask, rehearsed and tight,
Performs by day, forgets by night.
Painted smiles, a jester’s role
Each laugh, a wounded soul.
Temptation hangs like a golden fruit,
But plucked, it tastes of ash and soot.
He dances for a wage, a name,
A line in ledgers, rank and fame.
Rituals rot in daily spin,
A prayer to clocks, a suit for sin.
Validation, the new divine,
Poured like wine to numb decline.
Frustration bubbles, seeks escape,
But lids get screwed in human shape.
No scream escapes the echo’s hold,
The cage is warm, the bars are gold.
A one-way street with silent bends,
From cradle’s cry to coffin ends.
And what shall grace his stone in sleep?
“He lived to please. He died too deep.”
Be leaved
In your redemption
As whole
Leave is unworthy
Of spirit
Usual day
Ends of spittle held
Under nectars perch, hast child as babe
Layed beneath wounds crown?
Neither beckon of blankets coldened ease
Wells, as slavic despondent ledgers
Nor, blathering distinct indemptions buffet
Break winds towards lightnings laughter
Shrinking down now,
With each passing day,
Figures fading,
Slipping away.
Diminishing slowly,
Bit by bit they wane,
Until just,
Numbers remain.
Sitting on pages,
In ledgers and books,
Only a trace remains.
Diminishing,fading,
Almost out of sight,
Reduced to mere digits,
No longer alight.
A Financial Phantom,
Once bold and so clear,
Now just a number,
Devoid of all cheer.
Accounting's faint echo,
A numerical scar,
Vanishing softly,
Quiet and far.
Hallway
Things the upstairs hallway desperately needs to
make her feel like a
hallway include:
jugs of
water with a
hint of
lemon and
sarsaparilla (yuk!), heads of
asparagus, afros, viruses (non-
life-threatening
only), accounting ledgers, human
toenails, frog
farts, TV static, nautical
caps, half
rainbows, a
cat – any breed will
do – meows, stamps (blank), bucket of
courage, two hand size steel
blocks, Ag chemical silver shavings, hair strings (chimp
only), dice x
10, white feathers of
any white-feathered bird, angel
pubic hair (men’s only), Chinese buttons, and
fly eyes.
high spirited historians have had hissy high-jinx over alternative facts
interestingly, instilling intentional intellectual events with integrity intact
juxtaposing jurisprudence juggling judgmental journalism best they can
Keeping knowledge kosher
legalizing ledgers in the land
Sub Categories
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