Long Statistically Poems
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She really wanted to see a ghost…ecstatically excited.
She heard this place had plenty, and a spooky atmosphere.
She’d have to pinch herself, ready to cheer…elated.
She’d spend a romantic weekend there with a freaking-out spouse.
He’s a scaredy-cat! He rarely finds anything funny!
He stutters. He’s bony. Of course she fibbed to him.
A mansion on the cliffs, buried behind briars and thorns.
You could hear the roar of the tide, far below, over the rocks.
Bitter thunder and lightning— oh Angela’s freaking stunned.
Couldn’t ask for a nicer day - husband’s a shivering bag of bones.
The thick, heavy door, with unrelenting ‘turn on back,’ opens
nonetheless. Angela prods and pulls her Jack, into the lair,
as the door closes and bolts. He’s crying like a baby, inside.
The romantic getaway’s bleek and dark, except for candelabra
here and there, in this statistically bad idea. Angela just knows
she’ll get a look-see at the afterlife - a welcoming sight.
Jack be nimble…Jack be quick…Jack wants to jump
over the candlestick and hit the bricks. Without a boo,
she tries to resurrect a ghost or two. “C’mon out! I’m
raring to see you. Don’t play hide’n seek. Show yourself.”
She’s so giddy with no care about her scared to death spouse.
Angela laughs as wisps of smoke take form, as snowy cotton
shifts, as the familiar “oohs” and “boos” uplift. Terrified Jack’s
in no laughing mood. He hides himself in the corners of the room.
Suddenly it gets very cold, and a very bold ghost has a hold
on a candelabra, shines over the face of Jack, “Don’t you worry,
son, this will make you crack a smile,” surprisingly reassuring.
The ghost grins, as he spins touché over to Angela, “Is this
all you were hoping for?” He bellows with his mighty flue,
turns gray-green, skeletal too, eyes out of sockets. Flames
of the candelabra catch her curls and girly-mustache too.
From the corner, a full-throttle laughter emerges from Jack
as Angela is laid out on her back. The specter adds a pillow
and a gravestone to the act. The ghost ribs Jack,
“I rather like your bones, son. Let’s see you rattle and roll.”
Welcomed out the door, Jack leaves without a wife.
10/13/2021
Chantelle Cooke’s Ghost Lace Contest
the list that was a fist
a) it is possible
b) it is inevitable
chained to a million pleasures
an astonishing compendium of compulsions
honed bright with a fool's ardor
the kind you'd wish for in a movie script
undulating at the tar pits of amor
the land rich with autographs
bruised and humiliated reciting the alphabet
backwards on the curb with Officer *****
a limited perspective but not without its ironies
blazing trails to metabolic equilibrium
using every crutch and cane there is
to seek out and embrace ignorance
in a fanciful play of medieval shadows
colliding with the grace of mosh pit elbows
and that pretty much nails it
the rest is a problem of amplification
if looking can blind you I'm blind
he seems to have a button gone missing
ripe to the skies with the stink of deduction
hell was upon us and none grieved
in statistically relevant numbers
apparently they had finally reached
the bottom of the barrel
we still wage war upon feudalism
good advice for any century or cemetery
touch something holy once in a while
and mighty Thor will wing above
ah sure right uh huh you bet
needing humor the wires tried to sing
the blades of the switch bit the anode
all is broadcast everywhere right now
on all the boogie woogie coordinates
how's that for karmic indifference
some curse some utter gratitude
may the good fairy console you
and turn the illusion of warmth
up a little higher
since it hasn't yet been made a crime
to destroy your own mind
until the foundations of the world
thunder and come apart like cooked meat
but working on the problem
is better than nothing
even if you really don't know
all that you think you know
even if hideously scarred in battle
a terra cotta bust hot from the oven
smelling of sulfur and bruises
tempted by radiance and music and poetry
which could get you jailed tonight
so pretend you have wide angle vision
under a curse with an escape clause
in varying pedantic proportions
for another illegal exit
from Average and its Law
played to hI fives all around
kindling fires of rebellion
the Metaphor League saw to it
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee
Spiritual mathematics
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis
Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?
O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps —
Udders on an impudent heifer mother
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction
Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?
O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?
Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces
As the integer worms of digital reproach
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces
Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory
O Magog,
the war dogs of death
howl oppressively for thee
Thy merchant ghost ships
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage
washes upon
thy polluted Gog shores continually
O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?
Which of thy mariner children
shall read
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?
Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed
O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog —
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
As I age
the formerly wide chasm between ecstasy and despair
grows narrower,
deeper.
I had not thought this an attribute of maturation,
quite the contrary,
but perhaps an aging crevice,
a thinning fracture
between played-out manic bliss, over-extended harvest,
and depression
nondually faces two extremes
of positive major chords and keys
with negative minor tensions
searching for each other out and in,
become too vocal, focal
looking for tacit evidence
apposition yet lives
on another side
of this darkening
enlightening
divide.
Dr. Jeckyll's confluence
redeeming Mr. Hyde's dissonance
double-binding midway balance
now become a treacherously tight rope
tensioned for resonance and buoyant bounty,
just short of snapping side against side.
Perhaps wisdom is learning how to equitably co-invest
in both wonder and shock,
without becoming paralyzed in-between these boundless awes,
deep wavering yes and please not yet,
not yet,
carving a gorge
deep echoing sacred reverence
and secular irrelevance,
ecstasy with ridiculing despair,
boundless sufficiency without endless satisfaction,
reiterating eternal integrity
not yet surely promised
beyond potential disintegration.
If solitude portends sublime co-operation,
what remains for aching loneliness?
Who and what could become redeemed
through double-binding isolations
within voiceless awe
for wonder indwelling silent shock
of ego loss
deep shadowing eco-gain?
To win to lose,
to lose to win,
co-arising deceptions again.
Deeply resonant depressions;
subliminal,
suboptimizing ego dominations.
Two delineations
with hairline fracturing co-definition?
What would be blissful contentment's promise
without any dissonant content
for comparison?
What are omnipotent spirits
without ego vacuuming materials,
evidence of necessary,
hopefully sufficient,
deep double-binding awe
that we,
even I within we,
have been something,
someone,
someone's,
rather than the far more statistically likely
nothing at all
evermore.
Newtonian physics say what goes up must come down
sorry not in the camp of horn tootin, high falutin clowns
justice serves only to rebuke you, not too astute of you
when youre bragging of genetics, a sword in the mouth can cut the lips
can gag you with double edged aplologetics
better watch out for backlash from observant critics,
self righteous attitudes, lukewarm civics
we can't bear the fruition of more bad fruit,
from bad apples with thin skins poisoning the youth
practice what you preach? ever hear of reciprocity for frontal lobotomy, lasiks surgery for radiocarotot omy
making things resentful what you tryin to prove? separation or hostility? Uncle Toms? up the Auntie, you are betting against the youth. Your blind vision seeing the world anew?
Now I know there's 31 flavors so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap
make people suck on your cone of invincibility
bet it makes the taste of vanilla? A fetish treat, out of spite when all races got some fine honeys, and miss or Mrs BUTTERSWORTH mm hmm, you statistically will leave.
Leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality. The grapes of wrath's depression made it's impression on all the people, so rinse your mouth, spit, repeat. Don't get drunk on your High C.
Too much high flying, smack talking, mainlining cult of gangsta personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
No one is shocked a person of darker pigment can pass a football or do anything they set out to dream with heart in hard work. I think you better stick with a spork, instead of hotknifing that herb, rubbing that lambp of piper sheeptoslaughter jerk.
Catch more bees with honey, plus you can use that plastic spoon to dig your way out of the backstabbery,
but Hollywood Idols love their trophys
especially silver spooned ones, Campbell's Chunky for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle,
Golden icons on the silver screen.
Do you know the concern?
"S/he knows just enough
about a through z
to be dangerous."
I am uncomfortably familiar
with this analysis,
a weapon often wielded
from ivory towers
overly influenced by ideology
masquerading as theory
rooted in statistically measured experience,
severed from historical-cultural,
biological-neurological indigenous context.
Even so,
one feeling I am sure of
my own too robust expertise
is Intolerance.
And, now I am discovering
I have chosen to join a community
with a multicultural intention
to embrace,
or at least tolerate,
all souls,
all species,
all living systems
except those deemed too intolerant,
too wounded,
for multicultural health
as a resonant indicator
of economic and political wealth.
We are exclusively intolerant
of intolerance
because we would provide safe sanctuary
to all souls,
especially victims of monoculturing intolerance,
of win/lose economic and political supremacy,
strategy
gamesmanship.
I find a tension here
between unconditional love
and lacking sufficient curiosity
and courage
to discuss shared values
and disvalues
with those too defensive
too hurt
too lost
too conservative
to tolerate intolerably ***** me,
to tolerate the alien Other.
This reactionary intolerance
of intolerant prejudice
bigotry
often straight white male supremacy,
feels like further breeding ground
for misunderstanding,
segregation,
mutual divestment business as usual,
more win/lose devolutionary anger and fear,
more potential violence,
hate,
war
More egocentric privilege
rather than universal ecosystemic love power
Actively hoping to cooperatively uncover win/win
polycultural resolutions
resiliently curious
and courageous
when in the presence of win/lose competitions
intolerant of active hope
for restoring peace
by retiring retributively inflicted punishment
shunning
non-communication
anti-communion
for past sins of intolerance.
If I were a guy
I’d actually enjoy wearing a suit and tie,
I wouldn’t feel uneasy about walking down a late night city street
And high heels would become obsolete,
I’d sleep an extra hour every day, never worrying about running late
For id have no more makeup and hair to prepare when I had to wake
I’d be pleasant four weeks out of the month instead of just two
With No more cramps and mood swings to attend too
Id saves money on tampons, Midol and all the many types of underwear
It would be lovely to take off my shirt on a beach and have no one care
I’d adore my mate, basically worship her, while being extremely nice
For I no longer would have to worry about births physical price
If I gained a few pounds I sure wouldn’t mind
Plenty of overweight men have women who are mighty fine
Statistically speaking I’d have a better chance at making more money
Even if I was an egotistically dummy
I would get to stand up when I pee
This would come in handy constantly!
No more worrying about a lack of tissues or dirty toilet seats,
I’d give my Sergeant a little shake with no concerns about a leak
Let’s not forget all the hours spent on shaving
That would be another time consuming cost in which id be saving
My friends would not complain wine and gossip constantly
If a fight broke out id forgive them and we would all just let it be
Going camping and fishing would be easier for grooming would be so simple
I wouldn’t freak out if I had a sudden pimple
Plastic surgery would not be a thought that ever ran through my mind
For the older a man gets the sexier and more refined
Wrinkles and gray hair makes him look sophisticated
Women see these features and become completely jaded
I'd rarely have to be bothered with perverts at any store,
The simplicity of my beautiful life I would be thankful for.
P.S However, I Love being a woman...
God is a effing sadist, they are not the love, nor the truth or nor the light.
God is a cursed, twisted, cruel and uncaring being, as they watched it happen and have not stopped it.
Some days rain is too much, as I listen to echoes of memories of my children's destruction.
I am left with memories scattered in the night sky as stars blinking, coming to the surface and disappearing fast. Each scream tears me to shreds.
Little hands tie the colorful ribbons to the loud fence, still broken by the sins of their father.
They say that the body keeps the score,
There are 4 bodies who keep the score and not one of you gives a .
Little girl curls mortified against the wall screaming “DDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Little mouth screams not wanting to die, as they see ghosts.
Little girl reenacts everything, keeping secrets.
Little girl arranges toy animals into explicit positions.
Little girl gets frozen, unable to move, speak or react, body is just a shell.
Little girl forgot how to get dressed.
Little girl is scared of windows.
Little girl asks how that the house has shrunk and how that she is so tall.
Little girl soils herself.
Little girl vomits in fear.
Little girl cuts herself and calmly, without uttering a sound watches the blood drip.
I hold a little girl who is trying to grab the knife to end it all, no one gives a damn.
“I am sorry statistically 8 year olds do not kill themselves” says voice on the end of line.
There is a mortified 4 year old in a 10 year olds body.
There is a mortified 4 year old in an 8 year olds body.
Little girls tell their secrets to their wolves.
GOD IS EFFING SADIST
and the rest of you just conveniently sweep it under the carpet as it is not comfortable to see.
1 in ing 4!!
7/12/02
A Modern gangster’s life isn’t always strapping a tech nine.
Or a drug deal gone bad, sometimes you gotta walk the straight and narrow.
Walk a thin line.
It’s the lyrics, words of the heart, livin life where you come from
is the start.
Fancy cars, the bling, bling, girls wit lotta back natures been good to them, nothing do
they lack.
It’s part of what livin in the ghetto brings, chillin in the street
That’s bout what the life a modern gangster sings.
Thirteen years shiftin through life to greet, thank God Almighty for survival tactics
happy to see sixteen.
Lord knows college is where me and my homey’s should meet.
Never understood the old fashion way, and I still don’t today.
Thank you momma for takin me to church to learn the word, and how to pray.
Had to, couldn’t get away.
A modern gangster life is where you’re reborn, grow up fast now my child is conceived, and
I’m half way torn.
I never wanted to know what goes on outside the hood, not thinking bout my future like I
know I should.
Every night pray to God, bout this tragedy, this mishap but statistically society won’t
believe in me.
The one thing I’m sure of and I know I will, raise my shortie and continue to pay my bills.
Look for closure and someday move out the hood with my modern gangster mentally corrupting
me still.
I’ll stay a modern gangster cause of where I breathed and lived, cause I love where I’m
from and I want to give, back to the foundation where I could’ve continued live. Sharin
the love plastered in my heart deeply for my life and my homey’s to divide.
Won’t stop now that I’m on my way, will continue with my debt
For a modern gangster’s life is where I’ll neva stray.
Take all the way to death and took that car to the West to that car, all the way to the ing best place in the world and that was the bar where they got ing blessed with a beer. Two beers, three beers, four beers, and tequila, and they drove home drunk.
And they were feeling fine and they survived. All right, But they were black ass drunk when they got into a fight with their ing selves. You know when they hit, Bad. They were hot as hell. Anyway, that wasn't two boys. I was a boy and a girl. That wasn't too girls.
That was a boy and a girl you thought it was the point of girl world and boy. Boy girl boy boy girl world ing you know whatever toy whatever toyed with Whatever is foiled with and soy, we ing trust and soy. Plants is a must. There must be some sort of Kevlar.
He has a bulletproof uh beans. I think you put that beans in here and you ing come clean. The tanks, the bulletproof vest fall off my chest, slice the chest. Need to hear. No there. And either here, or there live before you cast out for your cast. Found welfare town.
Welfare, rapping like that. You come rap, rap rap share. Hahaha, I call that . She didn't ing want dick. She wanted him. Uh, get used to it.
Now, that has got it ing hard and it. And that was probably all it does. For her entire life.
Some es are like, Good. , in my opinion. I thought it was a brilliantly, statistically good book, but it was only 15-20 minutes. But we ed the entire time. And it didn't even come out and didn't come out for good.
Well, you know, two people, they get close enough to each other. Their clothes come off in this short ing before they even know it. Sure. Yeah, so true. What do you know that?