Crimes of the heart
Crimes in the heart
“Crimini del cuore”
“Crimini nel cuore”
No one sees
No one sentences
Silent crimes
Perpetual
Forever
In sleep
In waking
Killing life
Annihilating
Choked children
Strangled strangers
Protected land of death
No betrayal
No remainders
Tricks of life
Love’s rejection
Death
The final unending protection
Make me man as soon as my youngster
knowingly receives their very last coddle.
The unconditional love curdles from
your loving mother’s teat.
Make it matter despite what you moo to cattle.
Prod the brittle; the previously dilly-dallied say,
“Tagalongs, hogtied stowaway freeloaders with
the trade inside loading and shipping containers.”
Longtime division produced its remainders.
A cove far off the oceans cost.
A cove in a periwinkle sea,
frothing with a bacterial foam
whipping up these sweet
whipped creamed treats
and other delights.
A fondant atop it all
till the klutz ruination
curses cause clusters of
curse wordings together,
finding their bindings.
Shame soaks the rag that wiped away
a distressed and disastrous look upon face.
Words impact with a continuous compound fracture
under the masterful tongue's dismantling of the
peace talks upheld on the other hand.
Leaves are starting to fall to address the mother earth,
While flowers are stacking in tombs with steady increase in warmth
The sounds of chirping birds are the remainders of approaching dawn
As the stars will start to fade uncovering the beauty of daylight
Are the proofs of wonderful day, in summers of mid May.
//
wings,
wings,
wings,
An ongoing black screen,
A blandest morning, ,
,abundunt ///////////blunt & burnt
DAMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
inadequate
, looping And/////////////ripping , In a room, twenty floors up, thriving,
_ to let me in, in a
doll _incorrect mannequins insolvent
remainders
I am a boom, a bloom Buddha, a
simpleton you know , frantic and pretty much done
our manners_____________________
, onto into upto will do somehoww
of too why to anyhoww hey, hey, hey
Clarity, clear of blemishes,
mannequins !!!!!
yes please
the numbness of seasons ,
a blues like you, half , half , a job, Near to sea, is scary
as it can b
wings,
wings,
wings,
The remainders retreated into
the granite chest of the mountain.
Waded through the icy vagueness of life-
Crossing the Siamese catwalk.
Over the opaqueness of death.
Scratched, battered and scarred...
They reached the eternal overlook.
Peering into the great expanse.
Where worthless wars were fought.
For the sake of salt, oil, religion, and land.
To test weaponry that makes glass from the sand.
On plains where babies were born to be orphaned.
Young women ravaged over and over again...
Young men promised robes of satin but given bloody rags.
The remainders sipped from the pond of the asp.
Nibbling the bones of a black lotus sun.
Despite the infinite signs and miracles.
The prophecies and teachings of Holy men.
A million visions from the Shamen.
All but a precious few refused to listen.
To merciful lessons that time had given.
Within the petals of a lavender genesis.
They'd thought only of themselves.
Within the metal veil of Armageddon.
The warring wicked tumbled straight into hell.
We are to attached
Our lives have
many forms.
These are our remainders.
To give our stuff up
it seems to be
to much.
Emotional and
Physical.
Our scars
We hang on until tomorrow.
Memories from yesterday's.
Our things we collect
are are treasures.
And I ask
Can what we hold
in our hands be
the same.
As in our hearts
for people we no
longer see.
Do you follow me?
It just a thing
like a piece of paper
Or clothes?
Who knows
We are to attached
that a fact.
That why we move
on to a smaller space.
It help clean out.
Even though we think
what a waste.
To leave behind.
But it happens to
all of us in good time.
The NY EBS
There is talk of war.
There is rumor and propaganda.
There is concern and worry.
No one wants to die.
No one wants to die,
for no reason at all.
Where is the positive
in that death,
the "heroic" story... ?
There is none, and will never
be any, except the misery, and pain
without gain for any man, or woman... alive.
Commercials on the air,
New York despair,
put your head down, to the ground...
as you hear the pound, pound, pound!
While you are there...
pray for one another,
and before your last breath include
peace among and for ALL!
Duck and cover in the 50s
seems like child's play now.
All the players are all grown up.
They have become big fish too,
in their small freshwater ponds
scattered around the world.
Size matters because a splash felt there,
will be felt here, before the end of days.
No one will escape.
There are no survivors,
only the remainders,
on their knees before God.
Asking not for mercy,
as they know it is far beyond that point,
racking up the number they killed.
Asking instead for grace, in desperation,
before the nations fall to the dogs.
am deep in despair
when we met a billionaire
less could really care
did see night and day
crimes spread out in an array
About sad things say
did see dust like suet
found remainders from a foot
none alive knew it
sad about their sake
as walls of building would shake
up pieces did break
through rubble will toil
weather was hot and would boil
to country are loyal
had been hot in school
we should jump in swimming pool
so we can be cool
some may remember the
long past remainders of old
early twentieth century years
wars and depressions wracked
cultures to the ground and people
shared with poor hungry strangers
most workers were of a manual education
with poor language and academic skills that
reflected a whole society stressed for decades
now times are different rules and regulations
to preserve profitable new consumer social norms
and also the illusion that the early days are over.....
well - stress is still with us - so
canada's one dollar coin -loon symbol- brands it as the 'loonie' andt
the two dollar coin has morphed its name to be the 'twoonie' thus
walking into a store or paying a bill can be seen a loonie toon-ed adventure
stan sand
The momentum of the large-headed human ego....
has finally put mankind over the brink.
There's no coming back.
The clock says 1 second 'til midnight.
The earthworms have shed their glass slippers.
Soon they'll be sliding underground...
Their prince will not follow.
They've been tunneling and stockpiling for decades.
Food- ammunition-water.
The {numerators} elite and their loved ones
have their inner mountain retreat...
On a smaller scale, the (denominators) have followed their lead.
The remainders/the remains/: the poor who couldn't afford to stockpile
and those that could afford to but were too stubborn to listen.
Will be left scrambling above
banding and disbanding
willy-nilly
whatever the moment dictates
frantic
scrounging for rat meat
and toilet paper
during a nuclear winter
666 miles of social distancing,
Fondly remembering when it was only 6 feet
putting balm to nuclear skin
covering open wounds with papyrus.
They'll forge an eleventh commandment
then just as quickly break it.
With mankind's flesh between their teeth
they'll be begging to a God
who finally got sick of it all
and stopped listening-
A day like any other day rings out midnight again
On the muffled peals hammered out loud by bells
Not heard over the thunderous storms performance
Simultaneously taking place outside the madness
The Saint Frankenstein non-denominational church is cursed
As the bells toll their cruel rings heard over the silent screams
Every time a priest jumps from the high tower by coincidence
Which is frequently and no one ever seems to leave a note
Perhaps they were in a hurry or too busy on their mission
There is a mystery about the tower never told
Involving the bells and the mathematics of it all
Regarding one person vs. two and their remainders
How can you have a nun or priest jump from up there
But when you look again there is still a figure in the window?
A book out from the library
Occasionally holds
A paper with a message
Or a list within its folds.
The borrower who left it
May have used it as a mark,
Reminding her whence in the tale
She needs to disembark.
I’m used to such remainders
But today I was surprised
To take note of someone’s writing
In a place that mystified.
On the last page of my writing book
(Which I am now approaching)
There’s an inked-in cell phone number
On my private space encroaching.
Above it are some letters
But they do not spell a name.
Did someone write this in the store
From which this journal came?
Of course, I never noticed it;
The book appeared brand-new
And really, what’s the difference?
There is nothing I can do.
I had the thought, though, what if I
Picked up the phone to dial
That number waiting there? I won’t,
But oh, that makes me smile!
The Bloody Brexit
It should have been so simple
There was a referendum
People voted leave
And Britain should have withdrawn
In an orderly fashion; but no.
The remainders wouldn’t here
Of it and the spectacle become undignified.
One would think the UK didn’t exist
Before the EU it did.
Boris Johnson is an opportunist he is
Not remotely interested either way
He wants power
And the American why of health service
The leavers should not entertain him
But continue their fight to let Britain
Go its own way.
Mathematics used to be called Arithmetic.
I was the last one to know they had renamed it.
I was in sixth grade, and furious when I discovered no one had told me.
Addition. Okay. No problem.
Subtraction. A bit trickier, more of a stretch, but doable.
Multiplication. For some reason, I adored it!
And word problems. Oh ,yes, more please! Loved them.
Division. Not so excited; they took too long and remainders seemed dumb.
Pre-algebra. X plus three equals 5. Okay, that one’s easy but then you
add all those parenthesis and more and more letters, and it gets crazy.
Geometry was a foreign language I simply did not want to ever see again.
I did not understand any of it, and would like to never speak of it again.
Statistics. I had to pass it to graduate with my degree. Just choke me now.
And choke me hard enough that I do not have to do it tomorrow.
I knew I would never use it, and guess what? I never have.
Schubert had a symphony
He didn’t quite complete,
Though the parts he finished writing,
We consider quite a feat.
David Foster Wallace
Left his novel not quite done;
Still, the accolades accorded it
Have piled up, one by one.
Many things have value
Even though they are unfinished.
An artist’s reputation means
Their worth has not diminished.
For projects may be started
But not make it to the end.
We cannot know the message
The remainders did portend.
Perhaps the final passages
Might not have satisfied;
The composer might have tossed them
And committed symphocide.
So we are left critiquing
Works abandoned halfway through.
Might they be much better finished?
We don’t really have a clue.
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