Short Tooled Poems

tooled lives
cyber slaves
lemmings...

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Mundane dimwitted dull full of bull and peda-s/tooled!...

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The mind is a powerful tool. 
Tooled by the soul we use. 

Good or bad the soul we have. 
Is power by our minds. 

Emotions gone mad....

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artificial smarts
are nonliving intellect
with specific goals

just programmed logic
with limited rationale
that cannot shut off

to think abstract thoughts
as the context of content
ai's a tooled toy

an arts-official
engineered dreams for control
...
ai can't grow up


stan sand...

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They escape 
Through a small opening 
On the side of my head 

Liquid skin becoming cellophane 
An accessory to suffocation
Tries to trim the threats
Of an unfurled canvas 

In my pocket
Artauds’ anguish
Stitches together absurd reasoning 
One kiss tooled the empire
Only the smart escape...

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Einstein’s brain was more complicated than any Swiss army knife.
A pathologist took it from his cranium creating its’ ignominious afterlife.
He confined it in a formalin filled Tupperware tub that stunk
then tooled around America with it in his Buick Skylark trunk.


True story; check out the synopsis of the book (I’ve read it) called “Driving Mr. Albert” by Michael Paterniti on Amazon.com....

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The problem of nation is that it's situation is the solution to the nation,
The competition of the economy is under develop
The graved compression is the comprehension decent to the inflation, 
The police have power to liberation but corruption tooled over them,
The government have limitations but have no innovation,
The people declared socialisation but there is no imitation, 
So want can the public do that's my question?, 
The poem is entitled question...

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He was a lonesome cowboy, with boots of fine-tooled hide,
His quarter horse a stallion, his trusty faithful ride,
Each evening when the sunset and the doggies settled down,
He made a pot of coffee and laid his poor head down

He'd think about the morning, the cattle drive so hard, and
How the dust and devil’s heat, would steal his dried up heart,
And if you saw him coming, you’d  know him from the start,
He’d be the lonesome cowboy, laid on coffin’s cart...

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Tooled up, the army chaplain
Is wielding the words of God
Straight in for the kill
With ‘The work of His will’
And ‘He came not with peace but the rod’

The sixth commandment is tricky
A most inconvenient law
For the turn of a cheek
On the battle field bleak
Is far from conducive to war

So, pity the army chaplain
And the conflict that rages within
As the ranks of the dead
Tramp a march through his head
And he murders his conscience with gin

by Gail...

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An awe of cavernous heartbeats
turned her features equine.

Listening to wind-hollowed chests,
she heard the shape of her life,
the blowing of tubular organs
elongating her face,
into sculptured snorts.

I liked her snagged toothiness.
the linkage of her broad scapulars,
deeply tooled and studded,
a back ready to be saddled by labor,
hitched to days of hay and manure.

When she laughed, hooves stomped
into green rubber
a ponytail swinging from her grey mane....

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An awe of cavernous heartbeats
turned her features equine.

Listening to wind-hollowed chests,
she heard the shape of her life,
the blowing of tubular organs
elongating her face,
into sculptured snorts.

I liked her snagged toothiness. 
the linkage of her broad scapulars,
deeply tooled and studded,
a back ready to be saddled by labor,
hitched to days of hay and manure. 

When she laughed, hooves stomped
 into green rubber
a ponytail swinging from her grey mane....

Read More