Touch -me-not plant, Oh , touch -me-not plant, Who gives you such sensitive power?, Luckily you are escaped from the plougher, My grandma used you as a herbal, And your value cannot be conveyed in verbal.
To hold is to lay open the chest to cold air
two heartbeats learning their names without language.
Before the first word, a body read another.
The dance was always the hold.
Two spines disagree gently, without letting go.
Arms know what hands don't.
The angle of your shoulder: a measurement I carry.
Distance is not safety,
only loneliness given a cold name.
Winter morning, frost on glass:
I trace where your hand once was.
Grief, an embrace with nowhere left to open.
Gravity is want.
Mass draws all other mass near
not compulsion, but the oldest fact of things:
that to have weight is to matter to the world.
The moon tends toward the tide.
This is different from having no choice.
Some bodies have learned to be afraid of opening.
This does not make the opening wrong.
It makes the learning necessary first.
Your shoulder, at last
not a sound that can be named,
all the weight, set down
in the one place that knows how to hold it.
The arms don't say it.
They do it again.
This is the oldest language
the one that was already speaking
before we knew we had begun.
Some never find wrongdoing
in one of their own
no matter the proof shown
or how many whistles are blown
they circle the wagons close ranks
deny any and all culpability
then compound the issue
by defending duplicity with verbal hostility
but Detective Inspector Quasimodo
could solve a crime before lunch
he'd secure the scene collect clues examine the evidence
and would bust the culprit just on a hunch
Spreading like covid
your words it infects
Through vowels into consonants
each phrase it subjects
No drug can divert
fated spores on the wind
Arriving like locusts
attacking within
The Muse has been stricken
her voice it impales
While spreading to others
each time you exhale
The body count deepens
your messaging damned
No cure in the offing
— dead silence at hand
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
Codified Law Verbal Allowance
Apartment owners defrauded address
Have had this happen by treasury notes titled homeless and homelessness and other synonyms and iterative advertising.
Homelessness Fraud and Corruption Task Force itself is a possible fraud board of trustees in time?
In actuality legislation passed deed in correction of surplus backlog for economic equality
No smiles no spends.
Above acquisition and mergers possibilities is appropriations committee in the Senate
Tip element constraint in finance
Speculation.
Return efficiency in manufacturing equals profitable research allowance of investment thoughts, free thoughts only.
Ownership of rights is not a liberty in market Theory.
As one pays in full for a plot of land with structure, one remains bound to commodity exchange indexes.
Real estate developer is labor construction.
Attempt at extraction in labor market creates decline in structural integrity of note in treasury calculation. Tracking the market.
Reconstructionism
#cagovernor #realdonaldtrump #mayorofla #asmirwin #mikeytaylor #repbrownley #tonybiasotti #latimes #nytimes #aoc
Zombie neo Nazi propaganda legislation lobby robbers
Male female test tube coordinated
Suv strike force highway rodeo champs
Take Italy girl long time
To get Kevin to look at it
Im Irish army military Science
I can't see weakness cowardice hiding spot thing thought
It feels like a lock
Click
slamming shut on a door I used to walk through without thinking.
Words
they pile up inside me.
Not gone.
Not lost.
Just trapped.
Like a river swelling against a dam that will not break.
My mouth is stone.
My body heavy.
And every attempt to speak is like running in a dream:
legs sinking,
distance endless,
the finish line always just out of reach.
Inside, I am screaming.
Inside, I am whispering.
Inside, I am still me.
But you can’t hear me.
Because the silence is thick.
Not empty, no.
Thick with frustration,
thick with shame,
thick with the ache
of wanting
so desperately wanting to be understood
without having to explain.
So don’t rush me.
Don’t push me.
Stay.
Wait with me
in the quiet.
Because this silence
is not absence.
It is survival.
It is my body saying:
enough.
And when I return
when my voice crawls back
know this:
I was never gone.
I was always here.
Behind the glass.
Behind the lock.
Still me.
Always me.
It only takes one
as words rise together
It only takes one
new phrases release
It only takes one
to carve out a memory
It only takes one
— your words in relief
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
You were always so good
At hiding yourself in the dark
I tried and I tried
To throw you out
Of the furthest
recesses of my mind
And somehow
you are still there
Embedded in
the deepest crevices
of my brain
Where I couldn't see you
Lurking there
in the blackness
For thirty years
Waiting ...
for one of those days
When I'm down and out
So you can kick her
When she's already on the ground
Fighting ...
to get back on her feet
Knees buckling
Remembering how
to stand again
One day at a time
Before taking my first steps
Recalling well enough
How to believe
How to smile
How to run
From the darkness
And away into the sun
Where you can't hide from me
Where light and heat
Disintegrates you to dust
Revealing all
That you are and were
Until there is nothing
left of you
To blow on the wind
… Out of sight
Out of mind ...
One day at a time.
Thomas Hobson (1544 –1631)
in 19th century late
a Cambridge ostler and postal carrier
set his priorities straight
he owned a livery stable
of 40 Hackney horses or more
plus boots bridles and whips
and put the horse the cart before
after the animal left the barn
by bolting fast the door
and as precautionary balm
the nag nearest the stable gate
the worn-out equine storm to calm
was the firm rule he did make
this one or none in the stall
was that which customers had to take
or do with no ride at all
but for the paying equestrians
either way they win or lose
as there was no choice but accept or reject
for any of them to choose
Boneless tongue
Breaking heart
Like a drum
Beating starts
Curses curled
Painting pain
Verses hurled
All in vain
Name calling
Verbs abused
Heart falling
Words used
Start with N
End with grin
Worse shaming
To offend
Soul of gold
Blackened skin
Be so bold
To defend
Words absurd
Can’t break in
God’s true herd
Despite sin
I speak
aloud
I pause
my voice echos
I speak again
who listens
my voice
rebounds back
it boomerangs
just a sound
but
my voice
identifies me
Did you go
to the gym
the Poet asked
Or just write
weakened
the verse untasked
The vowels and
consonants
stay unflexed
With words
atrophic
— their muscles vexed
(The New Room: December, 2024)
Verbal Pollution
Miracle Man
9/26/2024
Words caused by dementia
just seem to pollute the air.
Before I do my health journal
I generally just don’t care.
This daily noise pollution
seldom induces my cheer.
Listening to verbal pollution
is causing me to feel drear.
Most mornings I’m greeted
by this non stop chatter.
It finds my bare feet
wanting to go pitter patter.
Most times I don’t enjoy
what I’m being forced to hear.
But because she can’t help it
I willingly lend my ear.
I am my mother’s verbal punching bag.
When she has a bad day, I pay the price.
I can’t stop her daily verbal attack,
Because nothing I do will e’er suffice.
The things she says are unforgivable;
Her insults are like acid on my hands.
Her kind comments have always been minimal,
But what else would you expect from my mom?
I pick at my fingers to help me cope,
And oftentimes, even that makes her annoyed.
So, for the sake of my skin, I hope
She’ll be a person I can fully avoid.
Her verbal abuse is shown through my fingers,
Through the dried blood and dull pain that lingers.
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