An Ambiguous Personal Truth: Part III

It was September, 

or some other irrelevant month

that one a soul did read his book

and sing her song.

Some even celebrate it.

Such a thing to celebrate,

Nothing worth more stress

and relief.

It is no slave song

or national

or social anthem.

To come all this way for nothing

To Channel these things

only around the world.

Dutiful do and

do two but one know?

What is such a forced question?

No more rhetorical

thrive and


No is such,

No best for last.

No least.

No luck,

No grain but in

a once romantic verse.

Dived for some

coined creature

no mass in this or other hours.

Other thoughts of this


and shining

and neuanced work or

walk and


of known

of the molded

and their

unmolded young

and heavy glows

known lived

always before.

Under what


and partner.

It is no, it is all

and ended

it is only

a thought upon the

hour which could

burn no waste

and could only 


A place I love,

A way I feel

a way a way does feel

in only this attention so 

called miniscule


No lonely no feeling

only spite and the

retribution that is all 


and needed.

To the day it comes,

To the stir of

echoes of a forgotten

repetitive chapter.

Written of right

to be spoken.


and on

  and on.

An Ambiguous Personal Truth: Part II

Yes in Chapters, mad known only at arms length,

A song in the megaphone,

and thought was relevant.

Alright now all lost and blown.

No helpful

or relevant thought.

Ode to such a feeble attempt

at loveable help.

Only the folk saint and statue 

of a literature classic.

Eastward unknown

oxymoronic and

not wasted

despite all that so seems.

What celebration

as so many things return.

Oh it was missed.

Raged and full

and an all time



once thought post and only paid

cruel tribute

by psycho treatment.

There it is blank on purpose

and forced stupid.

So are the thoughts that did bring such ideas



Dare are so the words,

So are the thoughts that did bring such ideas

Only to be wasted

and erased.

By too serious word

of market call and pathetic swindle beacon.

And question beg,

beg in such pathetic notion

Plea such pathetic overture.

Drunken landlords

freedom stolen in its right day.

It is.

It is here and ready

no more to be its old self.

No more to be right,

but ready to be wrong.

This is not a stage,

this is what the real, the time has chosen

and it is only to be regretted

Only such is to be trivial & wasted.




Sleep New Now and Old Relic

Sleep New now

on with another repetitive motion,

another due song.

Another on demand stage.

No home but the heart for the holidays.

No truth to the wasted patience

What deserves this deja vu?

This Brutal question

Forgotten lingo

with music’s new slang.

This word

It is nothing

It is everything

I say yes

I say No

I say there is no point to wasted questions.

Always questions,

but give trust its due,

faith means not blind,

in fact there is logic in faith.

An old talisman, 

and relic,

given its proper

just due stage.