POEM: COLLEEN A Irish Tale

Rushed in wet wool, mad mud underfoot... Left the house at three, it was dark and I was heart-dipped in honey Courage and other belongings stuffed in an old pillowcase, my mother's swollen eyes and her smothered kisses It is the sickness that is the worse for me, moving always moving I drown in this smell, of vomit and the urine. I am so afraid...I have never been this afraid I tremble and am banged about the broken world outside of me It is always the same

CONSPIRACY THEORIST

There is, a specific type of smugness when someone within a group of like minds calls out the heretic. When group thought has totally permeated the platform, as a bastion of central opposition and knowledge to a world that is seemingly going insane -- a world is unknowable in the end. Too many possibilities. Can I prove that? Without falling into skeptical thought, not really.  Nothing can be proved without a doubt, it is a matter of the evidence collected in favour of what one believes -- or the group believes. We are all capable of that confirmation bias, even those who point out the heretic. Doubt can always be generated, with enough intelligent thought. And so as long as that persists, truth in the fact can never be absolute. And must always remain in doubt, a sort of plastic thing...

POEM: The Convent Burned down last night.

The convent burned down last night. It's end had already started with collapse, in forgotten areas of the building... and waterlogged ceiling, and weakening sections of the roof. Caved to slowed fall. Wallpaper peeled as like old skin -- walls were surrendering to age and the mold. The ghostly revenants that occupied it for the many decades were forced to ascend and reach for heaven's gate. I stepped on careful legs, bearing witness of its dying. Parts gave up, like vital organs surrendering to exhaustion...

POEM: OCCULTED MAN, WAITS.

A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake. Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it, the sun dried up the lake. New green showed it's tender leaves. And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.   Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass. Images from one brief life, onto the next. I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 2

... I have reached a measure of greater understanding of who I am, and am proud of my abilities, the skills and talents I have had to achieve just to remain off the street and not a homeless man. To have taken advantage fully of the many gifts personally, but have not achieved the success in those that I should have had, all those that were given, along with the emotional baggage and emotional immaturity and insecurity and weirdness sometimes that I can be. I am a greater artist even though, condition stopped me from painting. I have made many inroads into music and my guitar and carpentry and working with my hands; my writing of poetry and storytelling which has helped me to develop a way into my own mind and find out where I falter with language. I am an obsessive dictionary reader, always unsure of my use of the language...

White America, Black America, the set-up, and the con

[I have been following Jon Rappoport's individual investigative journalism for well on a decade now if not more. I have both loved and hated what he has written and said in those years. But the thing that remains throughout his work, through all his work, is his stalwart support and encouragement of the individual human. Separate from all things, alone in birth and death, alone when he falls asleep and when he dreams and desires of his life. Today I was moved in his writing beyond anything he has written before and so I reblog his work here in full without edit or any censorship. This is dedicated to the individuals of the world.] by Jon Rappoport June 15, 2020 (To join our email list, click here.) Whether you believe in God the Creator or evolution or something else as the explanation for the human race, progress was meant to involve the individual coming out of the group and staking his claim to a life of his own making, according to his best vision of his greatest thoughts and values. THIS was a struggle of blood and courage and intelligence for many centuries. THIS was the journey out of the caves and the clans and the brutal leaders and the mind control imposed from the top. THIS was where each one of us “came from,” that struggle. And now, through every foul means available, elite controllers want to turn back the clock and take each one of us into the past...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 3

Autism has left me in ruins sometimes emotionally -- many times socially, and yet as the artist, I have soared to the highest ground it has shown me I feel. The risk-taker, the expanded vision, the imagination journey as visuals are my chosen language. The ability to see something so very complex and decipher it and und4erstanding its meaning. Collaboration with other artists has produced works by me but not me solely.  Objets d'art I would not have been able to accomplish alone. I am a gifted painter in my own right, and I say that without any false modesty. Autism has made me quite visual in my learning and expression of myself...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 1

Being autistic is a highly volatile condition to be involved with as a human -- of course involved would intend one's participation, willingly, intentionally. That is both wrong and right. I have no choice really in the matter. I am autistic, it is me. But then again I know who I am.   Autism is difficult to describe from a personal point of view. From that deeply personal point of view. Some days its world ending and others it is magic; an affliction sometimes, a life-long confrontation with reality -- and if asked I would prefer not to have it -- and yet again, I absolutely cannot see myself in any other way, and being autistic and different is something I would miss if I was neuro-typical (whatever that terrible term means). I believe it has something to do with linear thinking. Convergent as opposed to divergent in the thinking process. Study shows a threatened and shortened lifespan in most cases for those with autism -- ASD, Asperger's. That is a considerably shortened lifespan. And what I mean by that is, that the high functioning autistic adult is averaged at a lifespan of about 54 years old, forty years old if that autistic is unable to speak or communicate...

Poem: BREAKER BOY

by Michael Burns The newsies and the match girls, and the breakerboys in back. They toiled away their little lives to keep their mamma's happy. Six days a week they left their youth inside the warmth you purchased, and easy reads from newsie feeds that salted your accounts...

What do you think AI is all about?

Individual spirit -- they just don't get it. You speak about spirit as the real self, and you get that look from them that you get from your dog when your playing an harmonica. Spirit is about freedom, and freedom is not outside, I find it is inside me. And I have no idea why I keep forgetting that. Oh yeah... stimulus-response. And so the question came up the other day, from my friend Jon Rappoport. It was based around freedom and the loss of it. Now, I must say Jon is an excellent fellow and after reading him for decade or so, I am convinced now that I am not crazy, that the world that we live is a manufactured reality, that there is a massive industry that 24 hours a day, 365 days a year toils to came our minds enslaved...