A forest clearing untouched for decades on private land.
We were there looking at clouds when I first reached out  to take
your hand.
Where all the pure white fathers came from I'll never know.
So wonderous wafting and whirling. They did put on
a show.
Honeysuckle in bloom and sounds of  gurgling stream.
When I look back on it all now it seems like a dream within
a dream.

Near the borders of the St. Lawrence river there are towns that seem frozen in time. Stuck in stillness and silence knee high flowers exploding through the center of main street.
I can still see and smell them,
and that scene is sweet.
So pure and healthy .
Gone are  the poor
same as the wealthy.

Abandoned schools not even boarded up. No cars no  people. No one for miles.
Just me and the sunshine  my guide( a local)  and smiles.
The diverted water still crushing its way through some strange and vast concrete construction  designed  to serve some forgotten purpose. Now just rife for play.
We stay and it makes our day.
Functioning , apparently unmaintained. Like everyone just disappeared except they took everything with them but the crayfish
who now dance and sing.

Nature reclaiming so certain and so fast
making meaningless those things we thought were  "built to last".
The sky bluer than any painting.

A silver fish with boots of brass
Spins riddles through  a looking-glass.
He claimed, "The Queen is just her chair—
She speaks of thrones, but isn’t there ?"

The scarecrows dance with waxen eyes,
Stuffed full of truths and honeyed lies.
He wept, "I’m justice, blind and mute,
And played  "the trial" like those  astute
The moon wore chains of  wishes thread,
Whispering, "Love is always, never dead."
But stars in jars blinked thrice and spoke,
"She sleeps in words and wakes in smoke."

A book with legs ran down the street,
Its pages cursed in ancient bleat:
"Each tale’s a mask you wear too long,
'Til you forget it isn’t wrong."

Then came the wind with courtroom jape
He blew away their paper roots, and mouths agape
Declared, “Allegory’s a thief—
It steals your shape and sells you grief.”

And just like that, the world stood bare
No fish, no Queen, no scented air.
Yet in the dirt, a scribbled note:
"Truth wears costume. Read the wrote."

Derelict  recondite
alone and Hemorrhaging.
nocturnal ebullience,
sporadic . Effulgent ,
Paltry
surreptitiously vacuous and limpid
to deliquesce upon perspicuity at its core
abhorrent , perhaps surreptitious assuredly altogether banal.
Marginal, salacious      nominal not liminal.
decrepit cerebral palimpsest.
Sesquipedalian abstrusity .
Obumbrated syllogism stochastically innervated.  
Berated lugubriously .
Masticated openly opaquely supercilious
mellifluous synergy extirpated redundantly.

In youth,
we're so easily distracted
by the price tag—
the pretty little flowers.
We don't realize.

The mirror.
It really can be.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.

We can't help but look at that plate and think,
Is it really time to throw it away already?
Can we get a few more uses out of it?

The whole thing just feels like a shame.

We see it for what it is.
And it reminds us
of what WE are.

Getting used.
Soiled.
Broken.
Unwanted.

And we can't help but think—
F#@k. We're next.

As we age,
watching ourselves break down,
we stare
at that plate—
thick, rimmed,
meant to last
a little longer
than its cheaper cousins.



Wait—
Is it really time already?
Can’t we rinse it?
Is their a rack to let it dry on ?  
Just once more?
Maybe twice?

It feels like a waste.
We know what it is.
Who or what is the  vessel ?
Used.
Soiled.
Still holding shape.
Still trying.

And suddenly—
we know ourselves,
in it.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.
Some are reliable.
Quietly bending under the weight.
not so much, to impress
as a hope
to endure.

Just used,
you know ?
For a guy who doesn't work a desk job
and never has
another tie
for your  Fng birthday.

So yes. we may sag.
We crease at the edges.
Grow soft in the middle.

And they look at us
like they do that plate...

Is it still good?
Still worth keeping?
Or has it had its time?

How much time  passes?
When or if they ever realize...

God.
We're next.

As the years pull us apart,
we feel it,
the breakdown.
The slow,
uninvited fade
into the background noise
of ineffectual Sunday afternoons.

Unneeded.
Uncelebrated.
Unloved.

some thing has served its purpose
and is now just
....in the way ?

A rare hug
the true currency of a life
he never chose
but never walked out on, either.

(You're welcome.)

He’s watching! He’s loving! He’s got a plan, so grand  as if your third grade backward southern education could ever hope to understand , the will of a being that could create all this .  Your holy water baptism might as well be a fountain full of ****  !
As children choke on gun smoke and  half of Africa starves and dies  its all okay in ole skinny jewish carpenters  six pack abs  and ***** eyes.
Your savior’s been "coming" longer than a choir teacher at camp   oh and he loves his little castrati each and every  little scamp .
But hey, just one more tithe, and he might finally care.  while you toss away grannies saving in a collection plate without  a care  ....  Cry harder, oh sheep! Let your imaginary shepherd scold,
While radicals **** for the ruins of the lies you've all been  sold.
For no god has ever answered, not then not now. Fools for the slaughter dead before your sacred cow.
It was always been men in costumes  with local gold and giant ***** hats atop their  greedy  head. Leading you to alters , brains arot thoughts half dead.

So take your wafer, drink your wine, pretend it makes you whole,
It’s all just theater, child’s play — placebo for  your " soul. "   Kneel, you bootlick prophets of the parking lot revival,
Swallow your shame, chant your blame, worship our denial.
While the world burns bright and brutal under  realities  aflame,
You whimper to the clouds, still  dry ******* your divine guessing game.   build your shrines of ignorance, polish dogma till it gleams,
Filling empty heads with fairy tales and child molesters wet dreams.
You preach of love then vote for hate, mouths full of Bible spit,
Each verse you scream a loaded gun pointed at schools by a hypocrite.

Cry harder,  and long to be the sheep you are,  gather your feathers and heat your tar.
Better yet read an actual book you know there IS  more than just that one.  Or shut your ******* bleeding holes you have been long past ******* done !

Religious sycophants are like flies  on ****.
Sad nasty little things  with no wit .
Flapping and buzzing and jockeying for **** ******* position.
All the while lusting for and denying the inquisition.
They have always been the walking dead among us
brainless shambling automatons making such a fuss.
Hungry for brains  for they find  none in their  churches or synagogues.
Rooting ceaselessly and wallowing in their stupid **** lies
like wild feral hogs.
Barking and yapping and threatening
fighting and *******  like Catholics  like dogs.
And like flies on **** every time you take a break from shooing them away you find more have gathered raving.
Hollow lies and promises of here after.
Truly nothing worth listening to  yet so  , so much to say.
Away , Away Away.
Lest you fools and unquestioning idiots  think you are  welcome  and try to make  a home  or  find a place  to stay.
Go preach please  to the semi trucks  in the middle of the interstate
they need salvation now and truly cannot wait.

a monkey
******
the art of kurt Cobain NOT  the music,  the Quay brothers inspired  paintings.

****** was a painter and pretty good at it too, better than most.
  A ***** perfectly sculpted  to have  the face of Bill Clinton.
Perfectly him.
So disturbing yet not at all.

The ******* ******* fake artist Jackson Pollack , (please don't ******* tell me about innovation. Any idiot can sling paint ). and his lame *** drug addled hillbilly cousin Andy the **** whit Warhol. Complete **** con man. ****  ***** and slime all the way through. Corporate repetition, not even imaginative. Not even original or innovative.
My opinion of art matters about as  much to  me  as mine does to you.;
  The difference is  I know better.
I produce and  I  am    better'
I don't see light and shadow and texture like you.
  I don't interpret  notes measures  tones and chords  like you.
I sculpt.  I compose. I perform.  Do I seem scared or ashamed ?
Why should  I be?

  I don't think and feel like  you,  thank god .
  Yeah, yeah we are all beautiful unique  ****** snow flakes  and all that      horse ****...
but are we?

Ever wonder how beautiful Ed Gein  really was?
A belt of human ******* . I'm assuming female.
Breast and  **** cheeks turned into lampshades. Coverings of chairs and. Bone creations.
Ever hear the one about that poor little girl who her drug abusing alcoholic idiot? Self lobotomized parents didn't want or need her, so they made her live outside. They treated her like a dog and they made her sleep with the dogs they didn't even care. They literally fed her scraps. The fact that this was allowed to happen or did actually happen. When the authorities came. Took her away. She couldn't speak. She didn't want to walk upright. She growled and snarled and sniffed for years. So what is my point?

Is it nature or is it nurture?
Are we all truly unique and beautiful?
Are we all snowflakes?
What if some of  us shine just a little bit brighter than the rest?
Or if some don't shine at all. What if they pull in light like an abyss? What if they are  darkness itself?
When we let the floodgates be completely open. So that we call anything and everything art. Who gets to judge? What does the judgment even mean if it's all just subjective?
How far am I really actually supposed to respect your opinion?
A monkey.
Or two.
******.