enroll now in "Cinderollo's Passive-Agressive School of CLEANING!!! --wanted one butler and one maid and one maintenance guy and one day-laborer to split 400 dollars a month Plus Tips !!free Coffee!! Arbeiten macht Frei

Can't walk hardly, always in pain
spends all day dreaming, television and laptop screen
dreaming and games she plays
But the worst of it, she thinks is she can't do a thing.

Can't vacuum the carpet, can't wash dishes
Can't clean bathrooms or take garbage to recycling places
Can't change table clothes, can't wire cables
Can't fix door knobs, can't fix ceiling fans
Can't defend republicans
Can't fix a fire, can't turn the house down
Can't pick up cat litter, can't keep house
Can't participate in family exercising
But she thinks I like being dominated
And uses her tongue to keep it fake
While I do all these things for heaven's sake

Whether through reason or domination
She's talked herself into this...
          ...place where...
            it's not true
     
       just that she can do little things
     with the 12-year-old strength she ruled
 by reason and authority all her occupational life
   (and I'm her 12-year-old adopted student)

Except I already learned lots about life.
For one, I don't care for BDS&M.
And most of kindegarten skills is all I need to get by forsooth.
They can hire a maid and butler and be snobs they like, in leaving their work behind.
Work they think justifies mine in double-standard perfection of hypocrisy.

and so with her 12-year old strength she'll look for new student to abuse
rather than making someone wonderful, she'll suck the fun out of work, too.
unless she learns to change her own narrative of this shitty...
                                       "I can't" she keeps under lock and key
to alas, use her 12-year old strength for smaller victories.
And this is the most grown-up thing I have to say about her attitude.

Dysfunction

I saw five chickadees and red-headed woodpecker
In deep winter amongst rays of sunlight, today.
We might not be solar powered, you and me
But I tell, a day without light is a dreary day
Full of gloom, doom, despair.  Like someone shot the dog,
Though that sounds like a good idea anyway, both of them.

The Mr. has gone back to sucking his teeth.
He's still hard of hearing, and plays word games with forked tongue
Saying abusive when he means angry
Saying spy when she means sucker
Saying browbeating when I swear
It's hard living in this perfect family...
    mainly because it isn't real.

We spend most of our time playing videogames
   or games with each other's feeling
Over lice nobody has because we're so worried about appearances as gentlemen.
We have better things to do than nit-pick and worry each-other,
But without fail, we are hardest on our family.
And yes, even our in-laws get in on the action.
Seems... there's a word for it... I can't think of it right now.
With the 'less thans' getting the brunt of it, and 'majors' needing therapy.

One-on-one therapy works, CBT and other patient therapist relationships
I learned with my therapist...
       that I need therapy to better cope with those that need therapists.
Isn't it all so clear as mud?

Humanity Wins Over Understanding

The construction was a derivative
A break-down of elements
Computationally arrived at, as in this case,
Without art...

Maybe though, that is precisely what art is...
Computation by brains in humane beings called homosapiens
As ball is caught by footballer
Or pitch hit by batter.

It is said frameworks are made by Artitechs, there's a neologism for you.
And these Artitechs draw, don't they, making stuff
And making stuff real!?

And when made, the room with a view, isn't any bridge...
So perhaps Architect is a misnomer,
Subjugating me to years of misplaced pains,
Un-needed and unwanted tyranny.
Or perhaps IT was once a new word considered neologism.

Architect is a poetic word
Bringing a sort of romance to liberation, though,
Sheltering us from the many stressors that is life.
Keeps the rain off me, I know, though feeling put upon
Describing to one such as you, the meaning of art

And there is art to such things as titles...
I could name this summation of vexation
I could name this 'It is inevitable'
I could even name it,
    "What could you possible care about a neologism"

But the truth remains, you read it, and you wanted it
to be titled, "If I truly judged you correctly"

Something Found, Something Created

I watch this show that's edgy
Like my therapist's lasting contribution
Both kind of ironic voyeurism
And a sense of wish fulfillment
Because they've both been paid to be my friend
"And if I like it, I might twitter..."
Like some bird about food or sunlight or danger...

The manger-scene holds the arrangement
Estrangement from controversy leaves little but method
Like Freud and his projected daddy issues
Perhaps that's myth, perhaps that's truth...
In Real Life the complicated breaks leaving crumbs
That are then consumed, too, by natures recycling earth and birds
Rather than gossip, whether behind closed doors or public screen.

The manger-scene holds the method
One family, angels, wise-men, and shepherds
All figuring out how to win and what prize they might choose
In a still, and silent night, they got together and networked
They figured, gifted, worked, conversed, and probably ate energy
Like any CPU with ticking silicon chip sipping electricity slowly

And outside boardroom or makerspace or manger-scene,
Enacted by surly bean capricious with dreams,
Plans and methods escape the singular, inform the plural
Indistinct from ingenuity or individualism.. as conceit or invention
Why not? we're mobile unlike some tree made from silicon dioxide
Or doped silicon and fibreglass for that matter on motherboard.

We can be anything we want.  Do it all...
And dream the possible in our dreaming of everything

If Gasoline Lit the Brazier

The painting raised slightly while framed on wall
     I did not notice the frame, the paint
I saw the rarity of the outing
     Out and about in daylit grounds

I wanted to shake the hand, gaze the eye
     Of mankind whom perservered such devotion
I wanted a private meeting over sherry or beer
     With one pivotal person whom's frivolity was definition

We, my smaller family, had a picnic with the small bones, those paintings
     And having the soup made by sous chef
A small miracle happened or perhaps this was just apple sauce
     We had fun, and spent time outside our lives
          As one might spend time 9 feet away from painting...

Curious or fascinated or excited or exacerbated or rewarded
      By some singular artifact enchanted by hand
Never to be used up as long as it was cared for
      Our love is like that, and appreciated by those we spend time with.

And those 9 empty feet of space filled with air and conversation
        Let me reach the nine inches to the turning point
With enough room for me to accept this could maybe work out
        That after confusion, pain, loss... Life goes on...

Life goes on, and good things do happen, there is beauty in the world

Forces to Contend With

Do we awaken and step through said door
Do we weld our entrance and/or fix in past
Is There but one morn that makes all last

There are many turning points, many corners

Even on said morn, there are at least three or four on said door
And in rising, do we then ignore all else
Or perhaps continue on to heaven


These answers and more lie in creation
Many doors of perception
Many morns of awakening
Many painters of memory while pens create history
While swords are left to defend our necks and ledges of living

And when the laughter strikes may at least one cartoon bubble
Leave salt in the wound of tyranny

As song use to leave it deaf

When The News Spins Obstruction of Senses

Sometimes a little piece of me drops
Through into another place and time
Landing in a spot softer, couchier, chair
Where I turn on faux news of doom and gloom.

And there is not the world spinning
But one spinned world convincing of doom
But one spinned world convincing of gloom
Which doesn't fix anything, but frowns upon faces
For gather arounds of one boob tube's programming.

It isn't the end to turn off television
This is the beginning of conversation
It isn't the end to call it a lie
This is recognizing they commercialized
Whenever wasn't it?

With pipedreams and boob-tube feeds
It was the end of civilization on one-way streets
May we circumvent and yet still dream
May we invent and yet still keep all of our hopes alive
For yesterday was programmed

But tomorrow is a dream...
(Futures only ever have been)
Dreamed by you of fantastic possibility,
Of flying machines and miniature computers
Talking watches and 3-d picture shows.
Of test-tube babies and in-vitro creation,
Iteration machines and global communication.
Of digital pizza and high-speed delivery,

The world is made by nothing but dreams, one could argue,
Would you be so kind as to dream a little dream for me?
Would you be so kind as to dream of hope, love, and peace?

Libido of Greed

The adventure spys a couple of peaks, the tool later breaks and digs
Passion meets and stores in keep nearly all the rest of treasured dreams.
Miners plays amongst the mountains, digs in streams.
Storekeep sells the tools and food.
Bankers save progression of nuggets gleaming.
Gambling takes place at the saloon.


While curiosity asks who's getting rich off this pay to play life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Lumber bought, store built.  A tool shed is born of second-hand items.
Gold brought, items shipped.  More business spreading in the spanning bottom.
Maybe glass is bought for display.

While wisdom asks who's getting younger off this endless sitting life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Vault bought, scales weighed.  A combination locks away pleasure's greedy exchange.
Nuggets weighed, guns hired.  More business spreading in the plump stocking.
Maybe corporation is heralded.

While liberty asks who's getting smarter off this deepening stream of life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Tracks laid, labor paid.  An engine dials up the golden and rushing play.
More found, more people around.  More business spreading in the old hat.
Maybe lawmakers swear oaths.


For nothing on this dirt inspires like refelective yellow earth.
Though tin a room with it, and one won't live long.

Row by Row

There's a farmer in all of us... We toil, we serve, we grow up
And want something in return. I want proof!

I don't want to till profits under
I'd like something wonderful...
More than money, more than manure to grow it.
I'd like typewriter to type this.
(and I have it, leaving me wondering... where begins me...)
Anyway there's a life, and I'm truly thankful I'm not one thing....
robot, or machine, or calculator thing

Because there's a little farmer in all of us,
We want paycheck, and privacy to spend it
The proof of work that I did...
And I SEE THIS... (and that)... (and this other thing)...
It's all around, da farm... with harvested field...
And field stubble grows cold, the snow, the rain... sleeping thing.
And low sun brings little light to plateau...

The field of solar power with but plants sleeping
The field of singing, hoeing, rowing, plowing, stowing
The fields of possibility which hold plateau's higher creativity,
Creativity of sorting choices,
Choices of flowing light.
Light of poetry that is and in and of and for... Life.
Perhaps as sprout grows and knows not but intuition and some signals of surrounding environment.

I am the farmer and the sprout.
I am a grower, too.
You are as well.