Medical – – – Man-u-el

Share croppers to lords–

when company preaches,

do you hide?

It may be best to twist their truth,

to misalign, to set-up–fall.

Hidden with microphones, headsets,

cameras, and computers computing the winner

of tic tac toe.

Recording reactions, intentions of sullied laughter from muddy hearts.

Deadened decline to contamination–and “can you limbo lower?”–

to go nose to nose with disrepute?

Lofty responsibility to so-called ‘truth’ brought forth from the mind

where they the stoned the woman–

cowards with buried shame deep inside

where it festers and convulses like beetle juice in

a boiling pot seasoned with snakes and snails and toenails–

clippings, stirred into her un-cried tears,

let that tear your heart

and unblock the art.

Angels who float on ballooned thoughts

guided by essence of ancient wisdom,

call on the bread of life.

He who thirsts, waters not the tears of vocal cries.

Did we all love Orwell’s book? The plot, genius;

the players pawns, the secrets uncovered

to prove her wrong–

and so you looked? You shared? You talked about?

Let’s walk about, inside your mind . . .

some so very poor, have golden coin, and that’s all they know.

Curious can they walk or step in new red-soled shoes,

as if to say look at me I’ve strode ahead.

And yet they do, and some fool us too,

as if to say, they know He’s true

yet distant, too.

Oh silly dog who cannot ask

for kindred under-

standing. There sits, poised

Offerings to He who knows knot

and teaches, like how to untwist the purloined artery

with blockage caused from gold dust

coursing through the vanity of the mind.

Sylvia, friend of no one,

Milk and bead.

And here we sit, shall we drink some wine

and talk about our walk about?

I have moonshine,

and in poverty

am lower than the


vagrants who poured communal water

on frozen bread. And taught the lessons

of survival. Community enfolded

to those who asked.

And ask I did but door stayed closed

and phone rang seldom

in present time

but those who care on flattened screen

reach out with unfelt fingers into

receptive heart.

There is a point,

that even this is not enough.

And sometimes we need coins in our cup.

A woman cannot eat on good intentions

nor get a job without connections.

Minority, you see, to be post side of

middle aged and white and without money.

De-s-crime-in-ate the bitter pill of discontent

in circumstances others invent and now I vomit

up the truth,

the purging of the bile hatred,

and sit in silence, unlikely,

for once the gates grace your admittance

they are ever after open.

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