Sunday morning

Misread

like diamonds from Chinatown
flooding in rivers of despair

Sunday Morning

A glimpse of light
I feel life
Heed a warning
Before moving on

Was it with merit
or foreboding
in a mythological
way?

Wise old crone
the Hermit
High Priestess
share this cup

It’s a glorious
sabbath
if marine layer’s
your thing

A day to take
stock
Pay heed to
ominous warning

Without playing
with
dire threat
Not just yet

Through the long
lens of time
ashes strewn
so much dust

Disappeared
the day you
went away
Never stay

The pain
just won’t
Go away
Give you up

Your guilt
such a snitch
Your brain
*secret weapon *

of mass
instruction
play-by-play
compunction

a way
to go on
knowing
the truth

The language is designed to be Simple, Small, Flexible and Fast.

Bretton Woods was a highly politicized system that was prone to crisis and required constant intervention and controls to continue functioning.

More importantly*, postwar monetary relations were not a salve to political tensions, as is often contended. In fact, the politicization of the global payments system allowed nations to use monetary coercion to achieve political and security ends, causing deep conflicts within the Western Alliance.

For the first time, Gavin reveals how these rifts dramatically affected U.S. political and military strategy during a dangerous period of the Cold War.”

Topics to be discussed this week

The constituents

The audience

The rest

Love never fails
Rejoice with the truth

Birth parents

Today is my 54th birthday. On this day, a Friday in 1965, my mother gave birth to me, the records say, at the Cleveland Clinic in the holy hour (3-4 a.m.).

She was 16, my birth father, 17.

From what I could tell from the “non-identifying” information I was charged $50 for when I was 23,

Seemingly, I had more in common with my father. Height, basketball, class president, a penchant for trains. My mother, who sacrificed a semester to deal with me, was fond of camping and played a musical instrument.

The Children Services letterhead, since the Red Feather agency (I think that was the name) had long since disbanded adding yet another level of erasure to my already amorphous existential origin- the letterhead and contents of this letter are all I have of my heritage, my genealogy, my DNA. Who you would say I am.

Always watched but never seen

Records of our days, cataloged with no sentiment allowed to obscure the meta data (subjective conjecture need not apply) dot the landscape, forming an infinite grid of mortality.

Mortal implies limits, so an infinite grid of solely self-aware beings, our qualia, in particular, not involving anyone or anything else, carries each individual’s uniqueness, believing we are the onliest as our way of coping with the fact that as far as we know, this existence is finite.

I tell you bout the onliest man I knowed come from Virginia.

Self-awareness consciously knows and understands character, feelings, motives, and desires.

feelings, motives, and desires.

There are two broad categories of self-awareness: internal self-awareness and external self-awareness.[3]

External self v Internal self

These mean very different things to you and me.

You see, by our society’s standards, I have no reference for the internal kind. Everything I got I learned without the leg up of familiar tradition, unspoken understanding and qualifying acceptance. In a way, I’ve always had to prove I am not a mistake even though clearly that is all I amounted to in the end, a foolish mistake for my mother to regret.

For some adoptees, particularly those who’ve experienced early childhood trauma such as neglect or abuse, it may be difficult to form emotional bonds. Some studies suggest that adoptees may also be at higher risk for depression, anxiety, learning disabilities, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), or substance abuse.

Me at 22 in NZ

This started as a very different piece but between the narcissist showing me his drawing without caring about my writing kind of interrupted the flow.

The fact that I can’t really ever relax or do something mildly extravagant because I can never seem to get ahead, I’m terrible at getting reimbursed and in general, there are a million things I want to do, see, hear, and learn and chasing down the ability to just survive (it’s been that way for 20 years in the film and television industry) isn’t really my thing-the fact that I can’t really celebrate isn’t where I had hoped to be by now.

I’m tired. Tired of this particular existence that, the longer I live, seems more and more futile. Everything we were told was either a lie or a myth and now I’m in no position to take on the world as I once was, having been severely beaten, tortured and most recrntly mugged and stabbed in the past three years.

That’s not even the half of it. That’s not even what makes me sad. It’s the lack of friends I find myself enduring these days. The sadness just never goes away.

My sixth birthday

Villa Real

The system is based upon ten (originally nine) glyphs.

The symbols (glyphs) used to represent the system are in principle independent of the system itself.

The glyphs in actual use are descended from Brahmi numerals and have split into various typographical variants since the Middle Ages.

Etymology

theintercept.com/2019/06/22/cbp-border-searches-journalists/

That much I expected. But then a third officer, whose name was Villarreal, carefully read every page of my 2019 journal, including copious notes to self on work, relationships, friends, family, and all sorts of private reflections I had happened to write down. I told him, “Sir, I know there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but I want to tell you, as one human being to another, that you’re invading my privacy right now, and I don’t appreciate it.” Villarreal acknowledged the statement and went back to reading.

That was just the beginning. The real abuse of power was a warrantless search of my phone and laptop. This is the part that affects everyone, not just reporters and people who keep journals.

What you give away

It occurred to me the other day that you might be lying about whether Ray Ray was a pathological liar.

Aren’t all junkies?

Creeps.

No. I was gonna say, everyone’s favorite junkie a premiere funky who gets sulky in his freewheeling scene -stealing calamide lotion staring down the street while you pop those friggled uptown

home of the brave my ass I heard her say as you walked away

But save that for another day

Sing the song of truth

No one knows your name

Bring in

calamity Jane

Citizen Kane

Nathaniel Zane

What?

Are you insane?

Some people call me loco

Mean Jean Feline

Coke machine

Powerful but

enamored

with the “wrong”

Crowd

HEroic Poetry 

Acetaminophen screaming for attention

Off the shelf
   She was
straight out of biologically 

Contemptible 

with self-styrofoaming

 Eco-friendly 

packaging 

Eva, The blow up woman 

      by There’s Something about Earnest 
She was always a delight 

My good man,

Said Arthur of 

delta (phi) dawn 

    the blow up 

     Girlfriend 

who inadvertently got passed around 

like nobody’s business  
 

From the shores of kitschy koombaya 

to the morning after pill from Ralph’s 


          EVA bore. The emblem.

(lettered monogram to look like E-R-A )

“equal rights ass!” emblazoned across

the  made in China Badonkedonk 

 of a  plastic fantastic 

 mustang Sally 

 
In with the in-Crowd

   From Sigma Wink and a Nod

   to the Delta Phi Episolon Explosion

 

A regular 

Nobody 

at  St. Nate’s  palettes

    Covering for chaotic order 

    of secret societies 

    From the raging hormone set             


              Disturbed initiations leave indelible marks

                        No traces 

               


get a load of that broad 

She heard 

  • Don’t drink 
  • don’t smoke 
  • what do you do 

She’d been the goody-two-shoes, role played her brain transmogrified, pretended to be anyone she was NOT, behind darkness, just to survive, 

Everyone must accept one or face prison time. She had a “choice,” and after that anthrax shelter stint, she decided the Rutger Hauer lookalike would be best for her “needs” as an aging, not quite ailing, sometimes failing but rarely falling, just hurtling headlong trying to escape this dimension of nonsensical pain, needless suffering – as if there is an acceptable form, the need full suffering – oh fuck off maker, the great ether, send me your meteors!

I am but a woman 

entreating the sky 

to break open 

some mercy 

once in a while 



Abraham was a hologram. The woman’s perfect companion. 

We live in such Cyborg times what will become of love 

asked no one after awhile 

Once the last stranger had left 

the last  dreamer, dead.


But still

Beneath the skin

Resistance lives 

Beyond the caves of men 

The Bermuda triangle 

where Venus of Willendorf 

was found swirling 

in multidimensional flux 

I am the alpha 

Athe the omega 

I walk through 

The ballet 

Not dance but walk

So I can swim 

Swim 

away