Some Corporations, Many Psychos

Published on June, 2017

Here's a rant I was giving on business fashion. I was educational but loud at times, although it was for a good cause. It was about a kind of arrogance against capitalism.

Sick Notice, Happy Fourth

Sick Notice- due to illness, injury, and mind, time off has to be taken.

There'll be a return by at least July 12th.
Even if you're from another culture or race, Happy Fourth!

Tiger Woods is Underrated

*Golf Update*
You know, I've been watching golf for the last week now and there's been talk about effort more than talk about Tiger Woods.  It's like, "Yeah, he's old."  I just don't understand the mentality of golf because there's so much air in discussion but the small meanings go nowhere.  I think golf is this way with the broadcasters since golfers on those silent fields don't want to be disturbed.  Some of the iron swings are pleasant to see though.  Sometimes I wish a poet like me can calm down like those golf athletes; however, maybe my insight of their clean atmosphere and noble conversations can reveal possible qualities in determined guess.  In particular, a German golf player has been chatting with similar equals near sunshine to perfection and reconciles eternal calmness when moments between relaxation go bright and dandy.

Now, onto my poems!  Do you mind art?  I sure do!
I've been attempting to find original music and so far have found two albums' worth so I can cherish a strange radio of originals.  Google Music is recommended, especially with the greatest hit compilations of Queen and Jewel's traditional poetry.  Just keep watching golf!  Things happen in golf.

War Poem- "Sustained Crowd"

The golden free, getting lost without its trenches.
A perfume coil, lingering smoke beneath these sniffles, reminds me so.

Silly Poem- "Patience of the Influence"

A dentist is cunning, but I’m not eating.

Defense Poetry- "Fortified Reliance"

I watch without a mirror.
There’s no roof in the sky.
In poor thunder, clouds are starting to roll.
Our grass hasn’t yet any roots or heads.
Mountains around here are open sills to the bowing rain.




https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiger_Woods

Multicultural Poem- "A Worm of Purchase City"

Multicultural Poem- "A Worm of Purchase City"

Reap gifts or shadows in the snow.
Hit a discovery, paddle with jabs under a rainbow.
More night-rain, more griddling suns, dreams into weather my bittersweet eves!
Jungles fry while Mount 富士山 (the Fuji Sir) melts with ninjas.
Conditioning harvests by electric hair around the tropical bends of Cali.
Glitter in fright, blasting shores over the ocean-hands.
Calling fires brushing across missing natives.
To a home, to another home free for staking!
May a new Peking find a VC Pirate’s ice.
My road is my walk, I am a stone of blue colas and zzzzleepy streets.
Euros disappear as many dollars fly away like golf balloons.
And I’m gross for peanut butter.
A giraffe kicks the toys a clown juggles.
Astronomical trucks may carry black widows.
Nets carry soldiers, but there’s a disease in the magic.










*This is about my shopping of items from Purchase City in California.

Old Poem- "Rash Recovery"

Old Poem- "Rash Recovery"

Just don’t think I’m crazy, I’m celestive. There’s some
electrical lights and dancing in my life. A trip to Carlsbad,
California, leaves me with the savoring of Albertaco’s lunch
burrito in Vista, California; Tip Top Meats by San Diego,
California; nightly IN-N-OUT; grandma’s Snapple Tea and
fudge star confections; a hotel breakfast lobby with glittery
and unsmelly Christmas pinecones, and waffle liquid; plus
the thieves over an afraid petite driver at Arco’s gas station
by Thibodo Road. La Quinta Inn gave my family twenty dollars
off a night’s stay for the cleaning-gal’s absence on a rainy mildew
afternoon, and I was entranced by our room’s two-knob shower
and the sorted piles of bleach white towels. San Diego has
some news about crime however the situations fit their
problems, but my parents adored the "I Love Bagels" bagel-house
in Oceanside, California, because of its vivid and avid liveliness
and general relationships to that local community since decades
before. The reader might guess that my hotel experience was a
version of prosperity and hostility, and I can’t decide between
those two factors except to do so by making claims about slightly
scalding water pressure if it was extremely quiet; in consideration,
giving remarks about La Quinta Inn’s massage bar. It’s a soap bar
that doesn’t have the white of ivory like Molton Brown’s
ylang-ylang lotion, but it’s as tough as Motel 6’s soap bars while
being unbreakable or fragile, and it’s also built with technological
bumps and ergonomic ridges for pressurized rubbing and a tiny
bit of creaminess in scrubbing. I have thick skin for the vibe I feel;
vibes are feelings, and I let the hot water phase I’m in take its toll,
especially after I spent three extended late mornings standing in
the coolness of heat and various feelings for continental coffee
at no cost. Depending on how big a person’s body is, it can be
impossible to give the whole body a soapy bathing massage since
the soft invigorating round plate surface eventually melts and
leaves the bar flat but hardly smudgy. There’s no fruity flavor scent
or the wafting appeal of the desert breeze from the massage bar,
so let’s consider how it isn’t stale or boring. First off, comfort is not
pointless in every occasion and relaxation behind the pretty curtains
and slippery floor just revolves over me. Sometimes it’s better to be
wet, then dry, with a scent that seems to come from a good meal of
beauty, the kind that I can’t eat but want to linger around with my
inner consumptions, body and mind. I don’t bathe while resting as
though I’m on a California King bed, at least not too often, and the
hair dryer is an electronic option rather than a fabric softener, quite
literally. The massage bar is constructed with the classic clean like
bath salt from Goodwill thrift stores, but it’s very likely to condition
and alter your hair if it’s used for that area. In my mind, conditioning
of any kind, machine or shampoo or whatever, is simply a matter of
existence instead of choice; the washing customer will get an effect,
a cause, a reputation besides just attention, update and scrutiny.
The product isn’t designed with any pro-V and contains no retail
value. Indeed, it’s a smarter idea for businesses to give poor souls
value without their input. Just think about true gifts. If a public’s
indignation is a goal for capitalists and consumers falter, quality must
be issued without fearing questions first. So, La Quinta Inn’s massage
bar is a light commodity for hunger and public anticipation. I hope La
Quinta Inn continues its services even as I would stand in a cardinal dorm
and leer into the blurry paintings of nostalgia and wild nature. My dad
found out about the painter of the paintings for our room who has the
same name as so many people, and the thick water colors of one
particular frame of a depiction of a tea-room left my mind with an
appetite for crispy tablecloths and wonderful manzanas. How
was it to be? So, the massage bar results in sleek skin with buttery
smoothness and visitors can twist the showers’ knobs in certain
combinations like those tricky combination P.E. locks for an interesting
event of upkeep and personal treatment. I admit that my schizophrenia
medication gives me a new bulk of blood, and now I shower, watch TV,
play videogames, and contact beaches in the manner of a rampant user,
although I’ll wash more if my urban attitude is at bay. Scraps of
hardened soap cover my visage and citizens seem to arrive at me for
their lack of complete trust. Of course, my mood can be pretty dark
and I attempt to appropriate my posture anywhere. Aristotle may have
an ancient proclamation for humanity’s appearance despite his body’s
disappearance. Greek philosophers can be like the ghosts who linger as
if they're crystal ink over our heads. Old Spice products aren’t disgusting
to me when I’m dealing with my body like a sweating vagabond by car
for ethereal plains, and so casino gaming keeps itself, and La Quinta Inn’s
massage bar to me remains as a source of lush water and happy
beginnings to quick shopping of French stars and Alaskan chocolate.
Just don’t think I’m crazy, I’m celestive.

Restaurant Poems

Lunch Poetry- "A Visit of Golden Purity"

This buffet is a continent, but the wall is a horizon.
Skaters can wake up while the tavern is over the ridge of the moon.
Police are in the Law Cabin although the storm is a meadow.
From romantic hideaways to family getaways there’s no escape from home.
A place that has charm can be the hollow ember of animal notions.
Something that’s towering can be whispering.
TV is a color of free webs like a plank behind a burger.
There’s no retreating from vacation, the world is another gun.
A rustic monster isn’t my mother’s tongue when days come away.
My apartment is a house and it’s sleepy like me.
This restaurant is a forest, but the trees are gone.
People are the road when the stones are broken.
Silence is a sound as a song interprets it.
A wire is free when the call is around.




*This is overall about my travels, especially into Big Bear in California which has two free radio stations.

Depression Poetry- "Discovery My Secret"

The ball of my foot, the foot of my ball.
I’m a ghost you can touch, a mascot with a face on no wall.
I can’t see my guts because I’m a hole in the shadow.
Treasures around me stand and lie down.
Mirrors are bubbles of returning light.
This dorm is a pot, my savings are disappearances.
Boy, that mind is a clog since giving is receiving.
An eye’s-dream knows the tides of peace, but am I ordinary?
I’m a hand with no limb, like a paralyzed tree of cracking barks.
Air my swim, heat my throw, I’m all good by the metal over frijoles.
Romance may seem like a speech without a name.
But where can I hide?
I don’t own the lost skin of evolution, madness is crying.





*It’s a poem written when I was depressed in my recovery from psychosis, which almost made me think girls worldwide were shouting in agony. To be warned, this is powerful. Hospitals are something to be reckoned with.

Hollywood Poetry- "Around Those Stars"

Hollywood Poetry- "Around Those Stars"

Once upon a time, an artist stole the kid’s
coloring book after feeding pizza to mice, for darkness
on habit transformed his easy moves and the Mexican
afghan shivered their bones. A terrible nurse
saw kites down long beaches yesterday before
calling a lazy police officer whose crayons exploded
from a treasure chest, although many wicked leaders
up more streets to Los Angeles attended magic
shows along fancy cement towards joggers in rainbows.
Cats were talking to their respective owners about
the sanity of mice when this burglar chased a
smoking cowboy into a Chinese donut shop;
my officer-in-chief gave the artist his treasure
chest and asked some stranger dressed as Mickey
Mouse to a local farmer’s market where sauces
hung in funny labels. Mickey Mouse of course said,
“I love the taste of cheap pepperoni and we
didn’t even have to color the book.”




*This is based on my experiences in Hollywood in a fictional but realistic way. “Treasure chest” is an alliteration if you pay attention to the phrase’s sounds and cats, because of machinery, may talk in the future if we so let them talk.

School Poetry- "Empty Lessons"

A novel is as long as ten subjects.
For originality, what is the division?
More sounds are on the finger that counts.
Time is its own spirit of the greeting.
I wake by picture, dream out of returned opinions.
Anything is something else.
Prisons are on call to reserved locations, like bias.
We can probably swim in authority to fresh zooes.
Traffic is in a song.
Some teacher who isn’t a master is no teacher at all.
One performance without guidance is just showing off.
Truth isn’t volume, it’s verification.

http://www.farmersmarketla.com/

See page for author [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/48/Plato%27s_Academy_mosaic_from_Pompeii.jpg
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3APlato's_Academy_mosaic_from_Pompeii.jpg

Food Poetry- "The Physics of My Poetry"

Food Poetry- "The Physics of My Poetry"

Touching sips, feeling my words.
Thirsty for breaths from coconut ice.
Kissing wind, swimming oxygen.
Tasting the storms, tanning with wishes.
A tongue to sip with soft bites.
Drinks from other mouths in open society.
Thirsty hungry for gifts as a target.
Shaking my head, whispers of a roar.
A waft for tears I surf in.
Unwrapping straws, cola in a king’s size.
Finding familiar crowns for the sprites.
Hot, cold, warm bubbles.
Carbonation exhaustion.
Sweat to refill, skin to appeal.
Waiting for hot tea, sinking drunk.
Dining ideas, seating art.
A cough for a swallow, the revenge of peace.
Singing with a sneeze, heat to the freeze.
Reading names for better signs.
A big gulp of language, poison to spit out.
Gasping emotions, brittle to sympathy.
Knowing the flavors of general teeth.
Masking awareness, dripping passion by fire that’s gone.
Chomping foam with Pepsi-cream and Moxie-cherry.
Tender forks to gentle knifes.
Philosophy to plate, doused with ideas.
Sprinkles to sparkles, smooch with a legal curse.
Giving names to fingers and painting words.
Buying sizes, squeezing citrus over lucky roku fish.
Pushing plastic, twisting turns.
I’m a midget in a cupboard of doughnuts.
Journals can’t remember me.
I’d like to date songbirds in a cloud by the Amazon.
There’s a cure for a kiss, sips of a breath.
My sounds fall like leaves because I don’t see them.
Memories are clipped, zipped with my thirst.
Dollars have drops, pennies are wet.
I have debit for credit with no credit at all.
Cheese has strings, bubbles are weak.
There’s mountainous moisture in a little blood.
There’s light, there’s diet, there’s zero for a hero.
I’m too much chocolate and it’s curious to hide.
There’s a tail for a drink, a tale for a drink, and caffeine forms.
Coffee surprises me, tea remains free.
I’m freezing-cooking, burning coldness to others.
Shyness to materials, strength in materialism.
I share cups, fair mixes with a gaseous spare.
Tapping lips, whisking eyes.
A melting pot, the ice-wine of my European graduations.
Too numb for bones, with bones for bones and wishing more bones.
I kick numbness with a stick and wish for a call.
I tie my melody with the harmony of irritations.
Bottles become ships, ships become candles.
I try enthusiasm with a toothpick.
I guess you can say my mouth is food.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Food

Electronic Poems

"A Virus"

It seems when I go, Error is my name.

I’m a little like normal, but tell me if I’m gone.

"A Robot’s Fever"

I like seeing lasers, deep, slow, tropical lasers.
Just imagine arrows of light that burn, really evaporate.
It takes too much to hold a gun for this hour.
I’m likening, I’m enchanted by the sway of beams.
Atari’s colors are too hot in the darkness.
The graphics are like bolts of calico-fur in a shining garage.
TVs seem to be wrapped with our reflections.
It’s an intelligent vision for a blind worker like me.
Of course, Atari machines have the powers we strive for.
A flash of electricity is like a naked curtain that’s closed for supreme quality.
Gazes at manuals help me find what numbers to tie in a game.
So it’s a bonus for a life, an extra life to a bonus.
A machine can be so ramped up, it can become the odyssey of a jaguar.
Of course, gamers like me become wild cats when madness consumes our minds.
If I may trigger a playful event, I might leave in macro-satisfactory.
So, what’s out of the looking glass besides the army cut?
Just tilt pix against groovy stars and see the Tron of rainbows.
A box has plenty of buttons for my smile again.
Colors protect our eyes, that’s why we see them.
If anything, Atari is like a mountain that can’t hide.
If we’re invading space, there’s plenty of rest.
So, hit that toggle and let me sleep!

Poem- "Online Gaming"

"Online Gaming"

A stream is beating from its compulsion of the move to reflecting fish,
Before dizzy as one wet row into free castles by sway over dish,
Fresh vigor for to have when age turns across its wave to fill action yet,
While still flying birth is red again upon pretty weeds to show our bet.

Poem- "Empty Puzzle"

"Empty Puzzle"

There’s air to bread which shows it up orange since I’ve made,
Leaked from dimensions on crazy use as ever raid,
Valiances yet zooming fail chess knowledge of jokes,
Even go over Henderson’s X quitting provokes.








*I had a cooking class with a guy named Henderson which was filled with opportunities for pizza.  The class was quite fun, although the haters who were in there tended to act barbaric.

Poem- "Reflectional Gift"

"Reflectional Gift"

A retro heaven, the single paradise at lips of truth,
-----Turns up its ninth cloud,
Almost to help on the beauty of discovery,
When flowing into ears growing up, to sign your attention,
----Thus you grow as used to it, when,
For leading entrance of reflection, you arrive it.

Affairs on the gamble may serve as returns, for to ugly light,
Before we stage this mind between weathered dishes,
I see that smooth heat,
When to sizzle I break the hug,
Just after energy is put on memory to dance as wish.

Someone comes as he is not, so as to hide behind music,
Beyond standards without barriers.
Thus time has no death to sand age, although it is expansion of survival,
In the change of weight to passing filth away,
When I play on the seasoning of temperature.
There is low action to ducks and videos,
Something to record of feeling,
Strength of the connection between dimensions,
As to freedom of information and authority over pressure.

During a goal in the air, more friends have purpose.

Is it wise to flip the switch with no meaning?  Rendezvous?
A subject is how the finger rises, an eclipse before its direction.
It’s sublimation of disasters which transforms beauty,
Like a coastal parlor when exhaustion is indigo,
-----While free radio moves its thud,
Although we can discuss vital magnetism:
Pleasing mercy, speechless moral, California amapola,
Long thirst against a cute degree, deflectors above regolith,
A grown pitch around candy bread that is eternity to bridge off illusion.

Poem with Video- "Ancient Belief and the 3-Nut Peanut"

"Ancient Belief"

I took hay from a star on this ship to the galaxy.
My god married with one wish.
We had to go through some cracks in our touch.
Thunder had to be wide in swift laughs.
A whistle came from the rain on.
By old years, crowds drifted.
Oceans were rumors.
Lords were missing the rhyme on a great ceremony.
So many dishes went as high as the rocks.
All returned in.