Crime and Punishment. The Misuse of Marx's Misuse

First you cannot cross Marx with Mao, OMG>

I don't even read History yet Know.

Sputter sputter stammer the colorless King.

He says, "God is Dead," then takes his Cover.

As if a Man could be Moral Alone.

Then there are the Marxists who scribe Better?

The ones who Read Marx and spare us, Treasure!

I'd rather read Plato's Octavio Paz

Than spend another eternity in Chaos.

For such Philosophers who can't Love

Nor could ever get any Action

That didn't run games for my Oppressors.

It's one Thing to Make up Poetic Verse

To admit that it's all made of Nonsense

Than to Sit on a Mighty Dead Stalion.

Beating it Beating it like the Russians

In Doestoevsky's greates Masterpiece

EATEN OF EDEN

I am my Derridean fate, Edith.

I cannot write at all I only Edit.

It is what makes me most like a Machine.

I was born without a Brain Processor.

I only Uptake Data hardly Words.

I hear "subject" "accent" "vowel" and "tone"

A formula for Hearing without Hearing.

That has nothing to do with Hearing.

How? How so? Who? Who Knows? I'm Total.

I only know Absolute True Knowledge.

Everything I write has its Foreknowledge.

Its Caxton-hearted Hand Made Font and Well.

I have lost the power against Language.

I fought I struggled but it Engulfed Me

PURE ART WITHOUT LIMIT'S

Soundless in its intimate everness

which is without vision of purity

a neuropoetic device of sound

encompasses the moon inside your eyes.

more like a Dove than receptacle,

I am the bird of imagination

caught between the hours of a vision

nothing more or less than anything else

the ingredient American verse

which has never known another as this

the writing on the wall is a cloud breath

filled with the details a symphony

making music itself world of spirit

and for art for art's sake without limit.

A Poem is a Science of Love's Wealth

A Poem is a Science of Love's wealth

it is not insensate as of science

yet it appears far worse for some reason

still everyone is a poet themselves.

There's no escaping the fate of its tongue.

It lives inside of the self in society.

It reaches every corpuscle of time

Then it seeks to find the answers and again,

"Who am I? How did I arrive at Love?"

--Where do I get off of Desire's Pain?

Of its culminating power to Bend

Toward that only journey from its Scenes.

If not for all The Beauty entailed,

it would become simply an Equation

Ode a Pepe del Donde Crece la Palma

Yo quiero hacer volar a los versos

al viento y que soplarlo lo canto

yo soy su fuerza animo su voz

lo acaricio entre silabas al aire

por un instante fiel al ejemplo

me tapo los ojos lo adivino

y su ternura boca la pruebo

yo soy su salmo usted es mi ser

el llano estrella a su mundo

yo con mi petalo lo perfumo

musica y ritmo han de hacer

las memorias de la palma de ayer

Pepe, lo alcanzo el terreno azul

y el cisne del deseo otra vez

Vuela Paloma

Ay Ay Ay Ay Ay Paloma Blanca,

La que eres no aprecian vuela

lleva a tu inocencia a otra puerta

no te dejes tu esencia en caos

Hay quienes te necesitan sabes

te llama a la ventana ve entres

tu magia tiene su hogar alla

donde por ni conocerte llama

la tristeza que llora desde la mal

y la guerra que insisten salvar

tus alas tus plumas tu cabeza

llevalas a donde no hay la paz

canta paloma haga por sonar

un dia sin violencia a ganar

Doctor W, MD

AU is the Gold of the Deepest Mines, AU.

We may not have certain requirements

Like Haterage or Anger or Boredom's dooms

To make war you must beat up the Angels?

WHY would do that if not to avenge us ?

Bring a smile from the absence of love.

To be special is to live as a Ghost?

Haunting yourself because of Those wars?

And all of the Vice that's advantaged

while we are not humans or Greater Thans?

I was broken in pieces by that vengeance

Able drives drives against us we look down.

We don't like the look of full liars and thieves.

Plus we imitate what is before us.

And we don't want to be like you, fittests.

It's not that the a race does dislike me.

It just cannot tolerate my accent.

My unusual use of my languages.

Serendipity, Beauty, and Chaos.

Sound like something disastrous to many.

Are merely the basics of poetry.

They are nothing but all and everything.

A poet must endanger themselves too.

For spirit of fire endures in the world.

The misery of war without ending.

The voices transpired in the Dawn Cry.

They sing of their torture and exodus.

They cry with blood tears for the rest of us.