snagged

i'm on my way home again
i've been looking forward, to the end
BUT I'VE BEEN SNAGGED
BY BYE AND BYE GOOD

i'm slipping closer but eyes won't shut
i'm slipping forever across the grain

we're headed the wrong way
paired with the wrong regrets
attatched the wrong resent
to me not you
we're making correct attempts
meaning full wishes
for healing of blemishes.  bleeding

pourously blistered
devouring no cause
detour my heart away
stay the despised course


we're headed the wrong way
paired with the wrong regrets
attatched the wrong resent
to me not you
we're making correct attempts
meaning full wishes
for healing of blemishes.  all bled.


i'm on my way home again
i've been looking forward, to the end
BUT I'VE BEEN SNAGGED
BY BYE AND BYE GOOD

i am so vain.
i am so vain.
when i look at you
i don't even know your name.
dost thou knowest mine?
dost thou knowest my time
is not meant for titles
an unheard of pantomime,
yet i heard it's mine
from the unknown seekers.
those unseen speakers

meshed in a crowd;
matched for the crude;
moshed from below

where melting blows.
bellows.
bellows.

pillows of thorns
scraping God gave me?
scarring the crown
to be on a head,
ahead of the rest,
rest un assured that
wrestling's insured
even with demons?

their attempts of beheading
is getting less quiet.
so here are the gaps
that are gaped unbeautiful.
hear all the gasps
to an ugly
source to be mocked.
to be flogged,
with flags from a sowing.
flags for a reaping
but my face is not striped.

is it stripped?
is it ripped?
is it barricaded in blame?

i can only remember
that i bear what's at fault
the lines of destruction.
empty stampedes
still pounding,
bruising,
beating,
a soul
that look's ugly.

OPEN

OPEN by jered feldman

If I close my ears there is nothing to hear, or is there?

Anything else should be easily heard:

some or most,

summer's toast,

some ears roast,

to hear a heightened boast!

Don't lessen the scream, or passively listen to screaming,

or list the amount of the screams;

so occasional.

They're supplied by the stresses that are stretched to no end

and to bend till you're broken

is to mend what's unspoken.

If no words are said

and no lines are written,

dialogue's dead.

Dust is bitten.

But smeared under dirt, dry and decayed,

injustice, that shovel, shoves and buries your cries away.

Away where your wailing is mocked or stocked

full of laughter.

The “age” of the patron's do you no honor,

and instead they yell,

“silence”

“silence”

“silence”.

That “word of the weak” ironically shouted

spoils a hope, ringing with peace.

The codes are kept broken so that

nothing is heard, and if nothing is heard,

nothing was said.

Your distress signals will echo in silence,

cause they'd rather give attention to the

tension of no one.

To screech is to vent,

abruptly in view of unlistening ears.

Useless? No.

Useful? Not so.

But an unquestionable sound to understand

under sub-ordinance is not insincere.

Just simply an “I”!

If I block my nose there's no stench of decay or no

sensual aroma. There is nothing to smell.

Or is there?

Smoke's around me!

Smokers surround me!

Smothering and smeltering and smoldering

scents like a frightened hound hound me!!

So to bark at me,

“Don't sniff and don't smoke that!”

is a yelp of distrust; a howl of the growling.

We're prey to the prowling

where praying is accompanied by

groans, and moans; tears and fears.

It's innocent incense so in a sense innocence can.

Now with an additional

attempted word of a temptational attempt,

I will fume,

“I WILL FUME!”.

I will fume,

“I WILL!”.

If I cover my eyes is there nothing to see?

There IS nothing to see!

There is nothing,

I see.

Or is there?

I roll into darkness. I'm rolling the darkest

shadows away,

away and under,

under a way

way down no where

where no light exists. The plight persists.

Chance is filtered as if “evil it is”.

Choice and charm, these stigmas of light:

need to be lightened but they are defused

by control,

controlled by confusion,

confused in conviction,

conflicting the charge called on as contempt

all the while complicating vision.

Visionaries are and ever will be, not brightened but,

beaten into a thundercloud raining

agony.

Look within hate,

a little or lot.

Unveil the clouds

and shout “I will not”!

If I shut my mouth is there nothing to say;

if I seal away flavor there must be nothing

to taste, or is there?

The structure of strength is not meter

or length, but of savory sweetness in

the word choice we choose.

We choose by choice.

Not everything's determined.

There's value in variety but their buffet's

a vice to delectable destroyers;

the waste of taste.

Our fruit is not service;

perverted by lust;

and it's not to be bottled up in bottled debauchery.

In either case,

a cork is plugged up

or plugged in.

Love is hated.

Joy is a sin.

The caps are tightened and the lids are painted

for a gain that's less reckoned.

A loss is a glory?

Oh, like the age!

The age old story.

It's regurgitated message: the vomit, the bore.

If I puke up my need, will you re-feed me with greed?

When you wallow in everything

am I left to swallow nothing?

You mold who we are

then

scold who we are

and scald our tongues to bow downward.

“Bow down to the WORD”!

Just one? That's absurd!

In both of many cases

to the limitless limiters

“I will not be!”

Again, I will not be.

If I bind up my arms,

tie down my legs,

I can touch nothing for there's nothing to feel,

or is there?

We “feel” away pain by,

empathy?

The drama soaked in tears, but drowning

in sympathetic shrieks!

Don't feel anguish! Don't feel burdens!

They're nothing in relation to dead end nerves.

And, in respect, don't always expect your

un-felt needs to be suspect for healing?

Most miracles are misleading cause they're

missing the mark, not belonging to beasts,

or credited to priests.

THEY touch with symbols that are far less

appealing. It's simply symbolic.

Fish and a “T”.

Bread and wine.

Rocks and stars.

A trite tangible sign!

Un-journeyed hands are layed then raised.

Sojourneying legs run,

not to find friendly gypsy's,

but away from mystical mysteries.

If God created everything, why run away from fear?

Why not touch what's unseen, it's invisibly near.

Reach for the heavens and stretch towards sheol

cause in everlasting life, one's allowed to scream,

“I will not be numb”!

Now for the admission to a pride based corporate ladder;

and the submission of a selective list of references;

go alone we may but prevention is the door

that is slammed shut disgracefully in your face.

The act is degrading, the system disfunctional,

yet, “all in all” it's ignored and perceived as

penetential indulgences.

Don't hold out your arms just to catch alms,

and definitely don't dictate repentance.

I will not be besieged.

I can not be begotten,

and if I should be bewildered,

in time, I will then be forgotten.

I will not be belittled.

I will not be betrayed,

cause I will not be beautiful

to ugly rituals obeyed.

I will not be enclosed.

I will not be overwhelmed.

I will not be senseless.

I will not be controlled.

I will not be.

I will not believe.

I will not be leaving until existence

has left me.

With the door.

Closed.

O.P.Q.R.S.

what you've seen, you can't ignore.
what you've heard, there are no questions,
not worth asking.  not worth considering.  not worth explaining.
they all are.  they all are.  you all are.

what you've felt, to touch an Angel.
His hands of love.  His living sacrifice.
there's no refusing, as if to ponder.  could this be true? it's light as day!

oh before my eyes, i am all surrounded by love and grace, by loving grace.
He's in this place, right before my very eyes and then i wonder is He in you?

what He bled, do we deserve that?
time and again it fills our minds.
the pain and guilt, once and for all He's already lifted it tied to apathy.
what He cared for is what we overlook.
a sense of harmony fulfilling prophesy.

we are His witnesses; He is our testament.
the old and new.
the risen now!

ya before our eyes we have been surrounded.
don't be alarmed.
don't behave awkwardly.
He's fulfilling His promises,
now must we?  oh yah!
that feels like, mmmm, sweetness.
that looks like you and i are

in perfect love: there is no fear.
in perfect love: there is no doubt.
in perfect love: there is no disbelief.

you've gotta free yourself.
you've gotta free your mind.
you've gotta free yourself.
you've gotta free your mind.

and let it all go!
you've gotta give it all to Christ.
let is all go!
away, away, away.
let it all go!
He promises a way.

away from here.

(Ominous Phobic Qualm like Reservations of Skepticism)

riddles

Riddle One plus riddle Two is riddle's sum: the riddle Three.

Now riddle four is riddled for not Ones as You but those as me.

“How am I me? Aren't I but One?”, I ask to us, puzzledly.

The riddle Two confirms no plan to puzzle you, hence puzzle we.

The quest of riddles was not to question but merely pose an all truism.

All truism. All true is Him. Are They all true? I doubt a lie?

How could I doubt? Been tried before, accomplished feat again, again.

Again, I riddle. Again, I plea. Again, I question, insistantly.

Insist I do to You not me or us as them who question Thee.

The riddle's game is riddle pain. Prosecution is for blame.

Blame the man who strives for honor not noticing it's ours to give.

Blame the Truth with evidences? Us as judges! Where is the proof?

Everywhere it lurks in hidden text and quiz and hidden life.

Lives that hide what are, so called, messages proverbial.

They are the answers to the riddles overtaken, yet we premise

To know so much, then doubt the same and defend some unknown game.

Defense we make for why we never see the signs that lead to us.

They come from riddles ever true just to signify self purpose,

Thus 'tis no answer. 'Tis no solution. It is what is still we decline

To accept simplicity. This intimidating mystery.

So where's the joy? Where is acceptance or the factors of a riddle?

They're not in doubt. They're not in vain. The answer rests in riddle's Name.

What is the name of the third Riddle? Is it fermentation's glee?

We trust no challenge that deters or proves the weaknesses in me.

Weak in absence. Weak in numbers. To monopolize is our degree.

We take control of uncontrolled victims in humanity.

Our demand is no response for favored bliss or happiness

And our pretense is, “We were tricked with cunning, skillful, dishonesty!”

No honest truth is manufactured from a riddle that's half empty.

If it's half fact and half fiction, so is my trust. I'll sell the whole.

I'll buy another, for what it's worth. For profit's sake it's all the same.

Maybe riddle One does jest and laugh with angels doing math?

Am I the seller of this puzzle? Should I invest in skepticism?

Though I would be, mistakenly, undecided harmony.

Who are the factors of a riddle that make us bleed digested life?

Digesting chance? Die hate's romance! Die fate and indirect advance!

Life to the pardoned who are excused from playing riddle's game.

Though less a game, and same for fame, it's more an opportunity

To realize and readmit and then reflect what's requisite

That we address and readdress the need to fill our emptiness.

Nothing's arcane or improbable. The Number's speak for Themselves.

They speak for us, the numbers do, because we can't even on cue.

We've read the lines, seen testimony, and still we are perplexed

To understand our trace, our ruin. We've exited the present past,

To live in memories then die in vain and spite the cause; rancor blame.

Fault we find and found we have. Denial's place is to accuse.

We've embodied doubt and cowardice. Severed truthfulness.

Even Truth in mystery. It's Truth! But we contest.

We test the Fact's facsimile. We chain Them to the stand.

To understand that we're above demand. “Release us!”, we command.

If I am not the ruler but the measure meant,

Will I be identified? In part? In all? Will I be counted?

If I am not the stock which death's so greatly invested,

Will I be considered, with regard, for Life's unending answers?

When my position is lined with zeros then frightening the sight seems

Cause I've, no doubt, no loss is Thine's but mine's, the great conundrum!

But I must dispute my place among the riddles and the questions,

Cause I represent, quiescent protest with a wail, “Is my life for naught?!”

I cry out for the numerators who are empty quantities,

But my scream is blank, like their level of rank, so I hear the Puzzlemasters,

“If we are riddles One Two Three and still you're not what four?

Then only when you adhere to us will you increase to more!”

But since I choose, like all who lose, to settle my own score,

Then I am not One but a riddle of zero and life is such a bore.

Oh riddle One. Oh riddle One

Who runs the factory.

The belt conveyer entangles me.

I'm wrapped in sudden loss.

Dear riddle Two. The riddle to

Replace my suffering

From then to now, when now's forever.

Am I the refugee?

Sweet riddle Three. Sweet Three. Sweet Three.

Aren't I as sweet as Thee?

When inert logic is dubious

Mend my insanity.

You riddle four me riddle for you,

Are we indurate clay?

Withal when all answers softly lie

Me I'll stump another day.

By Jered Feldman

completed April 2007