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The Biggest Disease

The biggest disease,
the one most in need of a cure,
the most harmful
and dangerous to children,
the one we must vaccinate against…



Oh what a horror and what contagion
the ignorance of righteousness
and even here,
in this writing,
how could I know

and yet,

We know.
And worse…much worse
we tell ourselves we should know
we expect others to know
we think when we get what we want
we were right

But our righteousness masks
the reasons we want
the reasons we live
the reasons we love

What if we’re right,
and everyone dies
or love dies.

Many would feel,
as the world withered,
and children slept
in their final rest,

that they were right.

If There Is No Reason…

What is the bottom of judgement?
Do we descend the depths
only to find the sea floor
and sit, finally on hard ground?

Or is there more…

Can we descend though the bottom
where judgement ceases
to press all around us
and squeeze our veins?

When we pop through
what was assumed and made solid
is that when it will happen
is that when the pressure will
drop away
and we will be inflated
expanded into love
and acceptance?

Is there a difference between
accepting murder
and accepting that violence exists?
What is this pressure
of finding a reason
to make it all ok.

If I could just find a reason
it would be ok.
If I could just find a reason
it would be ok.

If there is no reason
can it be ok?

The Sins of the Parents are in Full Bloom

The Sins of the parents are in full bloom,

And the parents are desperately trying to get out of the room
The parents are children
They can’t be trusted
To see the truth of the things
That they’ve busted
And like children
They’re prone to a tantrum
When they don’t get what they want
A tantrum’s their anthem.

The parents are children
But their sins are mature
They’ve created and supported
And shouted for war
But the worst ones have,
Like children
That their choices were Noble
And could not have led to this end.

But, still worse, and gravest of all of the Sins
Is their willful deception
Of how it begins
And their indignant opinions
That they take for truth
And feed to their children
As if sick from the flu
They decide that their children
Are just like them
And they don’t give a thought
To what it means is they’re not
Or, even more, how good it might be
If their children, from them,
Were eternally free
Instead they build bunkers of hate
To surround their kids
And to keep them safe
But by safe what they mean,
These child parents,
Is same, same as them
Like little pet plants

The Sins of the parents
Are in full bloom
Their refusal to look
Beyond their own gloom
Only entrenches their children
To a similar Doom
And as they all scramble
To exit the room
All pointing their fingers
And teaching the rule
That it’s not you that that’s
The problem
It’s some other fool.

The Sins of the parents are in full bloom.

A 9 Year Old Learns Hate

Life is so rich
but the cream does not rise
it’s more like digging for gold
actually it’s more like
wiping the steam from the mirror
you have to make an effort
to get to the richness
and the more effort
the more richness,
as far as I can tell.

Because once you make the choice
to wipe the mirror
and see
you will then see more
than what you saw before
and you might not like
what you see
you might want the steam again
you might turn away
you might not believe your eyes.

None of it matters.
Unless you want more.
So you can always come back to that question,
if you are lost.

Do I want more?

My son told me
to my great dismay
that he didn’t really like Trump
and he should go away.

My son is nine
and some would cheer
he’s on their side
oh what a dear.

And those same some
would accept
and open doors
And he’s too young
to know about whores.

So he’d walk through
in innocence
not realizing what
The agreement’s meant.

But every door
and every hug
and every atta-boy
will leave him poor
pull out the rug
we won’t kill the boy.

A nine year old
learns hate from the world
before he learns to understand
A parent’s job
is to temper hate
so that their child, straight, can stand.

So when you face your child’s corruption
meet it with faith and sadness
this is the trial, there’s no other way
unless what you want is madness.

It should be sad, terribly so
but that’s the way it is
without hate there is not strength
to deliver the loving blow.

So you must not meet that certain hate
with certain hate yourself,
you cannot hurt the ones you hate
if what you want is wealth.

If what you want is poverty
then hate and hate away
and give in to that “good” feeling
as you cut and slash away
and teach your child to cut and slash
at those they disagree with
and teach your child
to point their finger
aiming it with your struggle.

So fight you will and fight you must
to overcome the heavy you
you were taught to hate
and now what are you to do
start by asking what’s worth more
your child’s joy
or you?

The Freedom of Chaos, Pt.1

The rocket seemed far out to sea
the platform, barely visible
as the magnificent cylindar
defied all reason
pencil straigt
flames like lasers
driving against the deck
and the magnet

We are all stuck here
and we’ve learned to live with it.

We watched from the beach
for any imperfection
habitually hoping
to see a kink in the armour
to see something
that would lead
to the freedom of chaos.

And there it was.

The ship, just off angle
before touching home
and just off angle is enough
and the ship began to tilt
and as it fell into the sea
it became huge
before it sunk
huge and close
no longer academic
no longer abstract
far from the beach
now, it was right on top of us
and it didn’t stay sunk,
bursting out of the sea
with a final blow of the tanks,
and now,
it’s own freedom
spun it like a wild
200 stories high
and a football field wide.

It blocked out the sun
and all on the beach stopped
the freedom of chaos was
quickly replaced
with the fear of chaos
and death
and tremendosity.

The behemoth rocket
lurched and belched
aircraft carrier size flames
as it fell, again,
towards the beach

and people ran

I shouted for my boy
he was no where to be found
so I grabbed my son
and we ran

It was much worse than a rocket
something was coming for us,
something called chaos,

And we ran.

The Beauty Of Writing

When I’m riding the river
it’s like there’s nothing else
I am the river
every drop and rock
tumbling down
and it’s only when
I step to the side
and ground my boat
that I see
there was no me
it was just me

As for my mind
reluctanly I go back
first dipping a toe
then more
but not yet, not yet
I walk the edge now
between river
and shore
a place where answers
are irrelevant
a place where smile
and touch
are the language

In time I will return
the pull of the tides are strong
and I will analyze
and seek
and the resentment will come
heavy and as attached
as my desire

Maybe I won’t spend as much time
maybe I’ll be on the shore
with my feet
perhaps up to my knees
or waste
in the river
not going anywhere
with nothing to deliver
with no haste
where smiles
and touch
are the language


What do you do
When you love something
That was created by a monster.

Can a monster create something worthy of love
Can a monster create value

What is a monster?

The best I can tell,
Monster is opinion.

Dictionary says:
“an imaginary creature that is typically large, ugly and frightening”.

I say:
“something or someone that incites fear with malice and the certainty of malicious destruction”

I sit in the center of a circle.
There are rock piles everywhere
and people in the circle
throwing stones,
they haven’t noticed me
but they’re not happy
and they look as if they could turn
at any moment
and target me.

Those in the circle seem upset,
they’re all speaking at different levels
and differet tones,
none of which are endearing
or warm.
They seem jittery, nervous as best
fanatic at worst.

The ones in the circle are trying to make decisions
but it’s hard
because they’re frantic
and it’s difficult to agree with someone’s frantic.
But they try and the best they come up with
is directing their stones at
some other poor bastard.

They’re screaming now,
screaming that they’re in pain,
screaming to look at their pain,
they want people to see their pain,
and they don’t realize everyone can see it.

They must actually want something else.

I saw one person, she asked them what wrong
and they all stopped,
that poor girl,
they all stopped and piled their stones onto her,
piling their stones,
she tried to escape,
I watched,
but the stones came so fast,
she was buried
and they turned away as quickly
as they came,
after the last stone was placed neatly
and there was nothing more to cover,
except their own stones,
they stopped,
Went back to the circle
and began, again, a building wail
“Look at our pain” they screamed
“Look at our pain”.

I look around now,
those rock piles,
they have soft centers.
“Look at our pain” they screetch
with fire in their eyes
and rocks in their hands.

They’ve noticed me,
and are wondering why
I’m not screaming.

The first rock lands
and then another,

They’ve noticed me.


My life is like a wisp
curling up and out
dancing for a moment
with the air around it
and then…

But when my fingers
are arranging pixels
and the coffee
sits, hot and strong
butt in chair

How can this be.

Such potential for non-existence
fleeting is the best I can hope for?

Maybe I am wrong about life

To hold on so tightly

What else do I hold on tightly to?

Is life the same as those things
and how does it work out
when I do hold on to other things?

For fuck’s sake…and love…

Maybe I am wrong.

Forgotten To Themselves

I am waiting

It’s not the right time

But really

I’m not ready

I like to be holed up

Warm and safe

Curled and blanketed

In my mind, body and soul

There is nothing wrong with this

But if there is suffering

The sufferer is making it wrong

And what happens when you make

A natural thing a wrong thing

What happens is a disconnection

A split like a canyon that starts

As a crack

Places meant to touch, no longer touch

Perhaps they still relate

Until the crack grows wider

And then the sufferer eventually forgets

The other side

Forgets they were once one

Forgets they had history

And there is nothing wrong with forgetting

But if there is suffering

A natural thing becomes wrong

And a crack forms

Before the canyon

We are full of cracks

And again

They’re is nothing wrong with being

Full of cracks

But if there is suffering

The sufferer will forget

And pretend as if they are

A sliver of themselves

The tiny sliver of their last


And as they sufferer

Their sliver becomes smaller

And thinner

And eventually

Their mind will shut down

Because it can no longer accept

The fantasy

And so the sufferer will become

Forgotten to themselves

And be lost.


Boys talk about fighting.
Men fight.
A real man will not hurt another person
without having been hurt himself
and when he does hurt another
he will recognize the hurt he’s caused himself
and his family
and the world
and he will carry the hurt with him


Boys talk about fighting
and nobility
and honor
as if they go together
rather than
being a tiny trickle
in a great ocean.

Honor is not angry
nobility is not strong
I’ve learned how to recognize
the boys,
as I’ve grown up myself
and left my boy, to walk with me

Always a reminder and playmate,
Seldom the leader.

Boys, you boys, you silly boys,
there is nothing wrong with boys
the only problem is the monster
who strangles the boy
with the noose of his father.

Boys will be boys.
There is no escape,
because they must.
The only question is
who will step in,
not to proclaim boyhood
and point,
but to demonstrate manhood,
so the boys can find
the only way,


Elan Mudrow


Bitter Gertrude

Blogging about Theatre and Culture since 2013


Critical Dharma for Thinking Minds

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Josep Goded

Seeking Truth


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