Joe Biden makes a dummy corporation

Funnels money,

A Ukrainian prosecutor sniffs it

Gets shut down

So Trump is being threatened impeachment.

 

There’s the reality.

Don’t listen to the news.

 

If you like my poetry, please purchase a copy on Amazon.com.

 

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=B.+K.+Neifert&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

My gift to reason

Is this…

 

I don’t know what a Motto is

Nor did I study pool-table history

To find that some pool-tables have green felt

Because it was originally a lawn game.

It would have been my second choice,

Though.

 

But, considering I’ve seen tables

With red, blue, teal

And my old pool table had green felt,

I can safely assume

That the color is neutral, and there,

Really,

To keep from distracting from the balls.

 

A lawyer is smart,

And is good at memorizing things.

A Counter Intelligence Agent

Is good at knowing that Green Eggs and Ham

Started out as a bet.

Rather, though,

A person who’s truly smart

Knows that Green Eggs and Ham

Is developed to cater to a Child’s imagination

So that they imprint an otherwise invisible story

That only the child can understand,

And perhaps the child psychologist who developed it for that reason.

 

Then, someone who sees sociopaths are becoming more frequent—

I think it’s 1 in every 100 now, or maybe even 50—

Knows that there must be something to that fact about Green Eggs and Ham

That when I read it, I see that the child’s mind will imprint a story;

What about the adult mind, consuming our modern stories?

 

Violence is rampant in a violent culture.

A culture without violence

Is one not exposed to violence.

Rather… you only know what you’ve seen.

For the life of me I couldn’t imagine,

Or really even picture

What a penis going into a vagina really looked like

Until I saw it on my first pornography video.

As crude as that may sound.

 

I can say something a thousand times…

It’s still an enigma until I see it.

I can describe an arm being blown off

In a war scene.

But it’s still an enigma what it looks like

Unless I’ve seen it in a movie.

Then I have a visual aid.

I can say that someone’s guts were hanging out…

That they were being dragged along

In a scene of my book…

But unless I’ve watched Black Hawk Down

Or Saving Private Ryan

I don’t know what it looks like.

 

Contrary, I can communicate the feeling

Of going to war by having experienced it in art…

That right fine.

I cannot put a visual in someone’s mind

Unless it’s been seen.

 

What is unseen, is the images and constructs

We’ve wired into an entire population of 300,000,000 people.

How, they automatically have an understanding of some arcane

Demon, which all men, women and children now know as it passes through our modern archetype.

 

I diagnose this…

But I cannot cure it.

I

 

There was a boy

Who liked to cause mischief.

 

He saw the kids at the tire swings playing

Their games… there in the South Yard;

They were content to play.

Then there were the kids at the North Yard

End the of the playground

Who played on the tall structures

And played nicely there, too.

 

What happened was the mischievous boy

Went and told a rumor

To the North Yard Kids

And then went and told a rumor

To the South Yard Kids.

It soon came to be

That the two groups of kids

Fought… and fought hard.

No bloody noses,

But there were some broken lips.

 

Well, the mischievous boy got such a hollering glee

About causing the fight

That he went and stirred up strife

A second time,

 

It was his joy

Because he liked to fight.

But on the third time

The two groups of kids got wise.

They trapped him

And dog piled the mischievous boy.

He got punched in the gut

So that the wind was knocked out of him.

He got a black eye;

He got dog piled.

The whole school joined in the fight against that little

Mischievous boy

Because they realized it was him

Who caused all of the strife.

 

The boy even tried again

After the fight to start a fight;

But nothing ever came of it ever again;

His reputation was ruined.

 

I was that little boy.

So I know that the small,

Tinee-Tiny group of people

Who want to start World War III

Call them Barons of Industry,

Will be found out just like I was.

 

I was simply a schoolyard pest.

These who spoil us…

They’re the robber barons.

They won’t get a black eye.

They’ll get much worse.

 

And me! My black eye healed

The instant it was mentioned to me that I had one.

It was like… in a strange way

I hadn’t really gotten into a fight at all.

So maybe I was seeing someone else.

 

II

 

A second time

I saw a boy about my age

And knew his family was deaf.

So I teased him.—

He started a fight,

Socked me in the mouth

And the eye.

Once he and I were done,

I had a black eye.

But… when I went to my mother

I had no black eye.

It was like the fight hadn’t even happened.

That will be like the one who tries to start a fight with me

And I hadn’t even wanted to fight.

But he came after my family

So the one who socked me in the eye

He’s the one who’s gonna sock you, Prince of Theives;

And I’ve cried like I had a black eye

But there won’t be even the slightest one found on me;

And I won’t even feel a single sting of pain.

Dear,

Ray

 

I don’t want to get rid of movies.

I know you’d be concerned about that.

I like movies…

Frankenstein,

Hunchback of Notre Dame,

John Wayne movies

And the myriads of movies I watch on Turner Classic Movies.

 

I don’t want Edgar Allen Poe to stop being read.

Though, we’d have a disagreement about him

I don’t consider him great literature.

But, there is a subtle respect in me

Of what can be accomplished with words.

As you see, his process is in my list

Of great writing advice.

So are you.

 

I don’t want there to be no rules to writing.

I like punctuation—a little too much.

I like capitalization—not really enough.

 

I don’t like Aldous Huxely, John Steinbeck

Or Voltaire. Yet, Aldous Huxely portrays

What I dread, John Steinbeck also,

And Voltaire solidified my country.

So, I don’t want everyone conforming to my tastes

As my tastes can be, and often are,

Wrong.

 

I’ve attempted publishing 75 times, Ray.

You at least got into Playboy magazine;—

And the myriads of other journals.

I hope you read my writing some day

In heaven— I believe you’re going to heaven

Because you seem adamant about Christ.

A gentile maybe, but one I think has a lot of wisdom.

My writing isn’t being accepted.

I get pretty letters half the time

Saying how they like it…

Just they “Can’t use it.”

What does this mean?

 

If you don’t mind my saying

It sounds an awful lot like Fahrenheit 451.

Excuse me for it being a fundamental work

In shaping my ideas—

You got me to read.

But, when I look at modern rules for writing

I see Orwell’s Newspeak.

I see Beatty arguing with Montag

Wanting to throw Melville into the flames.

I hope you don’t mind my saying so…

Sometimes you seem antagonistic toward me.

But, seventy five times attempted to get published

And I think my work seems unprotected

And out there, what should be published and isn’t.

So, I did what was logical, and went on Amazon.com.

 

I know you hate the internet, Ray.

But, there’s a lot on here to enjoy and be satisfied with.

It, like a saw,

Can be used to build a woodshed.

Or, as gruesome as it might sound,

It can be used for other, unwholesome reasons.

If traditional magazines do not take me,

Then I must do what I have to do.

And when I send out my business cards

Some force doesn’t let them ever produce a single dollar for me.

Rather, I don’t know what’s happening.

Is it my fault?

I’d think you’d be scared as hell as I am

If something you knew was a good story

Was rejected by thirteen publishers.

Furthermore, great works of poetry were rejected by twenty magazines.

Furthermore, great works of novels were rejected by twelve agents.

Furthermore, that the Art Institute got a letter from me

And didn’t reply back.

Furthermore, that I had sent to about twenty more magazines,

Had submitted queries—the fact is I can’t market worth a damn,

Nor sell food to a starving man… I’d probably end up giving him food.

Understand that’s my problem… I believe, Naively, that good writing speaks for itself.

But, it doesn’t in my generation, now does it?

 

Frankly, I see you getting angry with me

Saying I hadn’t tried hard enough.

Oh, Ray, I’ve written 22 books,

A 23rd, and a 24th are on their way…

Who knows what else.

If I were a marketer, I suppose

On book one it’d be sold,

But book 2 would never have been written.

 

Yet… I think like you,

I can be fruitful with success.

And I wonder why I’m not successful.

To the best of my knowledge I have 51 subscribers

On this blog—another attempt at gaining an audience—

I have made 200 dollars, at most,

On my writing, most of it sold to my family

Who do not give a damn about it.

 

So, I ask you, not that you are a god

Because you’re not.

You are in the grave,

Sleeping…

I ask you, what advice is there to give me

When the Reichstag is being committed by our publishing industry?

Please explain it to me. I want to know.

 

Why is Russia allowed to read my writing

And Pakistan

But American publishers don’t publish it?

That’s another unfriendly question.

It’s one I want answered.

I know it’s not my government.

It’s something else.

 

 

Please, if you like this, buy a copy of my book.

 

 

 

 

There once was a city,

With several sage men.

 

The city would elect

Them to office

Based on their wisdom and

Their craft.

 

One day,

However,

The people wanted to

Govern themselves,

So they cast out those sage men,

And began governing by majorities.

 

Soon, a majority called

The Whitemen

Found that there was a minority called

The Blackmen,

And the Whitemen

Didn’t like them.

 

So, having the majority,

They elected that all

The Blackmen

Be enslaved,

Or otherwise killed.

 

The Blackmen

Tried to fight back,

But there was general silence

About their extermination

Because

The Whitemen

Had the majority, and

Other men

Didn’t want to be

Who was exterminated next.

 

With regard,

 

Majority rule doesn’t make something true.