God does not prognosticate. The threshold of knowing when enough was more than satisfactory, was mercilessly breached. Going through duration of purely expressed expletive laden lives has given me a cockeyed view of the gander that you set before me twenty-some-odd. Zero, ninety, eighty, and you wished seventy, but it was not in the operatically perceived minds of such cosmically dubious characters of lustrous amount of divinity candy which to me is a lot of fluff. Nuts. With or without. Did you know that ignorance is the most devastating factor anybody could be presented with in life. Though knowing too much is far more painful than the metastatic myriad diseases that are contagions and repercussions of the untended life. A spanning wing provides you with effort that pulls your wing wider. The intent for everyone where ever you are is to have had your wings pulled by grace. Guiding one another through life is always the responsibility but not the intention of goodness.





----halt and scream, before realizing while I meant prognosticate, I used "divine", thinking of well witching or water divining when I wrote the first version and used "divine".  

Every morning

Crackers, hardtack, flour and water

The natural yeasts in the air

Wooden boxes,

Nails dusted over

Packed tight, twelve gross per

So far removed from hedonism

that aspirations

are only ever daydreams.

I wake in the morning

Lifting the bell to access the

fresh buttercream.

The mechanical beating

separating fat from protein;

cured meats.

Crackers, hardtack, flour and water.

Polyester

Dear polyester, I just wanted to say how weird it is that the sky is the limit.  I am one hundred and five and you literally are the dust in my eyes.  You are such a daily component of life that your rubbing to wear degradation has now been such a persistent infiltrator of human biology that you are a component of every breath.  Your advancements to modern medicine have inspired such dyslexia, deformity and wrinkle free face, that we love you.  We can't live without you.  We can't live without you even if we tried.  We feed you to our food animals on purpose.  Your efficacy is immeasurable, you are designed by a manufacturer to be biologically toxic.  Love.  Your greatest influences are yet to be achieved.  I herald the day when your omnipresence in the human biology comes to fruition and becomes necessary like minerals.  We will be your polyester babies, enduring, within our very being, our own prophylactic eternal existence.  We won't decay, we will endure, mounding upon ourselves, slipping around one another in our polyester bodies; our cosmic undoing.

Efforts

Efforts plus.
Secret prayers skirt the dream
and direct anew a kindred unborn, because light
is measurable immensely.
Fragments of splattered grease only mean
that the penetration was sloppily attempted.
You're a broken bicycle chain
to a mechanically inclined hippie
with no tools.
Even if I were attempting to be
Earth-friendly
I'd be grit to your cogs.
Fore the forlorned twere
the utmost mostest of the desperate desperates.
A struggles fight just might bite
a hole in the clouds,
tearing a hole in the schismatic idea of Jesus.
Why is your orgasmic euphoria a euphemism
for tightly tubed toothpaste
that I expectedly and only desire
to expectorate down a drain
because a swirling drain is the specific depiction
that allows you to specifically draw my efforts from me.
With my cryingly or recidivist odious crippled humor
dill and cucumbers
do not make a pickle.

Chad Linder

02/04/2015 10pm

Dust

It is, was, were and will always be a filthy place.

Please don't... try.

Pump me full of drugs and

things to remove my lucidity.

beat on me, use me and remove my facade

crumbled and crumpled on the ground

I cry so long that six feet tempts me.

And then I damn you to Hell for the hell you placed me in,

I curse you and you strike me and drug me and remove

my lucidity

Cast-offs, hand-me-downs, waters-under-the-bridge

bitter Spirit, the spirits burn... as one by one they go down.

Churning, they are burning.

My piece is my peace and your final resting place.

Indignant, you may know too much, but is...

there such thing.

I'm so old now, so lesser, a lesser being, beginning to reach towards my end.

No one remembers, except the dust in my filthy place

however, it has promised not to tell.

Written 11 pm -ish December 31, 2014.
Written by Chad Linder
In order for four-fourths of everything.

Bi-bi double trouble

bi-closeted they said so, to do it

I drink to touch you... and him

I drink to touch him... and you

I suck because I suck, you suck,

I suck him... I, I fuck you, I don't make love to you

I'm gay, I'm not, with a murder looming I thought

that I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not into you

and you are not into what I am because

you rest comfortable in bigotry and pomp

and all of pomp's circumstance.

Bump after bump, clearly you are not my drug of choice

your voice is ire and stills my choice.

Your noise is boys and oh dear gaud yes sir!

Yank, your doodle... dandy, because-I-am-a-dandy-

and-Mandy u-r-a c.r.i.m.i.n.a.l.

It is all so surreal for an appeal.

For your judgement.

Angst, ire and grime it is now time to be in...

double trouble

Inspiration and muse

I opened you up to a treasure that

in immediacy was incomprehensible

but when you opened yourself up to

your reality you made my gift

seem sand grain, mustard seed, infantile.

Be a magic that can sustain those you reach to

bathe in a light multitudinal and monumental.

Be genuine and magnanimous except with those

who will use your light or attempt to dally with your

spiritual elevation.

Be forever and transient

Light, love and us

for I'll be there on a sunny day and

in the light of a street lamp.

Please dream of me, because I do dream of you.