The LL Adult content ban is still a joke.

Here's another example of a non-adult parcel that advertises free sex... and is not rated adult.

And as for people cruising for adult content there, how about this snippet:

[2009/09/17 15:53] Lillie Yifu: I am well

[2009/09/17 15:53] Romantic Camel: where u from ?

[2009/09/17 15:54] Lillie Yifu: I am from the east coast of the US.

-- Instant message logging enabled --

[15:55] Romantic Camel: nice

[15:55] Romantic Camel: how old r u ?

[15:56] Lillie Yifu: I didn't know I was interviewing for a job from you

[15:56] Lillie Yifu: leanr some manners please

[15:57] Lillie Yifu: Good bye

[15:59] Romantic Camel: 1. they don't normally ask for your age when u go for interviews. 2. I am only asking for your age to check i am not chatting with 15 years old girl when i am 30. 3. I do have manners thank you and I don't think what I said is any wrong so thanks for your time and have a nice day

[15:59] Romantic Camel: Good bye

to which he later added:

Romantic Camel: thank you very much for your comments which shows the level of manners u have so i won't go to your level.. this conversation is over and sorry for wasting my time

He went on about how he has manners. Notes for the clueless here:

1. It is good manners if asking an rl personal question to respond in kind. As opposed to creepy stalker behavior.

2. It is good manners not to ask someone's age first off.

3. It is not good manners to keep coming with aggressive justifications after the first person said good bye.

4. It is really stupid not to read profiles. You might find out you are talking to someone who blogs.

5. Being an egotistical jerk is not a winning way of making friends.

Poetry Year September 15

Do not touch the subject with your eye,

but only paint, the contact of the brush against the canvas

is all that is that ever is.

Union with the tides between the waves that are paint,

the beach that is the brush,

the peninsula that is the stem,

that joins the foam of fermenting ideas,

with the solidity of the fluid world.

Cover every canvas only with what you see.

Meditation on the meaning that disentangles

the subject from the artist,

it is there, there there.

But oh how all of this is false,

to paint is to embrace the outside

take it whole and holy, in.

As I would make this permanence of a dew,

so I must take into myself,

the wonder that is you.

Content makers sue LL

For "allowing" and "facilitating" piracy. What this is really, is a way of pressuring LL to put in DRM.

More sims defect

More sims have decided that orgies don't count as adult content, including Free Sex Land, one of the largest.

Massive non compliance with new rules

Just search for "free sex" with adult off. You get something like this image.

Poetry Year September 6th - September 14th

September 6th

Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
All is still,
Distilled, and still yet pure in essence,
Until symmetry, that fearful mistress of the classic age,
A bitch of virgin god for virgin god,
Chaste and cold, balanced and blind,
While seeing all she ought to now,
Breaks into pieces
That bounce and shatter across the faded flowers
On the floor of stone,
Etched by some forgotten craftsman,
Unto the specifications set,
By some matron who,
Enriched by her frigid sex,
Gave orders in another age.

People were shorter then, and now
The walls feel quaint to taller miens.
But here I am home to homeless,
Because it was a time,
That was proportioned
To my figure face and features.

I touch the wood,
Varnished to a burnished burnt Siena,
And crystallized to age.

The warmth that all that mistress symmetry
And matron history,
Both lacked,
Now bubbles through, to my senses.

September 7th

Consumed by a muse of fire,
Sing you goddess, of all the wrath,
That is of men and arms.
Call forth bright consequence,
In that year of our lord 18__
When this manuscript was found,
When once upon a time,
Long long ago, in a galaxy far far away.
All happy families were still alike.
Call me Ishmael or by any other name,
As the clocks are striking thirteen.
There is beginning here,
I am in need of her,
Where Janus needed two faces,
I know you, birth to all things,
Are twinned in every cell.

September 8th

A bitter betrayed generation,
Now turns it's eager gaze down to the meaning of its gyration,
Having lapped up the blood and sinew of the war god's mettle,
Having crushed the bone and flesh to pulp and fragment,
Now urges to feast upon the very life of the life that is left.

They would rape us of our minds,
And take us of our bodies,
And torment us of our efforts,
That we, poor cogs, might turn turn turn turn
In the wheels of time and tide that accost us in our hour of woe.

We are alone and lost, sheep crying in the wilderness,
Longing to go home without a home,
For there is no house of the holy
To hold us.
It is not our temple that incenses burn in,
Nor to our goddess bright eyed, that smells the smoke,
Of contemplation of a divined time.

Goddess mercy, your black hair cascades around your nape and shoulders,
And down your torso.
My hand grips the charcoal with every anger,
And pastel the streaks that are burned by tears,
The grays of pencil do become,
The shades of mystery that you bear.
I can not draw you forth,
Because I cannot draw you out,
Of which ever cavern you hide within.

Why was he lost to the maw of some forsaken war,
In the graveyard to where empires go to die?

September 9th

September I look into your eyes with jealousy,
The torrent of garland bright fallen leaves
A garland around your eyes, focused forward
On the swirls of clouds that crunch low on the horizon.
I stare at your perfect form, the dream of dreams,
And the locus of lusts that have many names.

I see the men around me want you in all your features and forms,
And bear to penetrate your darkness, all your darknesses.
They crave to fuck your mouth,
That fountain stop of words, and so to gag the eloquence,
That thermal months have formed.
They crave to fuck your cunt,
That entrance to immortality, so to copy some portion of their spirit,
Lithe design, on the canvas of your covenant come.
They crave to fuck your ass,
Ripping out the agency of your permission,
And give into that orgiastic desire,
Of war's homoerotic bonding,
Which is what they would truly have if they could have,
That you would be a man, a woman, a thing,
All at once to their crushed perfume.

They do not know you,
As they would know you,
For they do not know themselves.

The flowers of spring must be cut or plucked,
The seeds of summer harvested and shucked.
But the fruits of autumn fall red into eager waiting hands.
Why do you slut yourself this way?


September 10th

Your hands flow,
Over my breasts,
Over the tender pain
That comes to them,
And their prominence
With the coming of my fertility.
Aching wanting to reduplicate
And double
That beautiful face
That gazed down into my eyes
As I was wrapped,
Spasms of pleasure,
Enraptured of a dream.

September 11th

The ageless age that was another age,
When madness reigned,
And words had lost their meaning,
Come let us break the fast,
Over the wheel,
And every law carved in runes or rules,
Is shattered by our perfidity.
Let us remember how the great monument,
To their sacrifice,
Is a deepening pit,
Ruled over by demons speared,
Constitution by Heirony

There is a shadow,
It is a plane,
It is flying much too low.
God help them all.

There is a shadow,
It is a plane,
And it is flying much too low.
God help us all.

September 12th

Call me.
Really,
I am here, in the voice and the flesh,
For you,
Though we touched
Only through
The keys of the qwerty kingdom
Without a king,
And so delved
Into the queen of spades.
Leaving me
A child of nature to wonder
What it is
Men truly want.

September 13th

It is the end of one world, and the passing away of all it was
A wind that blew the flotsam and jetsam of refuse and anger
On to shores of rejection and need,
Close hold close at far remove
Giving everything for nothing in a place of contact without touch.

Vanquish the ugliness within in ugliness without
To have the empty moanings without pleasure,
Lust without need,
Love without love
Narcissus thy flower blooms in a thousand gardens.

Leaving us here, at the end of this ocean of sweat and sperm
Spatter over the hands of those,
Who would not work to save their lives.
It is a hymn to the end of a world
This world,
The only world they want or know.

Comes it must,
The turning of a page that balances figures,
And having writ, moves on,
Without pity,
Without wit.


September 14th

Somehow she died,
And an altar became
Sacrifice to human depravity,
A space within a wall her tomb,
Touched by cold hand,
Somehow known to her,
That she left behind,
All the keys to her identity.
Leaving a groom holding frail flowers,
Now bleached white
Drained of life and blood,
That is swallowed
Into that pit.

Poetry Year September 5

Wading into white, diving in to sea of flowers,

to be showered for a day by the accolades and smiles,

to once be painted like a painting,

or a whore,

and glisten glamor before the cameras on this one day,

but never more?

The bonding that is present comes and goes with other tides,

moments spent fraught with insecurity,

tormented by suspected lies.

But on this one glowing moment,

brought to cusp of the only ritual we know,

this one happiness is made serene

by matrimony's glow.

Poetry Year September 4

Once I lusted much, and loved too little,

found, all of my life, was far too brittle.

I cannot waste it, any more.

I cannot taste it as before.

Once upon a time,

there was a maiden,

she cried, such bitter tears,

by love forsaken.

She was tormented by what her life was for.

She found a place of such invented seasons,

lost amid the search for other reasons.

She found it's rituals and its lore.

Whispers from the secrets of the sacred,

now crushed within the search for profane hatreds.

It is gelded by its own design,

left for other regions, and a clime,

of other minds.

But whisper is an echo in a theatre so large

no field is fallow forever.

Cast it quiet, the seeds,

and scatter them,

see what nature, has in store.

Poetry Year September 3

Annointed by tears, that love that cries for union,

soullessly slips from one heart, drowned in salt and ire.

A cold and closed wooden womb, walls white,

painted cloister, through which so many lives have passed,

and many more will come.

I rent this place to hide from winds of loneliness and terror,

the buffeting truth that home has slipped from me,

is slipping away, there is no place that calls me its own.

This heart is wrenched from me, as oft as I looked up and feel,

your eyes are empty of all compassion,

and callously you cut me from your life,

as a fisher might pull a leech,

and cast it back,

into the open water.

To sink

from sight

without

a trace

into the

black

of

I.

Poetry Year September 2

Brocades of silk entwine my hair,

that cascades around my shoulders.

I stare with false intensity,

to brush the tangles from it's length.

The sheen of care makes halo of the dark strands,

that flow over my shoulders.

You gaze at me, longing and wanting,

needing and craving.

But I, ensconced in felininity,

am exude ennui.

But for me you will do anything,

and follow me anywhere.

A twitch of my finger,

a turn of my head,

a shape of my thigh,

a twist of my torso,

will like tides overwhelming,

sweep you out beyond the sight of land.

I smile, and you brighten,

I stretch taut my body, and my nipples press,

visible through sheer curtain of my blouse.

You follow,

I lead.

And in the darkened side light street,

reeking with dank sweat and anger,

they will stab you, rake you with their knives,

tear your liver from your belly,

and leave you crying for you mother,

pleading not to die.

Oh yes I am such a witch,

because enthralled the same,

I am as helpless before my desire,

as you were to yours.

In death, in life,

it is the same,

servile before

the screeching demands,

of that hidden whip

that lashes across our most private parts,

leaving scars, that never heal.

[A girl, 16, was convicted in Britain for luring her ex-boyfriend to be stabbed to death by the boy she wanted and his posse.]

Poetry Year September 1

Screaming from some unseen height,

they deal death, by permanent night.

Unseen buzzing of turbofan insects,

locust plague that has descended from sky's intersects.

Screeching down like lightning strikes,

frail devastation that entwines the smoke,

that points a finger to that point of destruction,

whose appetite has curdled in the stomach,

a worm.

Streaming out are bleeding eyes and tears,

children held in arms, from hospital now tomb.

Colder than cold,

darker than dark,

Emptied of soul.

Above, the locusts, fly on fly on.

Above, the locusts, fly on fly on.

Poetry Year August 31

Subscribe Now!

It's all here, everything you want,

extended member in the barnyard,

a credit card is all you need,

aren't you tired of your old watch?

Subscribe Now!

I beg to ask you I am the honorable,

who has money for you for no reason at all.

Barack Obama wants you to send yours to me.

Subscribe Now!

And everything will be better in bed.

Even if you don't even have,

what we want to give you more of.

Poetry Year August 31 - "Omnipossible bondage made"

g	e	a	r	s	t	u	r	n
	h	o	w	e	v	e	r	i
	t	h	o	l	d	s	i	g
	a	s				i	g	h
	p	e	t	h	e	l	h	t
	a	l	o		s	k	t	s
	e	f	n	t	c	t	o	p
	t	c	m	n	h	o	r	i
	a	i	a	i	e	s	w	r
	d	m	I	r	r	k	r	a
	i	e	t	p	e	i	o	l
	c	d	e		d	n	n	n
	u	n	y	a	t	s	g	i
	l	e	r	u	t	u	s	g
	e	w	n	a	c	w	o	h

Poetry Year August 30

There are seventeen lines left,

in this life, this life.

This flight of flower, or butterfly,

rising from ashen earth and arcing,

to cold conclusion.

There are twelve lines left,

in this life, this life.

So many to be wasted in waiting,

repetition and redundancy,

like all life, all lives, all living things.

There are seven lines left,

in this life, this life,

and wings spread denied the lift,

of air that truly breathes,

or heart that truly sings.

There is but

one line left. Good night.

Poetry Year August 29th

No vacancy.
 o V can y I should say.
The dead neon eye stares on the side of darkened road,
casting a pallor of life like light,
that is a dusk of some arcane dawn.

Esoterica the erotica of forelorn folk
who gather along formica tables,
and slurp sugar infested coffee,
and speak.

Speak in gravel voice of the aliens,
or the folk, or vampyre shades that slurry
through the air of this hollow land.
Gaunt figures aged by etched hours,
of soot and smoke and fumes.

I huddle close to your arm.
You know I do not belong here,
and yet you lead me on to the paper thin room,
and the rock hard bed.
To partake of some pleasure that your own life denies,
and mine cries out for.

I am 18, and do not know yet,
that what is happening,
is bitter wrong.

Poetry Year August 28th

Gracious airs that dance in light,
lilting on the tongues, casting before the eyes.
Stage left.

A tree with no roots hangs from the steel beamed sky,
it will never grow, but to a heaven ascend.

Stage right.

I stand, blocked exact and know,

this glory that is the unknown,

who first crosses the threshold into night's day,

and day's eternity.

I know my steps, and hover,

to look down and drink the attention,

that laps in waves upon the beach of eternity.

The poets of the ancient stage,

the mandarins of golden age,

collect and look down at this

the child of two worlds collision,

now perched on this,

the fulcrum of life,

with which we move stone hearts to tears.

Poetry Year August 27th

Sleek lined forms, in rounded shadows,

cut and cast from silver into bronze,

in quest of Nazi gold.

Arms beyond stretched that to horizon extend,

like the empire they would encompass so soon.

So much flesh and blood,

so hard the flesh and stone,

a hacked cross their banner,

and bright their thousand year future called.

Olympia, filmed in grace,

touched by that sacred innocence,

that only evil can no.

Unlined by conscience,

blared forth in trumpets,

and blazoned in blood.

Poetry Year August 26th The Hurricane, For EMK after Bob Dylan

Pistol shots ring out in the California night.

The whole world was wrong,

Nothing could go right.

Oh my god they've killed the dream.

Here comes the story of the Hurricane,

The man the Republicans came to blame,

for something he would never do

Kept from a prison cell,

but one time he could-a been

The leader of the world.

A car in a river every one could see,

a woman name Kopeche a drowning reed.

Stories rattled and decomposed.

Two bodies there, one dead the other still living.

All the good cut loose in the fog.

His brother's eulogy might as well have been his own.

A gin flower's last seed wilting under the hot television lights.

But the fever had not quite run,

he still knew that they had more terms than one.

Kept from a destiny,

but one time he could-a been

The leader of the world.

Against an era and a President failed,

on a convention podium he railed.

The last liberal that anyone knew,

he was the last man who knew what to do.

But the ballots were all marked in advanced,

the whole country never stood a chance.

No surprises were just the surprise,

by a hollow actor they were hypnotized.

When the chances went down to defeat,

he just got up and went back on his feet.

Carved his name on the senate seats,

too many battles, but so few retreats.

Denied the dollars he found a few dimes,

it was the best he could do in these times.

So let me tell you about the Hurricane,

the man the Republicans came to blame,

but it won't be over till the bill bears his name,

because our lives are not an insurance game.

Kept from the Presidency,

but one time he could-a been

The leader of the world.

Within sight of his life long dream,

he was stricken down and crossed over that stream.

Left the world as the teabaggers scream

about some insane Hitler meme.

Don't you know that in the camps,

everyone had health care from the state?

They've just robbed the register,

they hope you'll understand,

that's what it means to be free,

in this Christian land.

So that's the story of the Hurricane,

his fall and rise and return to fame,

tangle with forces that he couldn't quite tame.

Kept from the promised land,

but one time he could-a been

healer of the world.

Poetry Year August 26th

"The Listening Room"

My ledger counts the figures,
figures of faces,
figurative language.
Rounded curves of "8"
suggest the one whose breasts were cut off.
Sharp point of "7" the one whose lower hair was burned away.
To make sure there were no lice.
"3" can slip both ways, breasts or balls,
or roundness of hips.
Of course we know what "1" suggests.

It still sears in side me, that first one,
my husband's blood spattering in my face,
his mutilated sex in my mouth as a gag,
while to soldiers, some not shaving,
took their turns.

Day o day o sang the 10 year old,
patting his banana clipped third arm.
He was too young, so he pushed the barrel,
between my hips,
where I am small.

Then they tied my daughters to the wall,
the pretty one to keep as a slave.
The other they tied
like "2"
spread eagle and out.
The sickness ones raped her.
Then they chopped her to pieces.
I still see her head,
hair splayed on the ground.
like "9"
I sat on a chair
and wept for two days.

Then my husband's family came,
and took the house,
because my son and husband were dead.
No men, no money.

So I walked. I think I was raped again
while I slept curled by the road,
like "5"
I am not sure.

Then I came to work here,
in the listening room.
The first week,
the soldiers came,
tied me to the chair,
like "4"
and raped me every place
until my every opening,
even where I piss,
was
like "0"

They were chased away.

So I have counted every figure,
been every number on this ledger.
I am not from some far away place,
with clean panties,
and nice packaged tampons,
who has only shivered at a story.
I am every woman here,
like you.

We will feed you,
and you are as safe here as any place,
because the UN is here,
and they know there are cameras
from CNN
the outside,
so they can't sleep on this job.

Tell me your story.
And I will put it here.
The swinging sign,
the smell of the grass roof.
Have some tea.
Let me record this,
so there will be no mistake,
no denial.
Tell me names,
it can't hurt now.

Here let me comb your hair,
this wash cloth is clean,
and this will dry you.
The tea is fresh.
Really.

This is the Listening Room.
I am here to listen,
because I have been there to scream.
My mouth open,
blood still pouring out.
Like this "6" here.
You cannot write?
I will teach you.

There are letters,
and each one reminds me,
of a story.
But the worst letter,
is blank,
because there is no story,
until someone has sat,
in the listening room.

Poetry Year August 25th - After reading too much tang poetry in one sitting

Mountains, moons, clouds and birds, – all crumbled in a heap.

Tang poets knew their moment well – wine induced remorse.

They've forgotten what they've forgotten – remembering it so well.

I feel the baroque carriages – bone built palaces there they dwell.

Five characters can contain a world – and excluded a world even wider.

Poetry Year August 25th

The great swan to the sea comes,

the yellow pond cannot hold her interest.

In the cypress tree the kingfisher watches.

From the roof of the wooden treasure he watches.

The beauty of the winged rise, compels the god to be wicked wisely.

I pull an arrow from the trunk, who hunted such a bird?

(after Zhang Jiuling)

Poetry Year August 25th

Tick and call me gamelon

hear the rhythms all day long,

can't do right, or can't do wrong,

it's just a never ending song.

Hot by the sun,

warm by the sea,

spray from the salt foam,

it's an island fantasy.

But then you look out to the faces,

in the not so pretty places,

the dirt the despair in their eyes,

still there after a thousand tries.

So take the happy pictures,

from the glossy airline features,

put them in your memory,

just a little bit like me.

Flown from the harvest lands,

down to the repast hands,

searching for your madonna,

that's become your mania.

So think as you sleep on her sheets,

that they are two steps from the dirty streets,

feel her tongue on all your skin,

realize she's poor within.

However well she coos your name,

you're just another boy the same.

It's a game you cannot win,

because you are still white foreign.

Don't you hear, or don't you see,

no have happy from misery,

no have rich from poverty,

no solitude from company.

Ticky tacky timp and touch,

you will never learn that much

the language of the beating drums

will never be your native tongue.

She'll fade like flowers in the sun,

and I will still be your only one.

One of the major free sex sims went Zyngo

Free Sex Empire is now in the Zyngo business. The thing to remember about all of the cock dumps is that they don't do it out of the goodness of their hearts, but because it attracts campers. That one of the largest can vanish is not surprising, because as a business model, charging for raw traffic, in the form of mall space, is a dying idea. Partially because more people are buying content on web sites, partially because, well, it's just never been a good road to getting anything.

Another sign that SL is saturated, when there aren't even horny new guys to camp a mall.

Lillie is on buying strike again

The new viewer constantly has people seeing me as a cloud. If people can't see the content I buy, I am not buying any. Period.

Poetry Year August 24th

The ghost of poetry stalks my meter,

a gait that gallops, lame, and halts.

Seized by moments of ecstatic spasm,

and lost by placid splay of rest.

I turn, and find you dressing in the moonlight,

I cry and beg you,

don't go out the door.

The stars that guide you are inscrutable,

burying deep your secret lusts,

That headed monster that I eat,

but that eats my soul,

and snaps my bones into nether shapes

wrapped around it for your reveries.

I straddled you like a horse,

but there is no return to here from here.

There is a swamp we enter,

seeping from your angry eyes.

Don't go out the door.

I witness you rave at the wall,

as your write your questions,

on my skin,

to some heaven.

I will take you through any door,

if only you will leave that one,

closed.

Poetry Year August 23rd

Rise and I sing a new song,

fall and I am a cloud with tears for rain.

Walled by worries, and cares,

I get drunk,

on the scent of liquor,

or the sight of tomorrow.

The mountains are more lonely,

their waters colder,

the years pass unmarked in desolate hamlets,

huddled around the giant's curling toes.

Exile it is among them a spirit,

that settles like the winter clouds.

Walk and recite your favorite rhymes.

On your return, I will play your flute,

and draw from you sounds,

that break the muteness of your habit.

Since ancient times the fall is sorrow,

but these are better than the spring,

because in the green there are false hopes,

while now the harvest is very real.

Call your curses by their colors,

golden flowers, blackened brines,

dragons that lust for other blood.

Rats that eat the votes that are cast,

and shit the votes that will be counted.

But once your gales are truly blown,

their rogue waves crested and carried away,

then settle to the work of plucking,

the fruit that waits, naked, for you.

Here.

(After several Tang poems.)

Poetry Year August 22

歳星

I follow the heavens of a glowing eye,

that stares in at the nearer months of heat.

The sun rises through the wood,

and even in the husk of summer,

it is spring for an aching hour of early light,

that touches through the green.

But noon, oh noon, she is cruel to me,

there is the fire in the south,

high upon the sky,

a vermilion bird that wings over,

snatching us like winged beetles where we stand.

Only the close earth heralds the change of season,

or perhaps the breath of the wind.

Around trees curls the yellow dragon.

Wisps of red touch from his lips.

From the living west it will come,

the autumn to lift this weight.

The mountains will be touched with White Tiger,

and love will rise as lonely petals seek

that last comfort of the dying dew.

North I stare at barren mountain,

as black as tortoise shell.

Soon to be clad in other tones,

as fleet crows circle nigh.

It is the year of my yin,

waiting, waiting, for a touch

of other essence.

Poetry Year August 21st

The idylls in the field of flowers, dotted suns

that spread across a sallow green.

I pick one that has turned to tufted seed,

and blow the bright parachutes towards

eager anticipated germination.

My thoughts are with them scattered,

to land in far corners.

Perhaps to grow,

perhaps to sleep

perhaps as an offering by some fey creature,

to a monarch in inhuman keep.

Perhaps to flower,

perhaps to rot,

perhaps pressed in book,

as forget me not.

The strands of our fingers entwined,

about the fragile stem of nature's vase,

support a shivering of a wind more sublime

than the the one enfolding seed in its embrace.

The contact shivers,

and my bones are rattled

by the front of coming storm.

That in my eye I see beyond this day

beyond this field

beyond this moment,

when to your seed I yield.

Poetry Year August 21

Winged victory, with face long smashed and forgotten

towers over us, as ruin does over forgotten plain.

Worn down by wishes, with compromise besotten,

the city on a hill, is lost under the rain.

A rain that falls upon us, and stings like acid on high,

a darker day is dawning, a sunrise dusk is nigh.

In distance the towers, made of glass and pain,

reflect the new colors mourning, counting up the gain.

Etched by ages are the marks upon her feathers,

remnants of the turning weathers,

Monsoon, tide, and storms that have writ,

their comment on our earthly wit.

But still she stands there, her shadow reminds,

imperfectly, our triumphs leave behind designs.

Poetry Year August 20 The Option of the Public

"The Option of the Public"

The humid haze that is the due of August days,

the love coming from other sun's skies,

take me to river,

drop me in the water.

On a summer hill they fought over words,

riven between the love of all madness,

and the madness that is love for all.

take me to the river,

drop me in the water.

How many candles for the lost we lit,

from the sickness overcome.

Death by poverty,

the sentence for that common crime.

So many on death row,

in every county, state, and town.

Drenched by death and illness,

in debt they cry and drown.

Take me to the river,

Drop me in the water.

He had a dream.

That all God's children,

Would get to that mountain,

that mountain we peer to

still on far horizon.

Is he atop it looking on,

beckoning to follow,

and reflected in that every turning pool,

that is the mirror of a body politic.

Take to me to the river,

drop me in the water,

and baptize me a new,

with a new birth of freedom.

We cannot hallow, we cannot consecrate this ground,

the legions of the lost to sickness,

have hallowed it,

and their blood is a wide deep river.

Take me to the river,

Drop me in the water.

From that river let us come to the air,

for that is what the air is for,

and pledge ourselves a new day,

where upon our own,

we war no more.

Between our desert of decision,

and our shining promised city,

is this wasteland we have wandered

for forty days, and forty days, and forty more.

For forty years I'm told,

and before that some forty more.

He went out into the wasteland

and asked for blessing.

Take me to the river.

Drop me in the water.

And if we fail on this day

to do our daily bread,

let me not come up for breath again.

Poetry Year August 20

Gather globes of red that shimmer in the memory,

beneath which cluster long blond legs, and waves.

They look out with blank broken smiles and call,

cat call, can call, all call and cross check,

for a trace of moisture that might touch their lips and lives,

and so free them for a moment to imagining imagining.

Cluster the vacant leers, that grope and grab for any touch

of time or mind, but wish most of more of all,

to take and force for little livid things

that precious touch of soul soft sincerity,

that held with the heart and mind would bring them satiation.

And so the dance of taking is transfered from this world unto that,

the meaning of the maze the same, though no rats run in it.

With hold, and hold back, tease against take,

Cold contempt the currency, for the ladies of the red light quarter.

A.F. Vandevost's spring rtw collection has a very clear target audience

Mick Jagger's female clone.

Phillip Lim should

just give in and design for boys. He already is.

Poetry Year August 19th

For eight years of eternal war the globe has burned,

the anti-Christ that struck on September spurned,

to this was piled another cataclysm,

without name or knowledge, without ism.

For eight years the soot spewed on high,

until wretched defeat was tasted nigh,

the tiny hands of bright decay,

stalked the cities of light and day.

When toppled the tinker toys of financial princes,

through the blood the poison of recession rinses.

The coffers of the anointed swell,

the unction spat from some mathematic hell.

The oil that greases the wheels of woe,

comes from our vaults, not some place below.

Poetry Year August 18th

The holy hymns your father's duty sang

that tided them betwixt the storm and drang,

that flew like banners before army's throng,

sacred world of war to which you belong.

Those spires that stab the borough's heaven,

the sleepy sounds, of divine inspired lies,

the 6000 years your God has only made,

the cities to waste he is to have laid.

The shattered walls and pillars thunder-split,

the ageless torment in infernal firepit,

the mindless slaughter and cacophonous din,

that is struck on doubter's torture within.

All these things your wars will now soon outclass,

as you wrench to hold Khyber winter pass.

Poetry Year August 17th

Gasp and grasp like dying diver drowned

Or rasp like king overthrown before crowned.

Like asp to breast impaled you claw,

all the world is sucked into sullen maw.

The ocean whirlwind swirled leaves,

the shreds of fatal dignities,

the dismember hands and arms do fly,

the parts of all your little lies.

To wretched timbers twirl and swing,

like dust the wind of your malevolence sling,

plastered to them the shards of light,

that once guided us through tender night.

Your name is maelstrom, made of city's scraps

Now haven for explosive traps.

Poetry Year August 16th

You spat on me and called me a whore,

a bitch for the love money abhored.

But your glances fell hot upon my face,

my face that is your sun and eager dusk.

My race that is rising wrapped around your prominence.

You surrendered that other essence to me,

that heart of what once named a seed,

until once proud you bent like winded reed.

That's all you were, another moment or three.

You buried your face in my musk,

you tortured your conscience in place,

you surrendered to unholy decadence,

Within your face the cravings warred.

You tell me this is what I am for,

only this, and nothing more.

Poetry Year, August 15

August 15th

These are the dying times, that is the passing away,

of all your coming to bes, and all your growth is decay.

These are the moments of light's slow deflickering,

from snapshot of genius to slurred imitation.

These are the places to where your souls go,

when from the grains of the body, there is no more motion.

These are the ages, of conflict and bickering,

Where what was always known, we no longer know.

These are the dying times, when powers are fading,

When out on the vast dark sea, you enter, wading,

And feel it's tide rise and fall, ebb and flow,

Until, with mercy on your minds, to your final rest you go.

Poetry Year, August 14th

rivulets from rain on high stream down the window,

and they are tears from some angel, who is as lost as this.

I know here, she has loved and lost for all epochs

that will every be from this moment now.

Her grief is ageless, endless, and no less,

for being immortal grief, whose time unmeasured by clocks.

How much suffering could one angel bear,

before bearing down her celestial wing'ed light?

How much loss can one soul save,

That she would be stricken in her flight?

How heavy now the air, crackled with lightning's rave,

How weighed by tears an angel lost,

for out of nowhere, and down to here.

She, she goes on, for lost to perdition,

the mortal whose condition,

was too haunted by the wounds of sin,

to give over to his angel within.

And for that angel, there is only to dwell,

in a paradise, that has become her hell.

Poetry Year August 14th

Every poem its own day

deep, dawn, noon, dusk, and dark.

The colors fade with every shifting of the words,

obscuring by clouds of distance,

life breathing meaning, that fills our lungs.

Every word its own droplet,

every droplet its own world,

filled with struggles for life and death,

more potent than any human war,

cells that absorb and rip asunder,

the very walls that bear in

the precious seed of life.

Every syllable its own language,

shaped just once, surrounded by its past and future,

heading, hurtling, towards its own destiny.

Every sound its own song,

as filled with all the melodies,

as there were ages in this and every other age.

Every stroke its own art,

a history from it's start to stop,

a slash across the face of very void.

Every ripple that sops the ink from brush,

every point that glows black or white,

every stubble that is filled with blank or verse,

every movement, for better or for worse.

Each of these will dissolve like dew,

for all I write, is filled with you.

Poems August 12-13

(OK so I'm almost from tall blonde Montana boy, but not quite yet.)

August 12th

It was a picture that dropped my heart through the floor to think of you,

not the flesh and blood presentation that fills the space and time.

It was the way you stared into some occult infinity,

cradling it in your eyes.

You know my love for you was always for another,

that some how you transmuted into your own spun gold,

a tall god of shining aura, that light that comes from the utter north,

curtains of green that shimmer between the leaden mortal lands,

and the bright realm we only imagine there is.

Now that light is fading, the way they say that pictures used to do,

but now they live on in twilight glow,

were I sit, hand on palm, elbow pillared to my desk,

staring at what never was, and what might have been.

But with a touch and click,

I close that chapter of my life,

a page is gone.

and like the last moment of the sun that is eclipsed by the towers,

of this my city,

my place,

it winks to darkness.

It is done, and gone, and ever more.

August 13th

Look up, and you are falling,

It stretches straight into vanish point eternity,

touches point the sky,

piercing, at least, the lunar sphere.

What great designs are made there,

what fields of ruin are sown,

what wheels of commerce are rusted shut there,

what lives are sent to debtor's toil.

Ah the edifice of emancipation,

defying the laws of gravity and man,

to give us this canal from sea to shining sea,

that conduit from laughter into tears,

from idle moments, into dry years.

These pillars the masts and sails,

of a vessel blown by winds of fortune,

sailing on a sea of risk.

It sails from this city, which was, once the capital of the world,

And it now still, only of an under world.

an ether world,

so aptly a never never land,

for this ship of dire straits that has sailed,

will never never land.

Poems August 9th-August 11th

August 9th

Riding a comet of other nights, beneath the roaring clouds,

grey quickening from a hail that splits the air with its velocity.

In truth the waves of din that shower up the tin drum roof,

of this, a swiftly moving car

Going deeper, ever deeper into the night.

The headlights peer into restless swirls of fog and bleak,

until the exit, many miles in coming,

slams into our vision.

Oh how silent I am, how my lips are pursed.

How much I have said, and yet long to say,

but will not say.

My golden years are short and shrinking,

can I should I must I wait, and give them over to you.

You distant from me,

as far away as the gray vault stretches up,

the sweeping spotlights of some distant town,

pillars to that infinity.

Can I with any grace give,

that pulse that drives me like a beating banging drum,

the banging drum of pounding hail.

That is within, not without. Within.

Cliches swirl through my sleep starved head,

I long

I ache

I would throw up instead, and say nothing,

rather than write such peevish trash,

in ode to what I feel.

Once when first we touched our eyes,

a softening gaze alighted glance on another,

you were all that was real, and otherwise,

I stumbled through a dream,

a haze,

a shower of cold alone.

Now you are so far from me,

though the veins on your hands are carved in the corner of my eye,

your features chiseled in my memory,

your eyes fixed out towards the road beyond,

and slipping nigh.

Into the distance.

August 10th

You know of course, you always knew,

how bad the contemporary poet is,

writing reflections and sopping sound

with the hemorrhaging of loathe sentimentality.

Clasping clawing on to moments that are made of kitsch collected,

and shoved sidewise through one ear,

and out the empty other.

You know, of course, you always knew,

how I would be given to these,

not flights of fancy,

but slogs of sloth,

a lazy turn of phrase to make

the cruelest emptiness of our life's journey.

For better rhymes we cast about,

for some chain of the trinity we reach,

but it our grasp is exceeded.

No, Dante died so long ago,

that his eternal embroidered poetic prose

as if made perfect by that other sun,

that spins about the earth,

moved by a love that made a world,

this world.

Or so it says in your mythology.

Mine has been lost in all the details,

to soot and incense in crag'd, should that be a word?

mountains that are etched by ageless rains

that sweep from the roof of the ages,

fed by that third pole of explorers ambition.

Into thin air has gone the breath of rhapsody,

and lyrics are cast in such obnoxious paucity.

That a single turn of profile can turn,

the music charts, into a circus.

Utter in any language that you know,

while there is still touch in summer's glow,

that the rip of ranting raving repetition,

will give way, again, to sonorous diction.

August 11th

Twist my body until my lips,

are plumped with a fullness of blood,

that ripens their shape to fruits of pure delection.

Bend my legs until I am a folded fan,

an origami abridged only of orgasm,

through that pressure you exert on me.

Torture my senses with teasing touch,

scrape your scruff across my silken surfaces,

rasping breath from rasping scrapes.

Tend to these the wounds you've made upon me,

ligatures enrapture and erupt where bonds of leather,

restrain my to mere feeble struggles against embrace.

And with this wanting I should feel,

your rape and terror of what is yours to steal.

Ageplaying continues on second life

The big move to the adult continent has done nothing. There is still pedophile play in second life, in public, and easy to find. Pictures on the xxx blog.

If your company was skittish about second life before, they should be now. The area these pictures are from is not blocked to age verified users only.

Repeat, any one of your employees could wander around and find this.

Here. Darzo Easterwood and Marty Anton went at it for a while. They knew what they were doing, and in public.

Doing Kos' avatar

Of Daily Kos fame...

Poetry Year, August 8th

I know,

you know,

I know you know,

and so it goes,

This that private pang of loss,

a thorn in public side,

since it was won,

that first time I looked towards the sun

to catch his gaze.

I will never forget how he out shown the sun,

and I hoped the smile I tossed,

he would catch,

and like moth to lunar light,

be drawn to it, from his day,

into my night.

And when in distant morning glow,

he for the final time left, and had to go,

I was left, curled pillow fetal,

knowing nothing, but had to know.

Poetry Year, August 8th

There falling from the sky is death that is death that burns the eyes from light.

There raining from the close flock of planes buzz like locusts I've never heard,

There in marching columns come the bayonets of rape,

There engtangled in barbed spider's aerie the huddled herd of unpeople wait.

There in camps to be swarmed over by looter's tide,

There in villages to be sliced and slashed like so much meat.

There in coughing dins of disease and plague of woe

There in market meeting spattered to spots of pink mist,

There in dying dungeons hung to wall by wrists.

Here to where your lost souls go.

It is war, and let me think of it.

It is many tales, but only one story,

War is death, transmuted to golden glory,

only by the liars art,

in which every little liar does his part.

To send your sons to slaughter,

And make victims of your every daughter,

Each to be pounded in their way,

spread eagle in the gruesome splay.

There in small dark rooms with flag hung high,

The next apocalypse in words is drawn nigh.

It is war, and it is many tales,

but exactly one story.

How death transmutes to golden glory.

Set it in Hiroshima, Baghdad, Nanjing.

Lay the scene in Buchenwald, Kinshsa, or Flander's field,

call it war, or battle, or revolution by night,

it's all the impact of the rock, wielded by might.

Poetry Year 6th, 7th

August 6th

That rich earth you call your own,

a scent that permeates not just the fibers of your clothes,

but the fabric of your life.

This is you that I will remember.

That sky that hung above your head,

the lights like stars more burning than any of other nights,

that shine in your wicked glance,

and pierce in your withering disdain.

This is you that brands me now.

That wind that rushes across the open plains,

carries the souls of all who tilled these soils,

hunted on these grounds,

made camp by lucid veins of water meandering to the sea.

It drives your movements still,

and sweeps all before you in your eternal energy.

That flowering that is America,

raised on corn, and worshiping the sun,

is now to me directed.

I smile, as you call me your goddess of the sun,

the source from which,

a new harvest will be won.

August 7th

My eyes are blacker than the darkest pit of torture's devising,

my soul is darker than the the midnight that is rising,

my mind as far from daylight as the distant comet's swing,

by love more lost than any living thing.

But once I shined with all fertility,

But once I was enraptured in warm tranquility,

How did this happy state fall to revolution?

It came with her and your love's dissolution.

Her locks were golden and bright reflective,

her glance cat quick and so deceptive,

her mirth tangled round you like kitten's yarn unspun.

She conquered with out battle, without struggle won.

Fair of face, fair of flower, fair of all the graces you admire,

but how unfair the cost to this cold country berift of fire.

(Today's to come later.)

Poetry Year August 6th

We stood alone on crest of sand ridden hill,

in this place that is so much mine as would that I could own it.

That peculiar taste of light of morning,

as it crowds through clouds herded on low horizon.

We talked, truly, this, and nothing more.

I know you think him rival to your affections,

that this walk an insult to fidelity.

I can hear you turn your back on me,

even over the phone.

I can feel the steam flow off your back,

even though you are far away.

Far away but under the same moon,

that is bloated as it rises through the moss clad trees,

far away but under the same moon,

as it bleeds out in me.

far away, far away in word and affection,

the sharpness of your tone cuts through me

through the front of my knees,

it makes me grow weak with fear.

I miss you so.

Poetry Year August 5th

You have no idea what I have seen,

nor what has passed my lips,

nor what words formed at my finger tips,

that shaped a denied fancy into idyll of an hour.

Leaving behind, in him, sleep,

and in my, a restless dream that calls for some soothing.

But that is another paradise from down above to look.

There is no peace, nor any justice,

only days that pass one by in another,

making so the meaning of a moment's passed.

I have stroked the air and carved arcs of fire across the horizon,

shaping figures into forms that dole out the petty pleasure

on seeing them there is such an ecstasy as only angels know.

Yet some how they will be, in some moment, gone.

And like me, a memory that is fainter than the trace of dew,

on that other morning to where our lives deny.

Have I waken? Not yet, oh please not yet.

Let me linger among these my edifices,

let me shape these words a few days more,

before they grow silent in my mind.

Let me sleep here, a little longer.

And then not to wake again, but my last memory be

a dream of which dreams are made.

Poetry Year - The poems I owe

August 1st

The sanctity of heart's design is my sacrament,

which you take to sacred lips as thee drink me in.

In this transported from this age that has fallen from poetry,

through prose, through dialog, and is left,

only, with exclamations. That lowest form of language.

But in the sensuality of your caress of kiss,

all that is new, is old again,

my garments take on the transparency of lace,

windows to my flushing flooding need.

Open to that joy which is without passing,

in the way that that which only the fleeting can be.

A glance transfixes like a nail through the eyes and into memory,

a touch marks upon the map the spot which is forever in one place,

a word whispered on the air, is the storm that is perfection to it grace.

I hope my face is this to you, and sets your heart's imagination, free.

Bless my face with your kisses,

bless my cheek with your touch,

bless my ears with your breath,

and never let them go from me.

August 2nd

The aching of the heart is mere cliche, would that I could dispense with it,

not the aching, nor the words, but with the heart itself.

I wish that you would plunge your hand through my chest,

pulling from its cage this beating, breaking, bleeding thing.

It gushes a roaring tide within my ears,

around my chest it binds with bonds of iron bands.

With each beat, it turns a key that cranks the closer,

until no air can enter through my mouth,

until you have kissed it.

Give me just one drink of you, give me just one moment

then let me sink in lethe to darkness dwelling,

happy suicide on the alter of your fluid mastery,

of these poor limbs which would dance,

or move, or lie, or come or go, or sit or rest,

all at your command.

Rip the breath from me with the hurling pulse of pleasure,

fill me with the future that is without measure,

then let me die in your arms, my beating heart in your hands.

Because that is how, at this moment, I truly feel.

August 3rd

Far far away, in the lands that are green rolling fields,

that are filled with spirits and with myth,

from whence came your ancestors,

hair spun of gold, eyes poured of ocean,

skin brushed with snow, lips blossomed with roses.

For all the pretty of your features,

your bones are cut of mountains, your arms encompass whole lands.

With them you encircle me, and take my virgin country with the ocean wave

that makes and maketh passion winged to the sky,

carried by clouds the bringers of the cooling water,

the birthing of life below, and within,

whose scattered touches, feel like acid on my skin,

but sustenance when they sink within.

August 4th

These rhymes pile up on my fingers,

like scattered bodies go after rapture in the heights.

I show the splendors of your faith in my reflection,

to give up all for a ring of gold and cross of silver,

if that is the will where fate should lie.

But it is not for this or them that I give these demonstrations,

I do not bow to him, or them, but only then to kneel and nod,

and kiss your hands as willing bride,

cloaked and clad in wedding white,

untouched by any past save that I share with you.

Poetry Year

Fine the strand of gossamer,

fine the sand that carries on the wind,

fine the reeds of grey green grass,

that arc in the breeze.

So fine your features are as you stare out across some future unknown

that I would, if I only could, share with you.

If only you would speak it.

Why is it locked behind your features impassive,

why do you set your face in stone for me,

when all I desire is with gentle kisses to loosen the knots

that threat that webbed around you do tangle up your fluid figure,

you fine face,

your forceful form.

Will you not turn your gaze, for some moment's sake

from the wash of deep blue infinity,

and set your sea touched eyes on mine.

I know I do not have the agate eyes you have,

I am dull and dark,

and like so many others.

But you have picked me out,

and I have become bright from your attention.

And only wish, if only I could,

that I could shine for you,

and with that glow of sweet affection,

carry your thoughts in pure connection,

from the deep thicket of your mind,

to the fine fingers on your hands.

And this flow would become a tide, and then a flood,

and change the world that now so vexes your thoughts.

Let me be your fine golden girl my love,

and ease the burden that you bear,

like Atlas who stares across the seas,

and holds the vault up above the world.

Poetry Year

It wishes for an age of fire,

of armies swelling, pikes upright,

black iron cauldrons upon the skulls of the living,

as they carry the skulls of the slain,

giving the birds the carrion of the slain.

All a buzzing and amarching,

like a legion of demons ripped from some illustration,

of Machiavelli's blackest tome.

Fie on thee, because it is not.

The blitzing blazing rhythms of despair come solid

into shards of heat that devour the flesh whole

and lick the skin off the bones.

It is illusion. For all the barricades and banners,

for all the missions and the manners,

for all the generals and the planners,

not one soul is saved, nor mind was changed.

Only that the screaming explosions have overwhelmed,

such sense as once resided in a mind.

Pulverizing the stuff of thoughts are spun,

as surely as the hollowed eyes of those,

whose life by phosphorus, was burned alive.

Oh yes

Is zero a square?

Answer, it is the first square among integers, because zero is an integer, and 0 * 0 = 0. The first geometric square is 1, since in geometry a square has to have sides with some length. So the side of a geometric square can not be 0 length.

Thanks to a math geek friend who explained that one carefully to me.

1 * 1 = 2, it is an ideology

One thing that @DonOfScience and his mob of mathematical, legal, and social illiterates have shown me is what the ideology of these times are.

1 * 1 = 2, or we will bury you.

If enough people, with the ability to raise a crowd say anything, it suddenly becomes serious. Like say the "birther" movement. Or the New York Times running columns about how single payor insurance doesn't control costs, when, in fact, it does. 1* 1 = 2.

But I don't feel good about this. At least ideologies like "the code is the law" are pragmatic. At a basic level, code, however twisted, has to work. The Code Is The Law might lead to very strange places, but changing it is open to anyone who can code. 1 * 1 = 2 isn't open to change, even getting your own crowd isn't enough.

I see over and over again how Twitter isn't just limited, it is limiting. How it creates people who are miniature bullies, counting on their crowd of followers to do the work. While a mini-blog news feed is really great, Twitter is really bad. I'm going to keep at it, because it is what it is, but there is an element of explosive strangeness, like living on a landscape that may one day explode.

Poetry Year Day 6

The Grand Illusion beckons and is begone,
as becoming is becalmed in these the middle months,
between the bright strands of hope that pierced the horizon,
after eight long years of glower and gloom.
Between then and the promised land of better days.

Withering pale fire of fear clouds and crowds us,
pressing down from big skies and sweeping the plains.
The poetry of cold is in the bones,
of governor's to fearful to govern,
and Senators who are now, so far, far to old.

In a dream, I wandered in among the blankened trunks,
stripped of green shoots and all life,
leafless in high summer, frozen in place,
even as the heat forbodes upon us.

I took a twig and snapped it in gloved hand,
in vain, in vain, to see the shred of water,
that is the course of the living.
I crumbled the husk in my fragile hand,
then to scan the bleak horizon for a man
who might lead me from history's mire.

But I was alone, and the dream occluded back to night.

Give us this day our daily dread,
forgiven, forgotten, and for what we have made,
a people nomadic, at the end of a modern age.
Is there in the distance a fife or a drum?
Is there in the distance a light we call home?
Is there in this, the distance we have travelled,
a distaff branch that grows amidst the deadened trees.

A blasted wilderness, and we cannot even call it peace.

@DonOfScience calls Prime Numbers Slander, and that 1 * 1 = 2

@DonOfScience is a shill account on Twitter for to pimp one of many proported educational games for Nintendo, the "Professor Layton" series. Sadly the people running it aren't just stupid, but vicious law breakers. That's kind of par for the course these days, banks, health insurance companies, wars in Iraq. It's the world we live in. But sometimes, stupidity and legal vicious gets funny. He accuses me of slander, then he complains, gasp that I proved my point. And, OMG, I took the time to explain it. How dare I post the facts. Slander!

Well a few lessons. One is that slander is spoken. What he means is libel. Another, in the US anyway, truth, which I have, is an absolute defense against general defamation. I don't think I'm getting sued by whoever is pimping the game any time soon. Last lesson is this, when you phrase a puzzle, you have to not only include the right answer, but exclude other answers. Sadly for whatever pimple popping teenage intern is running the account, because anyone over the mental age of about 18 would know to be careful about slander accusations, since reckless accusations of that sort are, in themselves, grounds for law suit, they didn't check to make sure there were no good logical answers. Their "explanation" is the logical fallacy of a "red herring" 15 * 15 = 225, but 1 * 1 is not equal to 2. And at that point any number could have been the "red herring." In fact, it isn't hard to come up with brain teasers that make any one number the "wrong" number. 2 being 4 works well, there are several.

In puzzler design, usually the setting words don't mean anything, unless there is no easy answer, the clever words come into play. Also sadly, there are no fish on Mars, so "red" herring isn't logically forced. Sadly for the bozos that run Professor Layton's shill account on twitter, there was a perfectly good easy answer, namely nth prime plus nth square. Sadly, this doesn't yield 15 = 225, which is the answer they wanted to be true. Close enough for corporate shills isn't math.

And if it is an educational game, then the people making it, in fact, are claiming to help people get great scores on say, SATs, MCATs, and LSATs. I did, and it is pretty clear from the apoplectic response from Professor Layton's shill account, that he didn't. Had they wanted to put the question correctly, then they could have said "why is 15 225 on Mars?" That would have made people run around in circles enough. What happened with their woefully incompetent question design is that many people got the right answer for the wrong reason. The point of a "red herring" answer on a test is to catch the people who have some common misconception about the material. After all, there is no particular reason to think herring. 2 actually was the "red flag" that showed that squares was the wrong answer.

Maybe he works for the Senate Finance Committee's health care drafting team. That is the kind of math error we just got from them turning down the public option.

This is pure incompetence of question design. It also is pure incompetence of marketing. It is also pure incompetence of their legal department. It is pure incompetence of social media, because now, sigh, I have to respond to corporate defamation from some large impersonal money making machine, when he should have realized that there was a hole in his question, laughed it off, and moved on.

And make no mistake whoever is selling the game that is now guilty of defamation, because their statements about me are reckless as regards to the truth, and with the intent to get some kind of gain. That is, there are damages. Of course, real world check here, large companies don't get sued over stupid things that their interns say on Twitter, because there's no motivation for a lawyer to take the case. But next time you hear about "Professor Layton" and his games, realize that they are run by, written by, and backed by people who lie, defame, and just plain teach your kid how to get a bad grade on the SAT or other college admission tests.

To make it Google Friendly: Nintendo's corporate shills want your children to believe that 1 * 1 = 2, or they will threaten to sue. This is the lesson their Professor Layton game teaches. 1 * 1 = 2, or Nintendo will threaten to sue. It's kinda got a beat and you can dance to it.

[I'm told that@DonofScience has no connection to Nintendo. However, he links to the website of the game as his personal website. If he isn't attached, then Nintendo should sue him for using their corporate trademarks in a manner to confuse. However, there's nothing I can find that says he's not astro turf, and good evidence that he is.

In any event, @DonOfScience is deliberately trying to piggy back on the game, and courts have repeatedly ruled that people can't do that unless they have permission. That's why not everyone can market say, a Narnia game, or as a recent court case determined, publish a sequel to Catcher in the Rye. If Nintendo doesn't want defaming idiots being associated with their trademarks, then they can use the DMCA to make it go away. If they don't it amounts to approval.

I've written Nintendo's legal department, telling them the obvious, that @DonOfScience is using their trademark without attribution, and asking whether he has permission. Either way there should be a response in some reasonable period of time. My guess is that if he does work for them his chain is about to be shortened, and if he does not, then he is going to need another twitter account.]

New Tron Movie Trailer

Apple has new trailer, including HD.

A Year of Poems Day 5

I fly without wings, and come to you in a vision.
A spiral lines that cross and grow ever outward
to mind's horizon infinity. How many follow the fast track
those highways of primality,
to answers of the human heart, and destinies of secrecy.

How many hours we have pondered the question,
of this, numbers atomicity.
That each is found to divide itself alone, and leave only one.

Stand with me then on the center point and stretch the gaze out towards the truth.
Ulam's endless plain.

However many there are, there will always be at least one more,
however far the desert spans, it will always end one day.
However long the road, it will halt no matter which compass taken,
however straight the edge, however clean the line.

These numbers, seeds of even perfection,
fond of a monk's obsession,
pondered by the net mind even in these days of digital dimension.

Prime is first, prime is last, and prime to our imaginations still.

DonofScience #fail #fail #fail

DonOfScience wins the bozo of the day award for #fail on his own question. He asked

Here's a puzzle! On Mars, 1 is 2, 2 is 4, 3 is 9 and 4 is 16. What is 15 on Mars?

And said the answer is 225, heh, just because. He's wrong and he wins the bozo of the day award. There are several right answers, math being what it is, there are lots of was to match a few numbers. These days you can put these numbers into mathematica and it will spit out several polynomial answers. However, 225 isn't any of the ones that work.

Here's the simplest one I found: the nth square plus the nth prime.

The first integer square of integers is 0, the first prime is 2. One is not prime, it has only one divisor, a prime has two divisors. So f(1) = 2
The second square is 1, the second prime is 3. So f(2) = 4
The third square is 4, the third prime is 5. So f(3) =9
The fourth square is 9, the fourth prime is 7. So f(4) = 16.

The table below runs this out to 15.

Earth #	Mars#	Prime	Square
1	2	2	0
2	4	3	1
3	9	5	4
4	16	7	9
5	27	11	16
6	38	13	25
7	53	17	36
8	68	19	49
9	87	23	64
10	110	29	81
11	131	31	100
12	158	37	121
13	185	41	144
14	212	43	169
15	243	47	196

By the way, his name is Don Paulo according to Twitter, and he is peddling an educational game. What is he teaching? That being a vicious jerk is right, because, well, he had an answer in mind, and it has to be right, no matter what the numbers say.

It's not a light hearted exercise in logic, it is just another corporate shill trying to take your money.

Buy something that is actually educational.

Doofus, Bozo, Yoyo. When will Epoch of idiocy end

I answered a question posed by a twitter puzzler. He gave the wrong answer.

That's right now, people with no intelligence pretending to be smart. It's true in government, it is true in writing, it is true in art, in punditry. I wish I knew why. South Park seems populated by people of great intellectual ability at this point, compared to what is making the rounds as intelligent.

Shatner reads Palin's resignation speech as a poem

Why a poetry year?

Why try and write a poem a day for a year?

Because is sort of a general all purpose reason. But it isn''t my reason. In writing poems, there are a few I have written which stand out, and many which are just there. And yet, getting back to the best, there was no particular itness to that day, no special rainbow that landed at me feet. There was just a buzzing in my hands and behind my eyes. This led me to wonder how many days where there was a finely crafted trap of words possible, but which did not become actual. And so to the experiment of just writing, regardless of all else.

It was easy in early heady days to be moved rapidly to writing, when my emotions were like a fever, one every heavy player of games knows. It was easy when there were people who danced in and out of my life. But one measure of why I feel Second Life is dying, is such people are fewer and fewer, and the ordinary more and more common. This may be bias of selection, it may be my fortune when I was new.

And it may mean something.

It also keeps me out of trouble. There is a great deal to say about what is wrong with the world. People are horrid, nasty, stupid, greedy, vicious; they celebrate writers who share those traits easily. But beyond the foam of the rabid moment, people are passionate, compassionate, and thoughtful. They want a more beautiful world, if only they could stop acting like monsters long enough to pursue it. Writing about the first curdles the hands. Writing about the second is both a lonely, and unrewarding, experience. People don't really want to know the truth of love, they want to slosh plaster over their wretchedness with an kitsch version of love that justifies all the squalid little things that they do.

It is true of me, it is true of you, it is true of all of us. That's why we have the public figures we do, because people want a distillation of their worst, so that they can worship it. The idols of dark powers are all around us, rent in gold. In Earthsea by LeGuin: "the powers she serves are not the powers I serve."

However, what they, we need, we all need, and thus what is hungered for, beyond the taste of any food, or any drink, is love. The kind which shocks like a crack in the granite of a collapsing cliff, that crumbles resistance like a falling building, which leaves the greedy little self behind. That's really how you can tell the transient writers of no account, they cannot write a single true sentence or stanza on the meaning of love. It is foreign to them as a peculiar preparation of goat, or tripe might be. Their readers want to substitute hurly burly, bombast, braggardtry, and bigotry for real emotion. In person they can only yell, disrupt, or sneer, because, like that white faced villain of the Dark Knight, it is the form their face is permanently contorted into by what horrific accent we do not really know.

So a year of poems is not enough time for a scalpel of words to cut through all the layers, but perhaps it might be, in time and time.

A Year of Poems Day 4

A stride the horse in white, a face,

a man, a figure, a form, a fury, a feeling.

A wave that has swept round the world,

so violently as to wash past all barriers,

so silently as to steal into every house and home.

It seizes every day as if it were the last,

and each victim as if she were the first.

It is a kiss of air, and then,

a sharpness in the chest.

A clutching terror of legion's brood,

more numerous than the buzzing of the flies.

From where it comes, we do not know,

like savannah fire it consumes and burns.

A slash across the face in ancient feud,

new mutiny born within the vessels of our other life.

The embrace that makes, and unmakes,

the raveling coils of the the helix twice

spun of sugar, and of cold fire,

are ripped and stolen by this knife,

that cuts short the thread,

of another life.

A Year of Poems Day 3

This night, I know no other moment,

has passed.

This tempest of words,

I have forgotten all the others,

has stirred a foam that came to your lips,

as to my face,

reddened by the flood of anger and the quiet coming of tears,

an ageless dance of anger unleashed at insignificance,

releasing torrent flood of salt within

that is it's own significance.

There in this quiet space between eternities,

you threaten that this time is our last,

that you cannot bear the with holding that binds

me thus to you and so in this to then.

I cannot forget the other times,

so easily as to deny,

that it is a bitter fruit that is torn by the teeth of conflict,

and the lips absorb in the taste of torment.

So I stand and whimper, my composure fallen in fallen apart,

while you glow with that flower of ripe rage,

your muscles tense not to strike,

but to refrain from it.

To each time there is a season,

for everything under heaven.

So often you have said so,

and I have focused upon the words you would live by,

and have me live by.

To each thing there is a time.

A time to weep is now come and come upon me.

And I am taken by it.

You catch me before I fall,

in this I am fallen,

a fallen woman,

the season of fall.

To fall for you at once and again,

into arms that now hold help not harm.

In them I am comforted,

melting into their embrace.

To each thing there is a time,

I am taken by it, and by you.

That glow of union coming with finally

a light so tender that it is so utterly thine own.

The tears, like stars, are scattered,

and now flicker out with the warming of the east.

Year of Poems Day 2

Strained the muscles tension taut beyond forgiveness,

and I am open like the gates of fallen city,

waiting to be sacked and razed.

Moments before there was chatter in my skull,

a myriad voices connecting each sensation with that,

judging in ornate detail each movement.

But before the triumphant armies come,

before their blare and horns arrive,

before the battering ram unleashes,

its plunging action depth undenied.

Before the terrible throngs that tear at tender skin.

There is quiet in the mind,

and all weight and pressure becomes undone,

leaving, left, and lorn,

a quiescence of acceptance.

"Take me."

Things you shouldn't talk about

Other people's affairs.

Lars von Trier films.

For roughly the same reason.

Infidelity blogging

And people wonder why I have business.

A year of poems. Day 1

My feet touch lightly on the grass,

still bathed with dew,

in these the sunlit lands.

My toes touch the soil and soak in the cool,

still fresh from snows,

in these the sunlight lands.

My face is washed by winds,

still lithe and young.

Young before they will be

burdened by salt,

heavy with rain.

For yes, I see it far out on the plains,

the gathering herd of darkness,

that stretches out, like an inverted land.

From which pours forth,

the heavy armies of the rain.

I stop and look,

and stand, my feet growing new roots,

as my gaze is raptured out

by what lies ahead for this day.

The streaming soaking,

the howling rage of hammered hail.

The birds will hide in their trees,

cower beneath the old barn eaves.

Out across the expanse,

a sea of grass to cliche a phrase,

ripple with waves though it does,

seethe with tides though it must,

crest in August before the harvest it will,

invisible hands smooth and stroke,

the surface of the stalks.

Poor reeds that are bent,

by the mass of twirling air.

There is now a fog of quiet,

save the weeping of the wind.

And before the sweep of this,

an act of nature, in the play of God,

I am small beyond small,

and feel myself shrunk like the sparrow

that so shortly sang a hymn to the dawn.

You brought me here to savor your native earth.

Playfully heedless I spun my steps across

in celebration of it's bright.

Though now my eyes are tender,

but the coming of this second night.

I turn to touch my eyes upon the old home,

porch washed white, roof baked black,

and instead my face is pressed into your chest,

my arms curled around your back.

There embrace carries me to safety's sake.

In these, the once, and future, sunlit lands.

Virtual Person As the Soul of the Car

Ford used a virtual person to design a car. Shades of The Automobile Avatar.

Officer forced woman to perform oral sex

Pleads guilty in court.

Will write more later

but projects, sl and rl, are right now overwhelming.

Nice Free Hair

A nice up do and perhaps one of the nicest free hairs I have ever seen; rush over to http://slurl.com/secondlife/tenjin%20fukuoka%20japan/20/35/25.

I don't post very often but when I do it's because I've found an absolute gem.


XingZ xx

Bittersweet the harvest comes

Naked light in naked night before naked sight

unseen.

Nude the skin that is brushed by air and then kissed by moisture

that is sweat like unto a dew,

and invisible as a dream in morning.

But felt a weight that bends our minds,

in arcs as the grass formed suspensions by spiders.

This morning meadow of my fancy,

I stare down between the long valleys of my body,

and at the tender curls of my thicket,

and at the hands now eased from all tension,

released by the quivering that remains

shaking in my spine and in my breath.

The eruption now subsided,

a lushness restored to netherlands,

and a richness to the scent that hangs about my bed.

Bittersweet thought the fruits may be,

and distant is the harvest,

it was brought by thoughts of you,

always you.

Only you.

The summer to seed

The cry of jays in an empty field screech and echo in my ears;

Turning soon the caw of crows, that pick the broken stalks,

and turn the stones to search for movement in the sand.

The summer morning teems with motion and with life,

in all the smallest places, and across the waves of the golden grass.

The spring is gone, the spring is gone, the day is burning fast.

To seed the clover is, to fruit the trees, to dust the once fattened ponds.

Stalks among the reeds a tall heron, who spears and pierces,

only to take great flight when even frogs have fled the sun.

Horace, I know that some how once you walked a way like this,

burnt your ship behind you, and in exile from the might shine,

of once then Rome.

Could you, if you could, guide my hand, and give me some advice,

to sooth the pains of those I know, who, having given,

now empty whispers receive?

The berries are still bitter, the plums and apples still green.

Not yet the richness of sweet harvest.

Perhaps not this, nor any year.

(The person this is for knows who he is. :P )