Who left
this black
woman’s right glove?

I can imagine her next to me.

Who is Left?

Cyclists hate clothes.
Joggers hate shoes.
Strollers hate voices
Bums hate deception

Can a stream of cars ever soothe like waves of the Sea?

The cars carry trips,

The trees are good at deception,

And the sea provides salt.


Bleeding Bastards

Doesn’t Recommend
Neutral Outlook
Disapproves of CEO
I worked at full-time
Great building, lots of perks. Lot’s of great fellow employees.
The CEO/Owner can’t be trusted. He constantly flakes out, almost never makes good on a promise. And he discriminates based on an candiate’s looks and age.
Advice to Management
Grow up.
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Helpful (6)
Response Feb 28, 2017 – CEO
Thank you for your feedback and I’m sorry to hear I’ve left a negative impression on you. This definitely comes as a shock to me, as I have never received criticism such as this. In fact, it’s usually the exact opposite. As the CEO and sole founder of, I’ve poured my heart and soul into the company for the past 7 years. I started this company with a thousand dollars in the bank, without investors, and only the burning passion for success. I have come to truly appreciate everyone that has helped and continues help me along the way. This is why I do my best to ensure that all of our employees and contractors are taken care of from all angles; including competitive compensation, amazing perks, and a positive work environment.

I’ll admit that at times my schedule can become overloaded and I am unable to speak with employees right away. Even when I’m not available, every single employee at can communicate with me directly via Slack (our company chat room), email, or in person when I’m in the office.

As for the discrimination allegation: we have never, nor will we ever, discriminate based on looks, age, or any other factor. In fact, we currently have over 75 active employees and contractors, ranging in age from 18 to 60 years and representing many diverse backgrounds.

Overall, I work hard with the team to maintain and grow the small company / startup culture that made a great place to work. It’s this mentality that continues to drive our focus on maintaining a vibrant, warm, and welcoming environment. I encourage you to reach out to me directly with your specific concerns and feedback. If I’m missing something or somehow neglected to keep a promise, I’d love to set the record straight and show you that I, as well as , am fully committed to our employees.Less

Tired Eyes, Tired Hands

Tired eyes can only see black.
Tired eyes can only look back.
Tired eyes cannot see
The sudden, surprised,

Tired hands can only be used for Self-defense.
Tired hands, when bruised, remain still, and
Without sense.

There is the Law,
It must be followed
In this, His Land.

For this The Paw
Took a nail and hollowed

{Light and Shade
Is what we are made of.
Light, and Shade, and Love.}

Critique of “The Wood” by Nick Walsh


*”The Wood” starts with semi-regular meter and rhyme; (though the exact rhyme of wood/wood remains awkward anyway you slice it.)

*”His images” are like stars, lanterns, but also heavy, and also damp.
Damp stars?
Damp lanterns?
Heavy stars?
Heavy lanterns?
Heavy lanterns and stars, or just heavy lanterns and damp stars?
Or vice versa?
Or this that and the third?
Or all that and a bag of chips?
Are they damp chips, or heavy chips?
Or damp, heavy chips?

(Oh, they are a box of Garden Salsa Sun Chips left out in the rain?)
{Good imagery}

* Does “unfilled” mean the same in the poem as “unfulfilled” means in standard English?”

Are these the expectations he had from whom I blindly must term “The Girl?”

When did we stop talking about ‘The Wood’ and start talking about ‘The Girl?’

Are we in the wood?
Is the girl in the wood?
Is the wolf in the wood?
Is the wood in the wolf?
Where is the girl?
Is the girl in the wolf?
Is there a wolf?
There is a wood, and there must be a girl.
The wood must be in the girl!
Does the girl have a splinter?
Is she wearing a red hoodie?

-I’m grasping at moss here, completely lost and still trying to scan “The Wood” correctly. Line by line with this sh*t, typical Walsh.-

Does a wolf sh*t in the woods?
Is the pope a wolf?
There’s a wolf in the pope?

A pope in the wolf in the girl in the woods, is what I have so far, if I am correctly scanning “The Wood.”

* Oh, clearly his brain is waterlogged wood with the images floating above.# !

*The lines expand to (6) twelve-syllable lines and (8) thirteen syllable lines, and then metric regularity is elusive for the rest of the way out of “The Wood.”

* “Lied and cheated” are introduced as verbs before we we know that the pope is in the wolf is in the girl is in the woods, which is misleading at first glance.

For me, the imagery of the speaker’s body merging with the forest is very appealing. {cf. Bran Stark, cf. the “green man” of Anglican Churches, cf. that Guatemalan shaman from America who discovered he was really a Guatemalan shaman because he didn’t die in the jungle even though he probably should have died given the circumstances and then he wrote a book about it and is now a Guatemalan shaman, but for real, AND in trade paperback?)

Suggestions: What would result from change of tense, from the past tense to the present tense?

The poem ultimately fails, because only after the merging of the lover with the beloved does the beloved make her entrance. Other than that, a typical Nick Walsh poem, of which there are thousands, allegedly.$

# “Ant-teeming log.” “Dewy grass.” “Bed of snails.” “Tough cocoons.” “Wombat claws.” “Thorn bush.” “Cat-fur.” “Mushroom-cap.” “Stir of worms.” “Cobwebs.”

! Minor note: “she stepped” seems to modify “liquid pool” and not, as it should grammatically, “his belly.”

$ See also, “The Wood,” by Nick Walsh. I have lost my copy of “The Wood” by Nick Walsh, but I did still have my notes for the next meeting of the Poetry Club of Nick Walsh.

Find Again, And Awake

The text called Work In Progress by its creator, James Joyce, is a closed reading, a flat circle, a two-page jot which contains between its two pages the entire oral history of the Irish Nancy-boy, the Irish eugenics colony, the Irish vermin squeaking at each other from their speak-easies between the lines, the Irish church as raped and murdered by the Roman Church, the boy sent to Clongowes and poked and prodded and examined, and whose fate was determined even before he properly learned how to read, let alone become the greatest writer of the twentieth century, James Joyce, who will only become the greatest writer of all time when the crimes he reveals in the final section are finally put to account and the sins of the Society of Jesus, called the Jesuit Order, are squared with the holiness of the Jesuit order, for teaching James Joyce how to analyze a text, for teaching James Joyce how to dismember a text, and then put it back together, for teaching James Joyce how to think like Thomas Aquinas, and write like Nora Barnacle’s scribe, to endow Dublin, the port of the Danes, the Second City of the British Isles, a town colonized and then turned into just another port for the portly British Empire, he endowed his town of Dublin with all the newfound glory of the lost city of Troy. But first, he had to put space between himself and his hometown, because unlike Homer, he could not look back in time to a golden age. Like many Catholics,  James Joyce’s golden age was yet to come, until the day he died, and it is still yet to come, but his codex remains.

Take out Finnegans Wake. Turn to page 556 and just start reading it out loud. Don’t think it is a dense text, it is an open format SPOKEN WORD, and it is a testimony of the nancy-boy’s progress, the nancy-boy’s examination and fitness regimen, the function of the nancy-boy in the British program of eugenics for the Irish island, namely to breed out the Irish completely, except for the good bits, like genius. A place like Clongowes, where Joyce went to school, and many other places in Ireland claiming to be institutions for learning, were also sources of BOYS. And GIRLS. And SEMEN. And WOMBS. And DEATH, and NEW LIFE snatched away and cast out immediately into a hostile wilderness, and a genius named James Joyce who only felt at home among strangers in Trieste, none of whom knew the REAL Irish language, the SPOKEN language, the way that Nora Barnacle knew that language.

Finnegans Wake is written in every other language that Joyce heard in Trieste, that Joyce taught at the Berlioz school. Sure, get pissed at him for being obscure, but he created a closed text that contains his entire life, and the entire life of Galway peasants, the history even HE had to LEARN from Nora Barnacle, himself being a Dubliner of (cough-cough) possibly Protestant background on his father’s side, as embodied in the character Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker, or “here comes everybody,” or just HCE.

HCE is the patriarch. Anna Livia Plurabelle (ALP) is the matriarch. Shem the Penman and Shaun the Postman are the two brothers who stand in for all two-brother pairs, from Cain and Abel on. The only obscure characters in the text of Finnegans Wake are the young women. I claim that James Joyce identifies as much with the “desired body,” as embodied by the matriarch ALP in all her stages of life, simply because James Joyce was a Catholic boy who grew up at Clongowes College, and was immediately assessed according to many measures, including intelligence, including physical fitness, and also including whatever inspections were performed by the older boys and pederasts among the brothers who ran the place. All the evidence is in the final section of Finnegans Wake, the one that deals almost exclusively with ALP. Joyce’s mother informs ALP, and Joyce refused to pray for his mother when she died, a sin that Ulysses tries to account for and reckon with. But ALP is also all of Joyces peers, of either sex, who for their entire developmental years were targets of pederasts and perverts. None of these assertions seem very controversial at all to me, it’s only acknowledging that that has ALWAYS and EVERYWHERE been the case. Ireland is just a particularly egregious instance (like Ancient Athens) in which the pederasts had all the power, and the little boys had none.

Samuel Beckett? Could only speak and write comfortably in French until forced into writing plays, obscure plays, works of genius.

Oscar Wilde? Upstart noble, considered himself a genius, which he was, as well as being a descendent of the occupying forces of Ireland, as well as being a man who helped define socialism, queerness, dandy-ness, unapologetically unfiltered speech, and the greatest text ever written in a gaol, namely De Profundis, not to mention the Ballad of Reading Gaol, or the trial for sodomy that ended his career as an upstart nobleman and ensured his legacy as a dramatist and prose stylist of great and abiding genius.

The Ballad of the Irish Nancy-boy continues, but all of it is written down, and hardly obscure to those not squinting through opera glasses, lenses blackened. These are the willfully opaque viewpoints scrutinizing the stage, scrutinizing the balconies, the mezzanine, and guarding the exits, and finding everything they behold wanting. And then retiring to their palaces to plot against the very entertainment that keeps them distracted from their real objectives, which is the transfer of wealth from the lower classes to the upper crust, a battle as old as civilization, a battle that has been termed “class war” in socialist discourse.

A war, a clash, a pyramid scheme, with the working side on the business end of both the carrot and the stick, the stick prodding them from behind, and the carrot forever beyond their reach, and forever in front of their faces.

The carrot/stick dialectic is too facile. A better metaphor is the dog track. The working class is a giant dog, the ruling class is the monorail-rabbit, circling and circling, driven by remote-control by the hands hidden in the box seats.

The working class is a giant dog who just has to stop running around the track, and just walk away from the dang dog-track. A giant dog doesn’t need an owner, a giant dog can take care of itself, and any puppies it bears and sustains with milk.