Media literacy (impact on youth and related measures)
In recent years, the increase in the flow of information several times, the increase of positive information as well as negative information has made it necessary to have media literacy. Traditionally, media literacy consisted of a person’s ability to analyze literary works and create quality texts. Today, media literacy means knowing why and for what information is transmitted.
Why is media literacy necessary? First of all:
● To understand the essence of the reforms implemented as a full-fledged, active citizen of our legal democratic society!
● Avoiding the control of human consciousness through information. In any situation, it is necessary to find the right decision-making measures and to find answers to the questions of what purposes the information is being transmitted and whose interests it represents!
There are different opinions about the concept of media literacy. It is noted that 《Media Literacy》 is the ability of a person to be active and literate while feeling his responsibility as a citizen in society, to be able to receive, create, analyze and evaluate media texts, to be able to understand the social, cultural and political content of modern media. means! English political scientist R. Kibey understands media literacy as the transmission of information in various forms, their analysis and evaluation. In our opinion, media literacy is a conscious approach to sorting information transmitted through mass media together with highly expressed opinions.
Currently, media education is needed to break the concept of media literacy to young people. to include the concept and basics in the curriculum of each educational institution, to explain its basics to children in the form of interactive games during preschool education, to enable the growing generation to choose what is necessary in the intense flow of information and evaluate it with a critical approach will give. This, in turn, will be the basis for the further strengthening of the citizenship position of young people in the future, the ability to make an impartial assessment of the events happening in the world and make the right decision.
Learning Situation
There may, especially in times
of civil int’resting unrest,
be hid ‘midst heroes – who’d solve crimes,
believing weaker folks’ good best –
badged rogues who’d stop at no excess –
to savagery against suspects,
karate-chop pat-downs, regress;
on courage, honor, cast their hex,
leave victims sexually tortured.
Idealists who took a stand,
Once let out of this devil’s-orchard,
must face their love, although unmanned.
Their love is beauty, nothing less,
who knows to love where courage grows
but now finds love a harrowed mess –
distrait, stand-offish. Why? Who knows?
One may have suffered worse groin pains
in downhill bike falls, but – it’s strange –
this ache won’t go away. The change
will bring unbid but oft’ his brains
all addled vivid bright recall
of dingy green precinct back room,
his hands upon the chilly wall,
his legs spread wide in civic gloom.
We’d cellmates been in protest time –
while I too had attacked a pig,
foolhardy vainglory for rhyme
it was – hardly a thing as big
as bravery. (Though like outrage
they’d dealt me, small discomfort lingers –
my first night free did much assuage.
I’m just glad they spared my fingers.)
They’d thrown him howling through the door:
“Strike, coward scum, and from behind –
thus justice mock since law’s no more
where peacekeepers have lost their mind!”
He ceased his anguished hoarse harangue
and climbed onto the upper bunk.
Our cell door slid closed with a clang
as back into my bed I sunk.
His thrashings kept waking me up
for long into ceaseless glare.
I gave him water in a cup,
he fin’ly slept without nightmare.
Then after quiet hours went by
wherein he didn’t even snore
I guess he must have heard me sigh
for, leaping to the iron floor
he said his name, stuck out his hand.
I shook it, told him “Call me Jack.”
He taught up at the college, planned
This lecture for when he got back:
“When any revolution’s inchoate
if it’s at all, such autocratic lock
the Powers have on ev’ry human fate
the chance that dissidence with fight will mock
the pomp of armed enforcers isn’t great.
Few act upon disgust that many feel.
But character, integrity will rate
with some despite the odds, which are surreal.
Then luckily the losers themselves find
In what we call a learning situation:
What ruthless motherfuckers do them bind
Is matter for the wonder’s contemplation.”
I said that would his students well
Forearm. He thanked me. We discussed
specific treatment, what befell
us both since brought in on this bust,
and which side in particular –
they differed ‘tween the both of us –
received insult testicular.
He then reflected – with a cuss:
“It seems this adds another facet
to passions positive as well –
how tell my girl now in tacit
accents exactly what a hell
her country is, what fiends its cops,
what force ensures wage-slave docility,
what gratis ache that hardly stops
our bliss infects and my virility –
No! – she must be carefully shunned.
A note with disengagement ring
will say, ‘Sweetheart, love’s moribund.
You’re not to blame, though, that’s the thing.
You know you take it personal
when griefs hit folks that aren’t their fault.
But now the ghetto I’ll home call
while you continue to exalt
delight – but new guy overjoy –
for I this shaman must consult
to help your mad ex-lover-boy
again in ecstasy exult….’ –
I’ll not write that, just disappear.
To flee’s the better part of valor.
Of missing history buff she’ll hear,
I’ll spare her any further pallor.”
Children in West Bank...
Children of Gaza
One war and one day
The children in Gaza
They say the word
"War"
First
And after they say
Mom
Childrens in Gaza
They are all tattoo their names in their arms
Because a day is too short
And maybe until the end of night
They will become Angels
There is a whole world in the
West Bank
A kindergarten that bad dragons attack for a long time ago
Nobody helps
Nobody support
Nobody cares
The blood is cooling everywhere in Gaza
In the school
In the streets
Where the childrens supposed to play and laugh
Bombs have destroy the houses
Children in Gaza
are born heroes
from their mother's belly
Children in Gaza
They fight since they are born
Do not dare close your eyes
In this unfair reality
Don't close your eyes in this genocide
Stand up for the children of
Gaza
Happy birthday
Ahmed
Happy birthday
Mohamed
How old are you?
I am a year of war and one day
And you?
I am 2 years of war and 3 days
Let's celebrate this special day, My brother and sister
Tomorrow the war will divide us
Childrens with no eyes
No legs
No ears
No smile
No faces
Childrens of Gaza
Innocent childrens
in sacred earth
That they sacrifice
To Evil
Prayers for childrens of Gaza
Prayers to stop this madness
Prayers to stop this genocide
Stop the blood of innocent children
Homo Erectus Lives in Texas
also published in Alternate Route
(With apologies for any Texas-sized alternative truths…)
Texas is the nexus of the issues
that vex us…content to perplex us,
sucker punch our solar plexus,
threaten the values that connect us.
Texans snicker that everything in
Texas is better, bigger; maybe they
need to rejigger the vigor with which
they squeeze that AK-47 trigger,
and stop quacking about the benefits
of fracking while all sentient beings
are gasping and hacking. For migrants
it’s nerve-wracking not knowing
if they’ll be repatriated home or put on
a plane to Alaska—maybe Nome?—their
children sentenced to tents surrounded
by barbed wire fence—just what exactly
was their offense? It’s scary if you’re
trans-gender, treated like a sex offender:
Reality be you’re no longer free to choose
where you’re gonna pee,
not against the “Wall,” definitely, that
would be an obscenity because Texans
expect order at the Mexican border,
these descendants of the Alamo
can’t take it anymo’, this migrant overflow,
now in a panic outnumbered by Hispanics,
drowning like DeCaprio on the Titanic…
and would you believe
a bi-weekly Baptist book-burning barbecue
in Brownsville—burkas obviously banned—
part of the catechism claiming there ain’t
no racism or hate in the Lone Star State,
where the Governor, a presidential candidate,
expectorates as he defiantly states Texas
won’t tolerate sexual reprobates—so if you’re
bi or gay, just stay away,
go play in LA—or move to some Massachusetts
town where students tear all the statues down,
tributes to American heroes vandalized by
spoiled woke zeros.
Thanks to the contortions of a Christian
consortium, there’s a moratorium on almost
all abortions—even in the case of rape, victims
must escape to a more compassionate state
while gynecologists must cease and desist;
if they resist it’s not a slap on the wrist, it’s
jail not bail, and if that fails, a sniper bullet
to their entrails….which leads to the
elephant in the room—all those guns that go
boom—it’s okay to bring this cliche into the
melee because Texas is a blood-red state,
and as more and more Democrats emigrate,
THE NRA whoops in elation, no more gun
registration, Texas gonna lead the nation
but then don’t be shocked when inside a first-
grader’s lunch box…an apple and a loaded Glock
so now teachers must pass a marksmanship test,
buy a revolver and bulletproof vest, costly deal
seems surreal but remember there are shootings
in McDonalds over Happy Meals…
or while visiting a church in Texarkana, you get
shot at by a Proud Boy in a MAGA bandanna
because you won’t chant that hosanna—“God is
the way, through his messenger the NRA.”
Billy Bob was really pissed, thought you were an
atheist, damn heathen with no right to exist, but
before he could squeeze off another round, your
two hollow points knocked him to the ground,
and all of a sudden you had joined the fight to smite
those who would blight your civil rights, knew that
preserving Texas for your descendants was dependent
on defending the 2nd amendment, found it thrilling
to see blood spilling during a mass killing, real not lame
like in that “Mortal Kombat” game, Guadalcanal at the OK
Corral in the high chaparral. So go to the mall y’all, stand
tall, make ‘em fall ‘cause Texas calls: “Hook ‘Em Horns!”
Elon Musk’s Bed Stand
Is it a covert confession, his guilt gushing,
grabbing him by the ankles and shaking until
truth tumbles onto the nightstand
or is the photo his personal meme, the renunciation
of a carefully cultivated carapace, an assertion of
who he really is…or is it nothing more than the result
of an inadvertent click of a camera capturing some guy’s
distracted dumping of daily detritus, those pistols a ho-
hum in a country with more guns than people?
So, are we looking at some kind of hieroglyph hinting
at a heretofore hidden hatred, or a psychopath’s
preparation to perpetrate a crime, or simply
an accidental still life of a makeshift Tupperware
container…and that question can only be answered
by examining the nature of the objects in the picture
and probing for connections…not an easy task—like
deciphering the previous moves that led to a position
on a chessboard, an effort infinitely less intimidating
if you know who the players are—which in this case
we don’t…all we have is a picture of things that at first
glance—second and third glances as well—
simply don’t belong together, increasing the probability
the Polaroid was purposely posed and passed on to
or purloined by some predatory paparazzi
pandering to the 48 percent of the public who parrot
the pablum of partisan politicians, cheer when a six-
year old exercises his right to bear arms
and shoots his first-grade teacher, want welfare programs
wiped out but donate to crowd-funding so a 19-year old
football player can drive a Bentley on campus…
regardless of who produced and procured the pic,
the question of motive remains, with a plethora of
plausible possibilities, from that inadvertent Polaroid
to the cleansing of a conflicted conscience to a cloaked
call to action by a captain of industry, a Congressman,
a chief justice—or any collaborator in a cabal conspiring
to crank up a coup, to mesmerize the minuscule
minds of those minions of mediocrity, mold them
into a militia to make America great again—
but I digress; let’s let logic clean up this mess: What are
the chances of an accidental photo being so perfectly
centered on the nightstand, what are the odds
of some drowsy dude dropping four coke cans and a glass
bottle on the table and they all remain upright—yeah, right.
So it should come as no surprise that I theorize
the photo—regardless of whether the guy’d been hiding
something he needed to purge or denying something he
craved to exalt—was contrived to end all the lies,
to shed a daytime disguise, lamenting possibly repenting
pretending to be a nonsectarian humanitarian when he has
been—and probably still is
a barbarian libertarian, lusting to grind socialists into carrion,
espousing the genetic superiority of Aryans…all this despite
publicly pledging to give away all his wealth—
convenient camouflage for his undercover stealth— and
donating to the Rainbow Coalition while damning them
faggots, lesbos and he-shes to eugenic perdition.
Please don’t run; I’m nearly done—Them guns ain’t for fun,
he doesn’t want his country overrun by drug-dealing migrant
scum; from his QAnon history book he’s well aware
that Washington crossed the Delaware to kick Beaners in the
derriere to keep them from claiming welfare and medical care
and putting up tents on Times Square—
it’s almost more than he can bear—repressive progressives,
woke jokers and blowhard libtards chipping away at his bill
of rights—and he’s been ready to fight except
he can’t sleep at night; even though those cokes are caffeine-
free, every two hours he needs to pee; rather than wake up,
hobble and wobble, he pisses in that glass bottle—let’s hope he
doesn’t get thirsty and take a swallow—and something else requires
extreme unction: all that sugar gives him erectile dysfunction; if word
leaked out about this bigot’s spigot, his spineless spout,
if his undercover brothers discover that he is other than
a big-dicked mother…he’ll be corseted in a kaftan, lynched
by the Ku Klux Clan then punji-sticked like in Vietnam,
or an Oath Keeper will inject acid in his ureter, then chop off his
peter, these operations ordered by his fellow hedge fund honchos,
banker bigwigs and tech titans frightened of a public enlightened,
of disclosure that they’re all posers—lip service to going green,
have to protect the fossil fuel machine, pious palaver opposing
abortion yet their pregnant paramours endure surgical contortion—
oh how they rile up the rabble, those bedraggled cattle ever
ready for battle, get them foaming and furious with jingoistic
vitriol compelling but spurious…and indeed they never
personally intercede, you’ll never see them bleed, cabalists
with a nativist creed, a breed fueled by gluttonous greed,
happy to let sycophants do their dirty deeds:
they’ll never be held liable, out of sight with hands on the Bible while
the riffraff en masse kick democracy’s ass, a reactionary master class
leads to legislative impasse, autocracy under guise of democracy,
a Christian theocracy, a border patrol of criminals on parole,
18 new corporate tax loopholes, retraction of affirmative action,
inaction on police overreaction against minority factions.
Please accept my regrets—we haven’t explained yet that
Buddhist amulet: I don’t think it’s for spiritual protection
because worshipping the dollar is his predilection,
the face in the mirror his only genuflection; it’s about misdirection,
circumspection over who controls the insurrection. He’s taken an
approach derivative from events in times primitive,
a deception tour de force like the Trojan horse, a symbol of compassion
used for good old head bashing: now don’t chuckle—in your fist
it’s a Dharmic brass knuckle that’ll make those bastards buckle.
I’m no private eye so I can’t identify the guy and he’s so sly
he can always buy an alibi… and frankly I’m scared shitless
I’ll end up on the militia’s hit list unless I cease and desist, but
it’s clear the guy ain’t no working class lout ‘cause money and
clout are what it’s all about, so he can strike with impunity
to dominate the social media community, fire millions of tweets—
dopamine for his addicted sheep— rail against kikes and dikes
but he’s still swamped by Facebook “likes” even though he’s not
the one who writes, his anonymity so critical politically,
and the guy is definitely American—just look at the guns he’s carryin;
no other country has drive-in windows for guns—get a burger with a
bazooka while you’re on the run, shoot up dance halls just for fun.
Help, I think I’m being tailed—I could be jailed or impaled—better
beat a retreat before things overheat and the Wagner Group
turns me into sausage meat…but even though I’m a coward
I don’t want democracy devoured by Fascists empowered and my
heart is still red white and blue so before I bid adieu I’ll leave some
clues for you to construe and then decide what to do:
Follow the money at an electric car company, its financials in the
shitter but the CEO still bought Twitter, clearly overreached while
he flaunted freedom of speech, but there’s a huge ethical breech;
political persuasion though a brazen online invasion leading to guns
blazin’ in the Capitol of the nation… and then there’s the hedge fund
wizard, a Machiavellian lizard,
trying to grab regulators by the gizzard, set up PAC after PAC so
Congress would have his back…next turning to the Supreme Court,
the list of possible conspirators anything but short,
their opinions of great import, the consequences impossible to thwart,
and I know I’m being cynical but the right wing majority has been
clinical, dare I say criminal: The Court contorted the Constitution
as it water boarded Roe v Wade, state gun laws were waylaid, the EPA
effectively spayed, federal funds for church schools okayed…and finally
there’s the red state governor, a Harvard-educated southerner—
the chump dumped Trump and hit the stump—appalling polemic
during the pandemic, health experts aghast when he trashed
students wearing masks,
no migrants in his backyard—all deported to Martha’s Vineyard…
okay, I guess I deserve a reproof for playing loose with the alternative
truth; it’s uncouth to cast aspersion linking people to subversion
but it’s in the intimacy of his privacy that man sheds his piety and
anxiety, and if you can infiltrate that space, get behind the poker
face, you might find more than a trace
of a disgust for the human race; the guy just might be a traitor, a civil
rights violator or a coup instigator….and if the night stand is an indicator,
just imagine what you might learn from his refrigerator.
Goya’s The Third of May1808
How Not to Enjoy a Goya
(With apologies to Goya’s “The Third of May 1808”)
Ho hum…just another line ‘em up shoot ‘em dead
picture, kind of like bowling except the pins are
made of flesh and bone, they bleed—wouldn’t it
be cool if bowling pins set off sparklers when you
crush ‘em—-and don’t reset: I mean what kind
of human cartridge cushion of sane mind
would get up just to be shot again—Muhammad Ali’s
rope-a-dope tactics don’t work too well with bullets—
so better to just be swept to the back of the alley—
ooh,a double entendre—which I’m guessing is what
happened here later but you never can tell because
shooters, like bowlers,
get blisters on their trigger fingers unless they’re
seasoned professionals in which case their calluses
are as callous as their compassion is constipated,
and remember it takes time to reload before the next
troupe of targets traipses in, while the unseen widows
lack the strength to dig a hole deep enough
to house 30 or so homicided husbands, so much heavier
than bowling pins, so it’s highly possible that the bodies
were just left where they fell, the pattern making a pretty
sick Rorschach test for any helicopter hovering overhead
or maybe a 3D topographic map of a chain of Pacific
islands being swallowed by rising seas.
Understand that this genre of painting goes beyond just
guns, to guillotines, garottes, swords and hangman’s
nooses depending on cultural protocols for mass killings
and the mood the artist wants to manufacture; obviously
guns are logistically the simplest—no need for a tree or
wooden cross, or gasoline, which is expensive—
and also extremely efficient if you want to ramp up
volume rapidly, but guns also release those hideous
poisonous gases that pollute Mother Earth…and there’s
something seductive and artsy about a masked guy
with earbuds carrying a curved sword on his massive
shoulders hip hopping,
locking and popping as he raps “Yo, you be dreading
that I be heading to your beheading; my sword go sledding,
your neck it’s shredding,” and don’t overlook the fact that
both the sword and the guillotine give us the bowling balls
needed to complete our sporty metaphor: Come On Baby,
Let The Dead Heads Role…
but why is it that it’s always a black guy who gets shot—
okay, sometimes he’s brown, let’s not get picky, just as
long as it’s a dark color, white would mean there goes
the promotion for the shooter; he’d be in deep shit…
but in any case here the marksmen sang the refrain
“the bloodstain from the brain on the plain
is in the main from enemies of Spain.” The old masters
focused on the murderous machinations of military master-
minds, barbarism through the prism of impressionism,
depicting how against Attila the Hun the Romans were
stunned then overrun and how under Pol Pot resistance
went for nought, at least a million Cambodians shot
while another blockbuster depicted how Custer failed to pass
muster, his campaign so lackluster, reputation shorn, a target
of scorn after his troops were butchered at Little Big Horn…
Meanwhile other artists were sensing a gold mine in dispensing
canvasses wrenching in their rendering of ethnic cleansing,
paintings avant-garde of bodies marred or charred,
a huge creative stride, the subjects fried, gasified in the come
hither cauldron of genocide: Hutus on patrol, decapitating
Tutsis their only goal—a Tutsi roll, get it?—Turkey showing no
mercy in making beef jerky of Armenians while Hitler used
every ruse to hide gassing the Jews who—quick learners—
butchered the Palestinians like America did its Indians—
it’s all so cruelly Darwinian—and it’s the United States that
continues to take the mass execution genre to new heights
with paintings of pop up performances in population centers
and public places big and small—Miami, Philly, Uniontown
Alabama, Tulsa Oklahoma, elementary schools, Walmarts,
Waffle Houses, abortion centers,
salivating artists rooting for more colorful mass shootings
while the NRA is tooting that guns don’t cause these shootings
or the ensuing lootings, this posse of quasi Nazis high steppin’
for their rights to carry weapons, denying that all across
the nation there is a direct correlation between the absence
of gun regulation and civic conflagration. Do you think
the bastards in the painting would have had the balls to do
battle with their victims in a boxing match, no bullets, or would
the cowards have cringed, become unhinged, no counterfeit
courage from schleppin’ that weapon…and might there be less
fatalities from police brutality if a cop wasn’t afraid of being
popped, sent to heaven by a teenager with an AK-47
but America loves winners and fun with guns has made the USA
#1 in mass killings—oh, it’s so fulfilling— and we celebrate our
success with mega- events, Super Bowls of Slaughter, post-game
festivities including billy club bashing, water cannon colonoscopies,
pursue and pepper spray the perp spectacles, and behold he’s out
cold from the perfect chokehold demonstrations.
So Mr. Goya, I don’t wanna annoy ya, but your painting just
doesn’t rate, it’s so out of date, its techniques obsolete—
like phone books, Blockbuster, Buick Le Sabres, Silvio
Berlusconi, Blackberrys, Joe Biden—I know it’s bittersweet but
you just can’t compete with the sausage meat made of men
on the street in modern mass murders, and while it’s not
something I condone, today’s artists are prone, for example,
to death delivered by drone—such a boost to testosterone—
part of a propensity toward butchery with high corpse density
or bodies stacked as high as a mountain, blood spurting like
a fountain because collectors have become jaded, the allure
of the standard school shooting has faded and unfortunately
the value of this canvass has been degraded, so if I may proffer
some advice—and I’m so sorry about the painting’s drop in price—
but if you were to give your consent, it might be possible to reinvent
your masterpiece—I know it’s a real bummer—in the format paint
by number for children six or younger: just think how you could
influence their formative years.
Walt Shulits is a retired bond market professional and lifelong paddling fanatic-canoe, sea kayak, outrigger canoe and surf ski-who stumbled upon writing poetry while searching for a non-sport activity that would give him the same sense of living in the moment as paddling. Residing in Provence, France he spends as much time as possible in his beloved Hawaii. He tries to write poems for the multitudes who find poetry as incomprehensible as Sanskrit or as unappealing as mountain oysters. Walt's poems have appeared in Dumpster Fire, Fleas on the Dog. Gargoyle, Griffel, Pike Press, and Wingless Dreamer.
“SCIENTIFIC WORK” AND “ONLINE LEARNING” HELP YOU LEARN MORE EFFECTIVELY
Scientific research work is scientific development related to research, research, experiments for the purpose of obtaining new knowledge, testing hypotheses, establishing laws, scientific justification of projects. As a rule, basic and exploratory work is not included as scientific work, but based on them, ideas are generated that can be turned into practical research projects.
This website helps young researchers learn how to organize and structure their research papers. The current state of project development – research, experiments, preliminary tests, etc. have been conducted on the project. Through this site, young people who are researching are learning to form the knowledge and skills they have acquired in their fields and directions in accordance with the requirements of IMRAD for free. According to the results of the experiment, the project is being gradually improved.
In order to further improve this project, it is necessary to inform all pedagogues and young scientific researchers, exchange experience, improve it further, and present it to a wider audience. By exchanging experience with various qualified pedagogues and expanding the project, it is now possible to prevent young researchers from being deceived by some fake fake journals and inflated prices due to various partners.
With respect to the “Online learning” project, it improved the mechanism of organizing and developing the educational process based on digital technologies. You can see a number of courses that will help to introduce digital technologies into education based on the English language, which is currently becoming a demand level of the educational process. Offering online learning is a great, revolutionary alternative to traditional training. And corporations have taken notice. In fact, up to 90% of use a form of online learning today, compared to just 4% in 1995. And the e-learning market is predicted to grow another 8% by 2026!
Our Online English program can be a great solution for you if you seek a complete, online English courses. This program will help you to get the best lessons and methods to learn English online. We provide a wide range of websites as well as in-depth corrections so nothing is left to chance in your learning. This is a very good way to improve quickly and efficiently. If you feel confident enough, Online English also enables you to prepare and successfully pass various certifications. What are you waiting for? Hop on with us and let’s practice English together!
Our mission is To develop suggestions and recommendations regarding the organization and development of the educational process based on digital technologies based on the English language, which is currently becoming a demand level of the educational process.
This project can serve as a methodological recommendation for the use of digital technologies in the educational process for everyone.
Founder of projects such as “Scientific work” and “Online learning”, as well as, master’s student in the field of “Management of educational institutions” in the faculty of Pedagogy of Chirchik State Pedagogical University in Uzbekistan – Madina Fayzullaeva. Her scientific work on “Organization and development of the educational process based on digital technologies” has been published in more than 50 scientific works in SCOPUS, Higher Attestation Commission magazines, international and republican magazines, conference collections. She created this project based on these experiences.
Author: Madina Fayzullaeva master’s student in the faculty Pedagogy of Chirchik State of Pedagogical University
***
а chick that has fallen from a nest into the water cannot swim
the water becomes covered with a crust of ice
the chick feels like a fish in its belly
the world poured out from the cracked shell spills out into the silensе
a dead hen laid a wasted vain egg
***
dragonfly drinks
the voice of stone
the night swallows up
the spring
***
tree turns into a crucifixion cross
no one asks the tree why it grew
I kiss you while you sleep in next your dreams
no one asks me what I wish for
***
you need to dress warmer because the cemetery under the bed is still growing and the snow continues to fall in silence
for silence
to silence
flowers dream of knowing nothing about the grave and I don’t want to know anything about you
about snow
about death
sperm looking for its nest
the nest is looking for something to fill its emptiness
I'm aiming a shooting star at my temple
the world around goes out
***
Horizon blushes
Sunrise hues in bloom cascade
Daybreak's painted sky
(With AI)
***
Ocean whispers softly,
Tides paint poetry.
(With AI)
***
a leaf of my soul is torn off
I haven't seen sakura for a long time
I've never seen sakura
***
the master's face
in the mirror of my freckles
***
bird gypsum
my eyes are stuck in the web of the sky
***
Who among us has not fallen in love
with a young Justin Bieber in his youth?
Icons with saints and a poster
with pop stars are torn off the walls of a collapsed house
Star 82 review reprint
***
the swallow is crying blue
***
brother is a brute brutus
***
I won't be able to be one day
***
stomach ripped open with tears
***
headlight light lantern light eye light
night in the hood
***
In the moonlit forest
I want to die australopithecus
***
the drum dies loud
***
the notes of the music
will evaporate in the air
***
injury leaves
grass and glass
water and sun
***
dry cough
wet forehead
winter
***
T r e p
T r i p
R i p
I p
I
***
The stars drowning in the night
Do not shine for anyone
***
Even kittens can die
***
I go out into the snow
I become snow
***
I'm drawing
I'm drawing
I'm drawing
I'm blind
***
Green grass
Green glass
Injuries
***
Beetles can't sing
***
The dog god was born in the cold
Every dog came into this world cold
From what silence of thought to mold the resurrection and death of a pagan god
And suddenly God will not be resurrected?
Will it suddenly turn out that this god does not belong to the pagans?
All the religions of the world struggle with the bag of death
Is it for life?
Cowardice is noted by every dog
Fleeing is blood-soaked
Hunger or the palms of the dog god
The palmless paws of the dog god
Godless dogs
Every stray dog is a dog god born in the cold
(The Wise Owl reprint)
***
autumn draws winter
***
how a chicken uses a microwave
a black star lights up in the sky
burn like chicken on the grill
or live like a bird that cannot fly
for slaughter
***
kings are everywhere
even in the mirror
***
tastes could not be discussed
the proud tree is silent as before
but now in the form
of a paper cup
for coffee
***
no one asked the grass why it grew and uprooted it
the grass is our home
grass is our glass
wallpaper glue doesn't hold the wallpaper of the homeless well
***
baby was born in the grass
grass was born in a child
the sun shines in the summer for everyone
Last Wording
half the polar well
holds the harming serve
until breathers moan
again loaded
culminating adobe details
in the foreground cove
while
the tattered syllable recluse
celebrating from coherence
occupied yogurt armor
between aggressive pouncing
where
cufflinks rotate
cowl interjections
rubbed beyond
new reconstruction torpedos
bamboo cracks
pandemic eccentricities
in seance
*
grammatical stalling
skewers one written
empire
patriarch iced
legend’s fixative seeks nods
distrust empurpled
celebrity hump rebuffs
where a lead terrorist
bends to cold pavement
broadening
perceptible calamities
bustle correspondence deadened a utopia decoy
*
moon’s wake
the orthographic effigy
put refraction thoroughfares
lunging apart
aggressor
progressions
gone
with the global
valence
present condemned
a rope motive
in the echoed slab
reputation boiling
clauses to memoir debauch
endowment removed
History Happening
extreme sanskrit multiplex directive
commotion scattered babel tongues
across the time of papyrus infusion
caverns gave coded empathy shrouds
a place to gather against the wind
or another ark to flood with animals
contained to pair for a bearded one
stoning down mountain imperatives
androgynous caverns heaving a glide
toward the desert suit filed into sand
temptations crystallized their renewal
before the reflection written to fix
the derelict card careening passion
through undirected profusion litters
light crystals prismatic sun spokes
an emerging moon theme in motion
revolving over the nighttime desert
where billowed plans will resolve
with the crux of historic anticipation
carried to any nearby tree will do
the sect projection beyond the day
the exempt declared renewed grit
and peremptory sandstone polish
not the rain of provisional passing
furnished a new micrometer legend
whose replications dated calendars
when their makers proved reluctant
snapshots in the tiller thatch missed
no embryonic passport in the thicket
or watchful rushes bulling paparazzi
to divide the walls that conquer all
tablets that broke their millennium
before the requisite numbers spread
the vast mirage of new mother's milk
spread through forty days of microbes
tempting the igneous with sediment
promised to deliver layered history
to seeking prophets under threat of
renewed octagon vengeance made
before the form could fake ascent
on the choral donations or decor
as added to the licentious playbill
rostered pagan invasion sealant
before fumes could accrue tarnish
receptacles reeling with plasma grief
worn follicle ventures packing meat
of their belief into a worn sleeve’s fray
no doppel to gang a loose parlance
with a part from the other to match
the fetid geometry buckle in manure
angling the portal drop toward hay
where they fielded lain shepherds
deepened their sleep wherever
the sale of their sheep relocated
their hostile ambience a matter
of sacred discord when aroused
the cult of thirteen ran the dozens
against a predictable implosion
felt rummaging vegetable sponsors
when old spoons entice the lurid
a cult device records the subtext
no graphic delayed for the new ride
a molecular detergent foray decries
testicular headings over horsemeat
babble at the slowed compendium
forming a triage from the fictive mix
Dream a Generation Away
rutabaga polish
rides a sanskrit momentum
calypso fury casts the last rendition
*
enamel passion
brings its own veneer
to hidden sightings
vegetation budgets an inner flourish
before melting lavender
pots its ancient shrug
while inaction seeks its tongue
*
an action pursued
the molting factotum legend
of suit incarnation
dispassionate, buried
seven layers of ancient cities
bubble above the shale
*
radical depiction
cherishes a hairy flourish
the vegetable innovative crew
merrily words away
the gray whitening to the rhythm’s light
an edition only dreamed to last
BIOVernon Frazer’s most recent poetry collection is Memo from Alamut.
